“Very pleasant!” exclaimed he; “I suppose, old fellow you want to have a game at toss!—­if so, try it on with your equals, for you must see, if you have any gumption, that Watty Williams is above you.  Aye, you may roar!—­but if I sit here till Aurora appears in the east, you won’t catch me winking.  What a pity it is you cannot reflect as well as ruminate; you would spare yourself a great deal of trouble, and me a little fright and inconvenience.”

The animal disdainfully tossed his head, and ran at the tree—­and

“Away flew the light bark!”

in splinters, but the trunk remained unmoved.

“Shoo! shoo!” cried Watty, contemptuously; but he found that shoo’ing horns was useless; the beast still butted furiously against the harmless pollard.

“Hallo!” cried he to a dirty boy peeping at a distance—­“Hallo!” but the lad only looked round, and vanished in an instant.

“The little fool’s alarmed, I do believe!” said he; “He’s only a cow-boy, I dare say!” And with this sapient, but unsatisfactory conclusion, he opened his book, and read aloud, to keep up his courage.

The bull hearing his voice, looked up with a most melancholy leer, the corners of his mouth drawn down with an expression of pathetic gravity.

Luckily for Watty, the little boy had given information of his dilemma, and the farmer to whom the bull belonged came with some of his men, and rescued him from his perilous situation.

“The gentleman will stand something to drink, I hope?” said one of the men.

“Certainly” said Watty.

“That’s no more than right,” said the farmer, “for, according to the New Police Act, we could fine you.”

“What for?”

“Why, we could all swear that when we found you, you were so elevated you could not walk!”

Hereupon his deliverers set up a hearty laugh.

Watty gave them half-a-crown; saying, with mock gravity—­

“I was on a tree, and you took me off—­that was kind!  I was in a fright, and you laughed at me; that was uncharitable.  Farewell!”

DELICACY!

Lounging in Hyde Park with the facetious B____, all on a summer’s day,
just at that period when it was the fashion to rail against the beautiful
statue, erected by the ladies of England, in honour of the Great
Captain—­

“The hero of a hundred fights,”—­

“How proudly must he look from the windows of Apsley House,” said I, “upon this tribute to his military achievements.”

“No doubt,” replied B____; and with all that enthusiasm with which one
man of mettle ever regards another!   At the same time, how lightly must
he hold the estimation of the gallant sons of Britain, when he reflects
that he has been compelled to guard his laurelled brow from the random
bullets of a democratic mob, by shot-proof blinds to his noble mansion: 
this was: 

‘The unkindest cut of all,’