There came a sudden kick behind, The boy, oh! where was he? Ask of the softly blowing wind, The fishes in the sea. For a moment not a sound was heard, And that mule he winked his eye, As though to say to him who’d gone, “How was that for high?” ―――― A PROSE VERSION. “The boy stood on the back-yard fence whence all but he had fled. The flames that lit his father’s barn shone just above the shed. One bunch of crackers in his hand, two others in his hat; with piteous accent loud he cried, ‘I never thought of that.’ A bunch of crackers to the tail of one small dog he tied; the sparks flew wide, and red, and hot; they fell upon the brat; they fired the crackers in his hand and lit those in his hat. Then came a burst of rattling sound――the boy, where was he gone? Ask of the winds that far around strewed bits of flesh and bone, and scraps of clothes, and balls, and tops, and nails, and books, and yarn, the relics of that dreadful boy that burned his father’s barn.” ―――― CASABIANK. The dog lay on the butcher’s stoop And in a pleasant doze, Forgot his lack of bed and board And all his canine woes. He dreamed of one fair pup he loved And soft his tail he wagged; ’Twas in those days when he was young, And kennelled, fed, and tagged. Her spirit seemed to hover ’round, For from the shop behind A fragrance came which somehow brought That she-dog to his mind. And of those pugs who’d scratched with him, And barked and gambolled ’round, Some ate the poisoned chop and died, Some perished in the pound. The dog dreamed on――the butcher-man Looked down on him and said, “A roly-poly sausage skin Shall be your final bed. With pepper and sweet marjoram And fragrant allspice grains, Casabiank, ’twill be my task To mingle your remains. And though you’re old and tough, embalmed In spices of the East, You’ll for my faithful customers Provide a dainty feast.” He took three paces toward the dog, That pup――O, where was he? Ask of the reeking knives that tore Through hide and hair and flea. And since that day though many a neck Has felt that cleaver keen, No fairer dog-meat ever fed The butcher’s dread machine. ANONYMOUS. ―――― THE FATE OF THE PEERS. The Peer stood on the burning deck, Whence all but he had fled; The storm that meant his Order’s wreck Roared round his puzzled head. Yet masterful and mad he stood, As though all threats were vain; A creature of most noble blood, But of a childish brain.