“How many have you then,” said I, “If two you cut each day?” The wily youth would still reply, “Three, if you please, we’ll say.” “But one you cut, nay two you cut! You never go, you see!” ’Twas throwing words away, for still This wily youth would have his will, And said, “Nay, they are three.” From _The Shotover Papers_. Oxford: J. Vincent, 1874. ―――― “I’VE GOT SEVEN.” ――――A little boy, A schoolboy he might be, That shows his joy in every smile, Of figures what knows he? I met a little London boy, He was nine years old, he said; His face shone bright with mottled soap, His hair curled on his head. He had a cockney, saucy air, And he was sparely clad: His eyes were black, and very black; ――He looked a thorough cad. “All sorts of marbles, little boy, How many may there be?” “How many? Seven in all,” he said, And, whistling, winked at me. “And where are they? I pray you tell.” He answered, “Seven there be; Two ‘alley-tors,’ one ‘commoney,’ And all belong to me. “The ‘alley-tors’ for three a-piece Do count, and thus you see, That they are seven in all, although Their number’s only three.” “You say you’ve got two ‘alley-tors’ And one small ‘commoney;’ Yet you’ve got seven! I pray you tell, Youngster, how this may be?” Then did the little boy reply, “Seven marbles I possess; Two, you observe, are ‘alley-tors’ And count for six――no less.” “You cut along, my lively lad, You’re gamesome, I can see; Although for seven your marbles count, Still they are only three.” “They’re striped with red in lines of three,” The little chap replied. “Twelve yards or more from my mammy’s door I place them side by side. “My spelling there I try to learn, My tables there to say; And there upon the ground I kneel, And, knuckling, with them play. “And often after ‘washing up,’ When the tea-table’s bare, I take my bread and treacle, and I eat my supper there. “The first I had was given me By my big brother, Bill; He bought it with a ha’penny which He cribbed from mother’s till. “The next my sister Poll gave me; She found it as she brushed My Uncle Jack’s cord’roys, and then With it to me she rushed. “The third, the ‘commoney,’ I got From out the kitchen drawer; I nailed it when I went to fetch Pa’s usual spirit――raw.” “How many have you, then,” said I, “If two to you were given; And one you ‘nailed,’ you wicked boy?” “Lord love you! I’ve got seven.” “Fie! if you tell such fibs, my boy, You’ll never go to Heaven!” ’Twas wasting breath to talk; for still, The little wretch would have his will, And would say, “I’ve got seven.” EDWARD COMPTON. _Touchstone._ November, 1878. ――――