All things are graded, with the trifling exception of many of our streets. But who cares about this grade of bliss? I don't, and I am sure the poet didn't when he sang the lines at the head of this chapter. Bliss is graded. The old man in Wall street, with white hair and white necktie, and smooth polished tongue, has his degree of bliss when he is engaged in throwing stones at the Apes in the tree-top, that they may return the throw with gold cocoa-nuts. The young lady has her degree of bliss when her waist is entwined by "Dear CHAWLES," who soothes her troubled spirit with the tender melody of "Red as a beet is she,"--alluding to her would-be rival. The nice young man has his degree of bliss when he chews a tooth-pick--poor goose! (not the nice young man, but the fowl which gave the quill,)--and is given a smile by a dark-eyed female in a passing stage. And Infantdom has--But our poet beautifully illustrates this in the stanzas we have quoted. "Little JACK HORNER," says he, with the easy grace of one perfectly familiar with the subject he is to treat; neither frightened at its immensity, nor putting himself in the way of a dilemma by stopping to examine details. Little JACK was the poet's pet because he was the afflicted one of the household, and poets know full well how to sympathize with affliction. Perhaps JACK sat down to dinner next to cross-eyed SUSAN ANN, "by Brother BILL'S gal," and perhaps JACK'S nose was tickled by a little blue-bottle, and that he sneezed right into her soup-plate; and then he was hurried from the table for blowing a fly into SUSAN ANN'S soup! He would lose his dinner. His napkin would miss its accustomed wash! "Shall it be thus? No!" says the poet. "Dry your tears, little JACK, go to the well-stocked pantry, my boy, and get something to eat. The jury will not convict you of stealing, for their verdict will be that you did the deed in self-defence." And he did--go to the closet, and-- "Sat in the corner, Eating a Christmas Pie." See the smiles as they wreathe themselves on his chubby countenance. How little JACK looks at the pie! how he turns it round and round to find the best spot whereon to begin the attack! How he smacks his lips, and thinks how nice it would be if he _could_ wish to give SUSAN ANN a taste! But he can't. Suddenly an idea strikes JACK. He has heard Uncle TOM talk of a big war between Frawnce and Proossia, and all about the soldiers and the cannon, and the big noises. Little JACK will make war on the pie. He will be Frawnce, the pie will be Proossia. He sets it squarely before him on the floor; rolls up his sleeves, may be; his eyes sparkle with determination; he finds the most vulnerable spot in the crust; he makes one bold dive with his thumb, it goes down, down down, crushing everything before it; it feels something; renewed vigor flows through JACK'S veins, and gives him new strength for the attack; victory crowns him; and, in the words of the poet,