IN A COACH
[Sidenote:  Charles Lamb]

The incidents of our journey were trifling, but you bade me tell them.  We had, then, in the coach a rather talkative gentleman, but very civil, all the way, and took up a servant-maid at Stamford, going to a sick mistress....  The former engaged me in a discourse for full twenty miles on the probable advantages of Steam Carriages, which, being merely problematical, I bore my part in with some credit, in spite of my totally un-engineer-like faculties.  But when, somewhere about Stanstead, he put an unfortunate question tome as to the “probability of its turning out a good turnip season,” and when I, who am still less of an agriculturist than a steam-philosopher, not knowing a turnip from a potato-ground, innocently made answer that I believed it depended very much upon boiled legs of mutton, my unlucky reply set Miss Isola a-laughing to a degree that disturbed her tranquillity for the only moment in our journey.  I am afraid my credit sank very low with my other fellow-traveller, who had thought he had met with a well-informed passenger, which is an accident so desirable in a stage coach.  We were rather less communicative, but still friendly, the rest of the way.

KING DAVID AND THE GARDENER
[Sidenote:  Anon.]

  Vrom readin’ Scripture well Oi knows
  Pzalmist ’e had na rest vrom voes;
  Vor po-or ole Dave gre-at pits they’d delve,
  An’ then, dam loons, vail in theirselve. 
  This iz ma readin’ ov the Book,
  An’ to ma self do mak’ me look;
  Wi’ dew respeck, Oi veel loike him,
  Tho’ later born, and deal more slim.

  Vor ev’ry day, wi’ buzz an’ hum,
  Into ma garden voes do come;
  The waspies starm ma gabled wall
  An’ into t’ trenches t’ grub do crawl. 
  The blackbird, sparrer, tit, an’ thrush
  Do commandeer each curran’ bush,
  While slugs off lettuce take their smack,
  And maggots turn the celery black.

  Wi’ greenfly zlimin’ roun’ ma roses,
  An’ earwigs pokin’ be-astly noses
  In dahlias vit vor virst at Show,
  Oi ha’ ma troubles, as yew may know;
  But Dave did circumwent the Devil,
  An’ wi’ ma insecks Oi get level,
  Lard! wi’ what piety Oi tend ’em,
  An’ wi’ ma boot rejoicin’ end ’em!

  Zo, maister gets his dish o’ peas,
  An’ mum her roses, if yew please,
  But, lawks, they little knaw, Oi ’speck,
  What Oi’ve laid out in intelleck;
  But Dave got little praise vrom man,
  An’ as Oi ta-ake ma wat’rin’-can,
  Oi zays, zays Oi, next world wull show
  Who wuz tip-tappers here below.

THE CALAIS NIGHT-BOAT
[Sidenote:  Charles Dickens]