Don John de Ayala,--a chap Whose worst mishap Was to be curs'd with a purloining cook. (A fellow, who 'twas plain Play'd "cut and come again," And scarcely reck'd, if all was seen he took.) Don John de Ayala, went forth to look For birds, and shot a crane; Which, forthwith giving the aforesaid knave To cook, according to the Spanish taste; _He_, to his dainty-loving _sposa_ gave A leg at once, well deeming, that to waste So fair an opportunity for sin Would be (as _he_ should say a _burning_ shame;) But, when the bird, at dinner-time went in, Cried Juan, "Where's the left leg of my game?" "Soul of my body, sir!" roar'd cook,--no fire In his own kitchen, showing phiz more red, Yet whether thus, from guilt he blazed, or ire, Or _shame_ perdie, hath ne'er been sung or said, "Soul of my body!--other leg?--Well done!-- No crane that e'er _I_ saw, had more than _one_." Juan, thus silenc'd, but not satisfied, In his own mind revolv'd The neatest way Of telling master Brazenface, he lied; And so resolv'd To take him out crane-shooting the next day. They went:--"Well, cook," quoth Ayala, "for fun I've brought thee here, Where quickly 'twill appear That if cranes have not _two_ legs,--why, they've _none_." "Say you so, Senor?--look!--yon long-neck'd flock, Each bird of it on _one_ foot, ends the matter; Ay--there they stand,--as firm as any rock, I swear by ev'ry dish I ever broke, or platter." Straight to the flock, flight, covey, (we've no name In Albion, to designate _such_ game.) Rush'd Ayala, whose hearty psho! psho! psho! Took the cranes off _one_ leg,--discovering _two_, As up they rose, on rustling, sullen wing: "Well cook?" "Why, body of my soul, sir, there's the thing, Had you said _psho! psho!_ to your _roasted_ crane, Belike you'd seen its hidden leg again!" M.L.B. * * * * * SPOONS. (_For the Mirror_.)