oing, she took
a lump of sugar out of the basin, and showing it to the wonder, laid it
beside her plate, whispering 'Now, my beauty!' into his ear, as she
adjusted him in his chair. The child, who had been wound up like a musical
snuff-box, then went off as follows:

'Bah, bah, back sheep, have 'ou any 'ool?
Ess, marry, have I, three bags full;
Un for ye master, un for ye dame,
Un for ye 'ittle boy 'ot 'uns about ye 'are.'

But unfortunately, Mr. Sponge was busy with his breakfast, and the prodigy
wasted his sweetness on the desert air.

Mrs. Jogglebury, who had sat listening in ecstasies, saw the offended eye
and pouting lip of the boy, and attempted to make up with exclamations of
'That _is_ a clever fellow! That _is_ a wonder!' at the same time showing
him the sugar.

'A little more (puff) tea, my (wheeze) dear,' said Jogglebury, thrusting
his great cup up the table.

'Hush! Jog, hush!' exclaimed Mrs. Crowdey, holding up her forefinger, and
looking significantly first at him, and then at the urchin.

'Now, "Obin and Ichard," my darling,' continued she, addressing herself
coaxingly to Gustavus James.

'No, _not_ "Obin and Ichard,"' replied the child peevishly.

'Yes, my darling, _do_, that's a treasure.'

'Well, _my_ (puff) darling, give me some (wheeze) tea,' interposed
Jogglebury, knocking with his knuckles on the table.

'Oh dear. Jog, you and your tea!--you're always wanting tea,' replied Mrs.
Jogglebury snappishly.

'Well, but, my (puff) dear, you forget that Mr. (wheeze) Sponge and I have
to be at (puff) Snobston Green at a (wheeze) quarter to eleven, and it's
good twelve (gasp) miles off.'

'Well, but it'll not take you long to get there,' replied Mrs. Jogglebury;
'will it, Mr. Sponge?' continued she, again appealing to our friend.

'Sure I don't know,' replied Sponge, eating away; 'Mr. Crowdey finds
conveyance--I only find company.'

Mrs. Jogglebury Crowdey then prepared to pour her husband out another cup
of tea, and the musical snuff-box, being now left to itself, went off of
its own accord with:

'Diddle, diddle, doubt,
My candle's out.
My 'ittle dame's not at 'ome--
So saddle my hog, and bridle my
And bring my 'ittle dame, 'ome.'

A poem that in the original programme was intended to come in after 'Obin
and Ichard,' which was to be the _chef-d'oeuvre_.

Mrs. Jog was delighted, and found herself pouring the tea into the
sugar-basin instead of into