My courage almost fails as I describe the shameful scene that followed. The boys were called in, my own little account-book was dragged out of my cupboard, to prove how much I had received from each, and every farthing of my money was paid back to them. The tyrant took the thirty shillings that my dear parents had given me, and said that he should put them into the poor-box at church; and, after having made a long discourse to the boys about meanness and usury, he said, "Take off your coat, Mr. Stubbs, and restore Bunting his waistcoat." I did, and stood without coat and waistcoat in the midst of the nasty, grinning boys. I was going to put on my coat,— "Stop," says he, "TAKE DOWN HIS BREECHES!" Ruthless, brutal villain! Sam Hopkins, the biggest boy, took them down— horsed me—and _I was flogged, sir_; yes, flogged! Oh, revenge! I, Robert Stubbs, who had done nothing but what was right, was brutally flogged at ten years of age.—Though February was the shortest month, I remembered it long. MARCH. [1839. EASTER SUNDAY. [Sidenote: Secure your purse when you look at the sky, ♊ ♏ ♀ ♄ Or so much the worse ☍ ♈ ☽ ♂ for your pro-per-ty. [Illustration] For some there live —how mel-an-choly!— who feed ♉ ♒ ♀ ⚹ and thrive by others' Folly.] Some people brave the whelming wave, A broiling sun, or a frozen life; Of cutting care I get my share, The horror of The Carving Knife. I wish I was a foreigner, A Hottentot, or a heathen Turk, Or in a poor-law union, where They never want a knife and fork. Before a joint, unhinged, I stand, When call'd on for a fav'rite bit, And surely as I try my hand, So sure I put my foot in it. Folks say I'm not a useful man; Yet, anxious to be serviceable, And do them all the good I can, They learn, with me, to wait at table. Patient as martyr at a stake, I bear the baitings of relations, Who give no quarter, while they make O'er mangled lamb their lamentations. I'm very slow about a brisket; Bacon's a bore—at duck I quake; To cut a pheasant's far from pleasant, And e'en a jelly makes me shake.