Dick twisted his twist, and he flourished his stick, And vowed he could fourteen footpads lick, For in war or in peace, a scrimmage or spar Is heartily welcome to every tar. The night was cold and the way was dark, And the town lights shone here and there like a spark, As merrily on through the snow Dick tramped, Though he certainly wished that the way were lamped. But what was that when with four years' pay, And a leave of absence for many a day, With the old folks waiting their boy to meet, Their sailor lad who, now fleet of feet, Hurried along o'er the crunching snow, As the thoughts of home made his heart to glow. Some three miles past, and the sailor now Paused by a hedge where the holly bough Grew thick and dense, and though dim the night There were memories many within that sight, For the days of old came hurrying by, And that Christmas past when he said good-bye; While then came the thoughts of years soon sped, Of the distant climes and the blood he'd shed, Of the battles with storms in the ocean wild, Of the torrid heat or the breezes mild. But now once more he was nearing home After his four years' tiring roam; And with bounding heart how the night he blest, And thought of the coming days of rest. Some three miles past, when his blood was chilled By a shriek which through every muscle thrilled; He stood for a moment, and then could hear The sounds of a struggle and trampling near; Panting and sobs, as of mortal fight, While from over a hedge gleamed rays of light. Dick's feelings were wrought to the highest pitch; His bundle he dropped, gave his slack a hitch, Then tightening his grasp of his sapling oak, With a bounding rush through the hedge he broke, When hard by a cottage a lanthorn's light Cast its flickering rays on a ghastly sight: With gory features and blade in hand Two ruffians stooped and their victim scanned; As over the struggling form they leant, Dick paused no more, but his sapling went, Cut one--cut two on each villain's head, Thud like the fall of a pestle of lead, And then they fell with a deep drawn groan, While Dick leaned forward on hearing a moan, But suddenly turning, he ran like mad, And breathlessly muttered, "'Twas really too bad. Be blest if he ever did see such a rig As to topper two lubbers for killing a pig!" And Dick was right, for 'twas really no joke, Though our sailor lad here had no "pig in a poke;" But though courage should merit the best of our praise, There's a certain fair maiden whose limpid eyes' rays Should be shed on our mind when we think to engage, And not in our hurry go blind in our rage; Discretion should lead us, or else every whit, We may turn out as blind as the sailor--Dick Sprit. CHAPTER FOUR. COME BACK.