│ │ themselves around, │ │ │ │ Or, like the little caterpillars, grubbing on the │ that │ │ │ ground. │ │ │20│ We wanders home and dreads to hear of some mishap │ │ │ │ or other, │ │ │ │ And scarcely dares to ax the pretty darlings │ whereas, │ │ │ "_how's your mother?_" │ │ │21│ │ │ │ │ │ │ │22│Lord BACON born. (Query, The _Fry-er_.) │ ♏ ♄ ☌ ♀ │ │ │ │ │ │23│ _She sold her mangle_ long ago,—'twere better far │ │ │ │ nor prigging; │ │ │ │ For we only turns up spades whene'er we tries our │ according │ │ │ hands at digging. │ │ │24│ Without some rain 'tis all in vain. Alack! our │ │ │ │ hearts is breaking, │ │ │ │ And surely we should break our _teeth_ if we should│ to Hamlet, │ │ │ go a-_raking_: │ │ │25│ So, night and day, we ever pray the frost it may be│ │ │ │ going, │ │ │ │ No more they'll let us _owe_, unless we gets a │ │ │ │ little _hoe_ing: │ │ │26│ The parish board don't heed our word; but, looking │ ♌ ☋ │ │ │ black or blue, │ │ │ │ They reads the Hact o' Parliament, and then cries— │ │ │ │ "_Who are you?_" │ │ │27│ So help the froze-out Gardeners, kind masters every│ there are │ │ │ one, │ │ │ │ For while _you_'re sporting on the ice, _we_'re │ │ │ │ starving till it's gone. │ │ │28│ │more things │ │ │ │ │ │29│ │ in │ │ │ │ │ │30│Lecture on _Heads_ at Whitehall. Price, a _crown_. │ heaven and │ │ │ │ │ │31│Ben Jonson born. "Shikspur—who wrote Shikspur?" │ earth │ │ │ │ │ └──┴─────────────────────────────────────────────────────┴────────────┘ [Illustration: JANUARY,—Last Year's Bills. ]