Woe to the mortal who shall _founder_ there! Let man shun Mansion House, and Lord Mayor's search; He, like an eagle, sits, with savage stare, Defying all the world to touch—his _perch_! MORAL. Fishers! forego your line for three months' length, And _fence_, don't fish, in _fence_ months now; for mind, Tho' every _week_ the Mayor put out his _strength_, If there you are not _found_ you are not _fined_! [Illustration: Taking to their Eels. "The Bailiffs are coming, Oh dear! oh dear!" ] APRIL.—THE FINISHING TOUCH. I was always fond of billiards: and in former days, at Grogram's, in Greek Street, where a few jolly lads of my acquaintance used to meet twice a week for a game, and a snug pipe and beer, I was generally voted the first man of the club; and could take five from John the marker himself. I had a genius, in fact, for the game; and now that I was placed in that station of life where I could cultivate my talents, I gave them full play, and improved amazingly. I do say that I think myself as good a hand as any chap in England. The Count, and his Excellency Baron von Punter, were, I can tell you, astonished by the smartness of my play; the first two or three rubbers Punter beat me, but when I came to know his game, I used to knock him all to sticks; or, at least, win six games to his four: and such was the betting upon me: his Excellency losing large sums to the Count, who knew what play was, and used to back me. I did not play except for shillings, so my skill was of no great service to me. One day I entered the billiard-room when these three gentlemen were high in words. "The thing shall not be done," I heard Captain Tagrag say. "I won't stand it." "Vat, begause you would have de bird all to yourzelf, hey?" said the Baron. "You sall not have a single fezare of him, begar," said the Count. "Ve vill blow you, M. de Taguerague; parole d'honneur, ve vill." "What's all this, gents," says I, stepping in, "about birds and feathers?" "Oh," says Tagrag, "we were talking about—about—pigeon-shooting. The Count, here, says he will blow a bird all to pieces at twenty yards, and I said I wouldn't stand it, because it was regular murder." "Oh, yase, it was bidgeon-shooting," cries the Baron: "and I know no better sport. Have you been bidgeon-shooting, my dear Squire? De fon is gabidal." "No doubt," says I, "for the shooters, but mighty bad sport for the _pigeon_;" and this joke set them all a laughing ready to die. I didn't know then what a good joke it _was_, neither; but I gave Master Baron that day a precious good beating, and walked off with no less than fifteen shillings of his money.