A district school, not far away, ’Mid Berkshire hills and winter’s day, Was humming with its wonted noise Of threescore mingled girls and boys, Some few upon their tasks intent, But more on furtive mischief bent. The while the master’s downward look Was fastened on a copy-book, Rose sharp and clear a rousing smack, As ’twere a battery of bliss Let off in one tremendous kiss! “What’s that?” the startled master cries. “That, thir,” a little imp replies, “Wath William Willuth, if you pleathe,— I thaw him kith Thuthannah Peathe!” With frown to make a statue thrill, The master thundered, “Hither, Will!” Like wretch o’ertaken in his track, With stolen chattels on his back, Will hung his head in fear and shame, And to the awful presence came,— A great, green, bashful simpleton, The butt of all good-natured fun. With smile suppressed, and birch upraised, The threatener faltered, “I’m amazed That you, my biggest pupil, should Be guilty of an act so rude! Before the whole set school, to boot. What evil genius put you to’t?” “’Twas she herself, sir,” sobbed the lad; “I didn’t mean to be so bad; But when Susannah shook her curls, And whispered I was ’fraid of girls, And dursn’t kiss a baby’s doll, I couldn’t stand it, sir, at all, But up and kissed her on the spot. I know—boo-hoo—I ought to not, But somehow, from her looks—boo-hoo— I thought she kind o’ wished me to!” THE BALLAD OF THE OYSTERMAN. Then up arose the oysterman, and to himself said he, I guess I’ll leave the skiff at home, for fear that folks should see; I read it in the story-book, that, for to kiss his dear, Leander swam the Hellespont,—and I will swim this here. And he has leaped into the waves, and crossed the shining stream, And he has clambered up the bank, all in the moonlight gleam; Oh, there were kisses sweet as dew, and words as soft as rain, But they have heard her father’s step, and in he leaps again. (The lover is seized with the cramp and is drowned, and the maiden never awakens from her “swound.”) Fate has metamorphosed them, in pity of their woe, And now they keep an oyster-shop for mermaids down below. HOLMES. ANCIENT SPANISH LYRIC. Since for kissing thee, Minquillo, My mother scolds me all the day, Let me have it quickly, darling, Give me back my kiss, I pray. If we have done aught amiss, Let’s undo it while we may; Quickly give me back my kiss, That she may have naught to say. Do,—she makes so great a bother, Chides so sharply, looks so grave,— Do, my love, to please my mother, Give me back the kiss I gave. Out upon you, false Minquillo! One you give, but two you take; Give me back the one, my darling, Give it for my mother’s sake. THE BROKEN PITCHER. [From the Spanish.]