"Now do tell me," said T----, "what demon of madness can have possessed you? You ought to have broken every bone in that young rascal's skin, instead of feeing him for insulting us." "So I would," said I, "if I could; but to catch him is impossible. By feeing him for his insolence, he will probably throw another piece of melon at the first Englishman he sees, who will, no doubt, give him the beating which I cannot." T---- laughed heartily at the ingenious turn which my indolence had taken--administering a beating _à ricochet_, as he called it; and, having reached my room, we laughed over our adventure, and speculated upon the beating the youngster would get. And, true enough, the next day, as we were seated on one of the benches of the Villa Reale, we heard a sort of hue and cry on the Chiaja, and shortly after, saw our carroty and irascible friend W---- appear, foaming with rage, streaming from every pore, owing to some recent exertion, and exploding with bursts of execration. He came straight to us.--"Who ever knew such an infernal country as this?" said he, "D--them all for a beggarly set of villains. Did you ever see the like? I gave it him well, however,--that's some comfort. The young rascal won't forget me, for some time, I'll warrant you!" T---- and I smiled at each other in anticipation of the reason, which only made him more furious. "Here," said he, "was I walking quietly along, when a young rascal of a lazzaroni thought fit to shy half a water-melon at my head;--you may laugh; but it was no laughing matter to me, nor to him either, for I have half killed the young urchin; and then, forsooth, I must have half the town of Naples upon me, backed by all their carrion of old women." We allowed his rage to expend itself, and said nothing, for fear of being implicated in his wrath, inasmuch as I was the origin of his disaster; but, truly, indolence was never so completely justified, as on this occasion. J. M. [Illustration: Oliver asking for more.] OUR SONG OF THE MONTH. No. II. February, 1837. OUR VALENTINE. With a frozen old saint, our Miscellany quaint We headed last month in a jolly, gay song; It was fit that a priest should say grace to the feast Before any layman should stick in a prong. But now we've no need for the dark-flowing weed Of a padre to hallow our frolics so fine; 'Tis a bishop, this moon, is to set us in tune-- And his name you know, maidens, is Saint Valentine.