he became the leader and I the follower, or rather, to do justice to his attachment and ability, he became like a strong big brother to a helpless little one. [Illustration: IN EMBARRASSED CIRCUMSTANCES.] We remained in a state of nature five years, when at last a whaler of Hull--though the hull was not visible--showed her masts on the horizon, an event which was telegraphed by Monday, who began saying his prayers and dancing the College Hornpipe at the same time with equal fervour. We contrived by lighting a fire, literally a _feu-de-joie_, to make a sign of distress, and a boat came to our signal deliverance. We had a prosperous passage home, where the reader may anticipate the happiness that awaited us; but not the trouble that was in store for me and Monday. Our parting was out of the question; we would both rather have parted from our sheet anchor. We attempted to return to our relative rank, but we had lived so long in a kind of liberty and equality, that we could never resume our grades. The state of nature remained uppermost with us both, and Monday still watched over and tended me like Dominie Sampson with the boy Harry Bertram; go where I would, he followed with the dogged pertinacity of Tom Pipes; and do what I might, he interfered with the resolute vigour of John Dory in Wild Oats. This disposition involved us daily, nay, hourly, in the most embarrassing circumstances; and how the connexion might have terminated I know not, if it had not been speedily dissolved in a very unexpected manner. One morning poor Monday was found on his bed in a sort of convulsion, which barely enabled him to grasp my hand, and to falter out, “Good-bye, I am go--going--back--to a state of nature.” [Illustration: A GOOD ACTION MEETS ITS OWN REWARD.] DOG-GREL VERSES, BY A POOR BLIND. “Hark! hark! the dogs do bark, The beggars are coming....”--OLD BALLAD. OH what shall I do for a dog? Of sight I have not got a particle, Globe, Standard, or Sun, Times, Chronicle--none Can give _me_ a good leading article. A Mastiff once led me about, But people appeared so to fear him-- I might have got pence Without his defence, But Charity would not come near him. A Blood-hound was not much amiss, But instinct at last got the upper; And tracking Bill Soames, And thieves to their homes, I never could get home to supper. A Fox-hound once served me as guide, A good one at hill and at valley; But day after day He led me astray, To follow a milk-woman’s tally. A turnspit once did me good turns At going and crossing, and stopping; Till one day his breed Went off at full speed, To spit at a great fire in Wapping. A Pointer once pointed my way, But did not turn out quite so pleasant, Each hour I’d a stop At a Poulterer’s shop To point at a very high pheasant.