And, if the subject is not too shocking,
    An intellectual lady’s stocking. 
          And who that loves hues
            Could fail to mention
          The wonderful blues
            Of the mountain gentian?”
    But to all that his brothers and sisters said,
    He made no reply but—­“I wish I were dead! 
    I’m all over blue, and I want to be red.” 
    And he moped and pined, and took to his bed. 
    “That little one looks uncommonly sickly,
    Put him back in the sea, and put him back quickly.” 
    The voice that spoke was the voice of Fate,
    And the lobster was soon in his former state;
    Where, as of old, he muttered and mumbled,
    And growled and grumbled: 
    “Oh dear! what shall I do? 
    I want to be red, and I’m all over blue.”

I don’t think I ever met with a book
The evil genius of which was a cook;
But it thus befell,
In the tale I have the honour to tell;
For as he was fretting and fuming about,
A fisherman fished my hero out;
And in process of time, he heard a voice,
Which made him rejoice. 
The voice was the cook’s, and what she said
Was, “He’ll soon come out a beautiful red.”

He was put in the pot,
The water was very hot;
The less we say about this the better,
It was all fulfilled to the very letter. 
He did become a beautiful red,
But then—­which he did not expect—­he was dead!

Some gentle readers cannot well endure
To see the ill end of a bad beginning;
And hope against hope for a nicer cure
For naughty heroes than to leave off sinning. 
And yet persisting in behaving badly,
Do what one will, does commonly end sadly.

    But things in general are so much mixed,
      That every case must stand upon its merits;
    And folks’ opinions are so little fixed,
      And no one knows the least what he inherits—­
    I should be glad to shed some parting glory
    Upon the hero of this simple story.

    It seems to me a mean end to a ballad,
    But the truth is, he was made into salad;
    It’s not how one’s hero should end his days,
          In a mayonnaise,
    But I’m told that he looked exceedingly nice,
    With cream-coloured sauce, and pale-green lettuce and ice.

I confess that if he’d been my relation,
This would not afford me any consolation;
For I feel (though one likes to speak well of the dead)
That it must be said,
He need not have died so early lamented,
If he’d been content to live contented.

P.S.—­His claws were raised to very high stations;
They keep the earwigs from our carnations.

THE YELLOW FLY.

A TALE WITH A STING IN IT.

[Illustration]

Ah! 
There you are! 
I was certain I heard a strange voice from afar. 
Mamma calls me a pup, but I’m wiser than she;
One ear cocked and I hear, half an eye and I see;
Wide-awake though I doze, not a thing escapes me.