"Ah, ah, ah!" said the friar, "now isn't it good? But I'd better not crow till he's out of the wood. I'm certain he's left me to look for the money, The greedy old fellow: now isn't it funny, To know that I have done him who thinks he's so 'cute He ne'er can be baffled in any dispute? O bravo, dear Fiction! you clever old girl, Your banner with pleasure I'll ever unfurl, And rejoice as a slave at your feet low to lie, Till old Fate shall determine that Peter must die. But just wait, let me see Where my rod and line be. Oh, there down midst the rushes they lie snug concealed. But those ill-fated fish Won't get cooked as I wish, For I'm sure by this time that the taties are peeled. But I know what I'll do: While they're boiling--there's two, But remarkably small--more's the pity! I will just take a nap In old Somnus's lap, And will dream of that angel, Miss Kitty." * * * * * _CHAPTER THE THIRD._ We must now leave the monk for a moment or two, And quick after the steps of the Abbot pursue, Who can very fast walk when he thinks he's not seen, And is scamp'ring now o'er the meadows (so green), For he really believed that the friar said true, That he'd lost the right path which would lead the hut to, But he felt quite determined to find it. And although the sun's rays were so scorchingly hot That he red in the face as a furnace had got, Yet he seemed not a moment to mind it; But clambered each hill's side and ran down each hollow, Oft looking to see if the friar would follow, Not thinking howe'er he'd be found thus. But when we do actions of which we're ashamed, And conscience informs us we ought to be blamed, We're sure to look anxious around us. "But had not old Peter abandoned the chase," The Abbot exclaimed, "ere I popp'd in his place, As executor to the old lady? Then, besides, but a moment or two back he told That he meant to devote to our use all the gold. Oh, how conscience soon quieted may be!" Now the Abbot remembered that somewhere he'd seen An old tumble-down hut when out rambling he'd been, Which he thought might be it,--and 'twas, by the bye, The same Peter had all the while in his eye; For he had not erected, as Truth must declare, The castle on clouds up aloft in the air. But the gold and old lady were really a joke, And had both been dug out of and buried in smoke. Then he happened to know, About eight years ago, A child had been lost by the Baron--and oh! He never should think Old Peter could link Such strange facts together as well deserved ink. So his story was true, For he very well knew The friar possessed not a grain of romance. 'Tis not book study that Has made him grow so fat, 'Tis earth's lower pleasures, he fears, does entrance.