And as he spake a pigeon flew
Across his way—­
Bang went his piece—­and Jenkins slew
The flutt’ring prey.

He bagg’d his game, and onward went,
When to his view
Another rose, by fortune sent
To make up two.

He fired, and beheld it fall
With inward glee,
And for a minute ’neath a wall
Stood gazing he.

When from behind, fierce, heavy blows
Fell on his hat,
And knock’d his beaver o’er his nose,
And laid him flat.

“What for,” cried Jenkins, “am I mill’d,
Sir, like this ere?”
“You villain, you, why you have kill’d
My pouter rare.”

The sturdy knave who struck him down
With frown replied:—­
“For which I’ll make you pay a crown
Nor be denied.”

Poor Jenkins saw it was in vain
To bandy words;
So paid the cash and vow’d, again
He’d not shoot birds—­

At least of that same feather, lest
For Pouter shot
Some Dragon fierce should him molest—­
And fled the spot.

The pic-nic.  No.  I.

A merry holiday party, forming a tolerable boat-load, and well provided with baskets of provisions, were rowing along the beautiful and picturesque banks that fringe the river’s side near Twickenham, eagerly looking out for a spot where they might enjoy their “pic-nic” to perfection.

“O! uncle, there’s a romantic glade;—­do let us land there!” exclaimed a beautiful girl of eighteen summers, to a respectable old gentleman in a broad brimmed beaver and spectacles.

“Just the thing, I declare,” replied he—­“the very spot—­pull away, my lads—­but dear me” continued he, as they neared the intended landing-place, “What have we here?  What says the board?”

“Parties are not, allowed to
land and dine here”

Oh! oh! very well; then we’ll only land here, and dine a little further on”

“What a repulsive board”—­cried the young lady—­“I declare now I’m quite vex’d”—­

“Never mind, Julia, we won’t be bored by any board”—­said the jocose old gentleman.

“I’m sure, uncle”—­said one of the youths—­“we don’t require any board, for we provide ourselves.”

“You’re quite right, Master Dickey,” said his uncle; “for we only came out for a lark, you know, and no lark requires more than a little turf for its entertainment; pull close to the bank, and let us land.”

“Oh! but suppose,” said the timid Julia, “the surly owner should pounce upon us, just as we are taking our wine?”

“Why then, my love,” replied he, “we have only to abandon our wine, and, like sober members of the Temperance Society—­take water.”

Pulling the wherry close along side the grassy bank, and fastening it carefully to the stump of an old tree, the whole party landed.

“How soft and beautiful is the green-sward here,” said the romantic Julia, indenting the yielding grass with her kid-covered tiny feet; “Does not a gentleman of the name of Nimrod sing the pleasure of the Turf?” said Emma:  “I wonder if he ever felt it as we do?”