In for it, or Trying the middle.

A little fat man
With rod, basket, and can,
And tackle complete,
Selected a seat
On the branch of a wide-spreading tree,
That stretch’d over a branch of the Lea: 
There he silently sat,
Watching his float—­like a tortoise-shell cat,
That hath scented a mouse,
In the nook of a room in a plentiful house. 
But alack! 
He hadn’t sat long—­when a crack
At his back
Made him turn round and pale—­
And catch hold of his tail! 
But oh! ’twas in vain
That he tried to regain
The trunk of the treacherous tree;
So he
With a shake of his head
Despairingly said—­
“In for it,—­ecod!”
And away went his rod,
And his best beaver hat,
Untiling his roof! 
But he cared not for that,
For it happened to be a superb water proof,
Which not being himself,
The poor elf! 
Felt a world of alarm
As the arm
Most gracefully bow’d to the stream,
As if a respect it would show it,
Tho’ so much below it! 
No presence of mind he dissembled,
But as the branch shook so he trembled,
And the case was no longer a riddle
Or joke;
For the branch snapp’d and broke;
And altho’
The angler cried “Its no go!”
He was presently—­’trying the middle.’

SEYMOUR’S SKETCHES

A DAY’S SPORT

“Arena virumque cano.”

CHAPTER I.

The Invitation—­the Outfit—­and the sallying forth.

To Mr. Augustus Spriggs,

At Mr. WILLIAMS’S, grocer, addle street.

(Tower Street, 31st August, 18__)

My dear Chum,

Dobbs has give me a whole holiday, and it’s my intention to take the field to-morrow—­and if so be you can come over your governor, and cut the apron and sleeves for a day—­why

“Together we will range the fields;”

and if we don’t have some prime sport, my name’s not Dick, that’s all.

I’ve bought powder and shot, and my cousin which is Shopman to my Uncle at the corner, have lent me a couple of guns that has been ‘popp’d.’  Don’t mind the expense, for I’ve shot enough for both.  Let me know by Jim if you can cut your stick as early as nine, as I mean to have a lift by the Highgate what starts from the Bank.

Mind, I won’t take no refusal—­so pitch it strong to the old ’un, and carry your resolution nem. con.

And believe me to be, your old Crony,

Richard Grubb.

P. S. The guns hasn’t got them thingummy ‘caps,’ but that’s no matter, for cousin says them cocks won’t always fight:  while them as he has lent is reg’lar good—­and never misses fire nor fires amiss.

In reply to this elegant epistle, Mr. Richard Grubb was favoured with a line from Mr. Augustus Spriggs, expressive of his unbounded delight in having prevailed upon his governor to ‘let him out;’ and concluding with a promise of meeting the coach at Moorgate.