would feel when they knew that the Poet of the family was gone forever.

All this he pictured as he stood on the bank, and, while thinking, the
desire to plunge in grew smaller by degrees and beautifully less, till
at last it vanished entirely, and he concluded he had better go home,
finish his book first and drown himself afterwards, if necessary. It
would make much more stir in the world, and his name and works might
live forever.

A happy thought strikes him as he slowly meanders homeward. He would
have revenge. He would punish these wretches by handing down--to
posterity their peculiarities. He would put it in verse and have it
printed in his book, and then they'd see that even the gentle worm could
turn and sting.

Ah! blessed thought. He flies to his garret bedroom, seizes his
goose-quill and paper, and sits down. What shall he write about? He
nibbles the feather end of his pen, plunges the point into the ink,
looks at it intently to see if he has hooked up an idea, sees none, and
falls to nibbling again. Ah! now he has it. There is TOM, the
dunderhead, who is always sleepy and he will put that down about him.
Squaring his shoulders, he writes:

"Let's go to bed," says Sleepy Head.

Gleefully he rubs his hands. Won't that cut TOM. Ah! Ha! I guess TOM
won't say much more about staring at the moon. Now for DICK, the old
stupid. What shall he say about him? The end of the pen diminishes
slowly but surely, and then he writes: