And then, after a careful scrutiny of the larder, assisted by the
gratuitous services of his ever faithful feline friend, THOMAS, he
found the extent of his loss.

"TAFFY was a thief,"

he now gave vent to passion, while anguish rent his soul. TAFFY had been
here, and made good his coming, although the good was entirely on
TAFFY'S side, for he walked off again with a piece of beef, and was,
even at this very moment, smacking his chops over its tender fibres.

All his respect for TAFFY now vanished like the misty cloud before the
rays of the morning sun. He buckled on the armor of his strength,
departed for TAFFY'S house, determined to wreak his vengeance thereon,
and scatter TAFFY, limb for limb, throughout his own corn-field. "Woe,
woe to TAFFY," he muttered between his clenched teeth. "I will make
mincemeat of him; I will enclose him in sausage skins, and will send him
to that good man, KI YI SAMPSON."

Judge of our poet's chagrin, however, when, on arriving at TAFFY'S
house, he was informed, with mocking smiles.

"TAFFY wasn't at home."

Here was a fall to his well-formed plans of vengeance.--All dashed to
the ground by one foul scathing blow.

But whither went TAFFY? The poet himself could tell you if you waited,
but we will tell you now. TAFFY liked beef; liked it as no other human
liked it, for he could eat it raw. And when, foraging around the