See the smiles as they wreathe themselves on his chubby countenance. How
little JACK looks at the pie! how he turns it round and round to find
the best spot whereon to begin the attack! How he smacks his lips, and
thinks how nice it would be if he _could_ wish to give SUSAN ANN a
taste! But he can't.

Suddenly an idea strikes JACK. He has heard Uncle TOM talk of a big war
between Frawnce and Proossia, and all about the soldiers and the cannon,
and the big noises. Little JACK will make war on the pie. He will be
Frawnce, the pie will be Proossia. He sets it squarely before him on the
floor; rolls up his sleeves, may be; his eyes sparkle with
determination; he finds the most vulnerable spot in the crust; he makes
one bold dive with his thumb, it goes down, down down, crushing
everything before it; it feels something; renewed vigor flows through
JACK'S veins, and gives him new strength for the attack; victory crowns
him; and, in the words of the poet,

"He pulled out a plum,
And said, 'What a brave boy am I.'"

--Now he is happy. He has realized his fondest hopes. The blue-bottle
has no tickle for him now. He was Frawnce and he has licked Proossia.
There is nothing left but the plate, and his teeth are not hard enough
for that.

* * * * *

"Hooray for the Impurrur!"

The ardor with which our Milesian element embraces the cause of France