CANTO IV.

Little JACK HORNER
Sat in a corner.
Eating a Christmas Pie:
He put in his thumb
And pulled out a plum,
And said, "What a brave boy am I."

In Canto I, I have shown the varied emotions which seized the tender
soul of Old Mother HUBBARD'S Dog. Emotions so fierce in their sorrow,
that they left not a single wiggle in his tail: his hopes were crushed,
his expectations ruined. In Canto II I have pictured the musical
propensities of the genus _Cat_, the wandering vagaries of the moon-dane
cow, the purp's withering contempt thereat, and the frisky evolutions of
the dish which rolled off on its ear. In Canto III I have portrayed the
"tender passion" and its melancholy result on the hill-side--a fitting
illustration of the fact that the course of true love never did run
smooth, especially if there were big rocks to knock one's toes against.
And now, in Canto IV, I am about to portray childish innocence in the
pursuit of bliss.

All things are graded, with the trifling exception of many of our
streets. But who cares about this grade of bliss? I don't, and I am sure
the poet didn't when he sang the lines at the head of this chapter.
Bliss is graded. The old man in Wall street, with white hair and white
necktie, and smooth polished tongue, has his degree of bliss when he is
engaged in throwing stones at the Apes in the tree-top, that they may
return the throw with gold cocoa-nuts. The young lady has her degree of
bliss when her waist is entwined by "Dear CHAWLES," who soothes her