At length they arrived at a lofty wall, on the wrong side of which, musically meandered the stream they sought.  After a deliberate consultation, the valiant William resolved to scale the impediment, and cast the line.  Joseph prudently remained on the other side ready to catch the fish—­his companion should throw to him!  Presently an exclamation of “Oh! my!” attracted his attention.

“Have you got a bite?” eagerly demanded Joe.

“No! by gosh! but I think I shall soon!” cried Bill.  Hereupon the expectant Joseph mounted, and seating himself upon the wall, beheld to his horror, Master Bill keeping a fierce bull-dog at bay with the butt end of his fishing-rod.

“Go it, Bill!” exclaimed Joe, “pitch into him and scramble up.”

The dog ran at him.—­Joe in his agitation fell from his position, while Bill threw his rod at the beast, made a desperate leap, and clutched the top of the wall with his hands.

“Egad!  I’ve lost my seat,” cried Joe, rolling upon the grass.

“And so have I!” roared Bill, scrambling in affright over the wall.

And true it was, that he who had not got a bite before, had got a bite—­behind!

Bill anathematised the dog, but the ludicrous bereavement he had sustained made him laugh, in spite of his teeth!

Joe joined in his merriment.

“What a burning shame it is?” said he; “truly there ought to be breaches ready made in these walls, Bill, that one might escape, if not repair these damages.”

“No matter,” replied Bill, shaking his head, “I know the owner—­he’s a Member of Parliament.  Stop till the next election, that’s all.”

“Why, what has that to do with it?” demanded Joe.

“Do with it,” said Bill emphatically, “why, I’ll canvass for the opposite party, to be sure.”

“And what then?”

“Then I shall have the pleasure of serving him as his dog has served me.  Yes!  Joe, the M. P. will lose his seat to a dead certainty!”

THE POUTER AND THE DRAGON.

“Another pigeon! egad, I’m in luck’s way this morning.”

Round and red, through the morning fog
The sun’s bright face
Shone, like some jolly toping dog
Of Bacchus’ race.

When Jenkins, with his gun and cur
On sport intent,
Through fields, and meadows, many fur—­
—­longs gaily went.

He popp’d at birds both great and small,
But nothing hit;
Or if he hit, they wouldn’t fall—­
No, not a bit!

“It’s wery strange, I do declare;
I never see! 
I go at sky-larks in the hair
Or on a tree.”

“It’s all the same, they fly away
Has I let fly—­
The birds is frightened, I dare say,
And vill not die.”

“Vhy, here’s a go!  I hav’nt ramm’d
In any shot;
The birds must think I only shamm’d,
And none have got.”

“I’ll undeceive ’em quickly now,
I bet a crown;
And whether fieldfare, tit, or crow,
Vill bring ’em down.”