as when, in contemplation, he hears the remarks of his readers tending
to his praise for the noble and heroic deeds he makes himself perform.

But with our poet--and we have been exceptional in our choice--he has
always been backward in coming forward, and it was not until he was
touched upon a tender point that he concluded to make himself heard,
when he might depict, in glowing terms, some of the few ills which flesh
is heir to.

The opportune moment arrived.

He had been out since early dawn, gathering the dew from the
sweet-scented flower, or painting in liquid vowels the pleasant calmness
of the cow-pasture, or mayhap echoing with hie pencil's point the
well-noted strains of the Shanghai rooster, when the far-off distant
bell announced to him that he must finish his poetic pabulum, and hurry
home to something more in accordance with the science of modern cookery.

He arrived and found his household in tumult. "Who's been here since
I've been gone?" sang he, in pathetic tones. And he heard in mournful
accents the answer, "TAFFY."

Could anything more melancholy have befallen our poet? He could remember
in childhood's merry days the old candy-woman, with her plentiful store
of brown sweetness long drawn out; and how himself and companions spent
many a pleasant hour teasing their little teeth with the delicate
morsels. Now his childhood's dreams vanished. He remembered that

"TAFFY was a Welshman."