"'Little Jack Horner sat in a corner,
Eating his Christmas pie;
He put in his thumb and pull'd out a plum,
And cried, What a good boy am I!'

"'Good boy am I!' good-for-nothing brat, just like his father. Oh,
dear!--if I could but get rid of him!

"'There was an old woman who lived in a shoe,
She'd so many children she didn't know what to do;
She gave them some broth without any bread,
She whipped them all round, and sent them to bed.'

"And if I don't whip him, it's my fault, that's all. Virginia, my love,
don't spit--that's not genteel. It's only sailors and Yankees who spit.
Nasty little brute! Oh! here you are, are you?" cried my mother, as I
entered. "Do you see what a dirty mess you have made, you little
ungrateful animal? Take that, and that, and that," continued she,
running the wet bristles of the long broom into my face, with sufficient
force to make my nose bleed. I stood the first push, and the second; but
the third roused my indignation--and I caught hold of the end of the
broom toward me, and tried to force it out of her hands. It was push
against push, for I was very strong--she, screaming as loud as she
could, as she tried to wrest the broom from my clutches--I, shoving at
her with all my force--like Punch and the devil at the two ends of the
stick. At last, after she had held me in a corner for half a minute, I
made a rush upon her, drove her right to the opposite corner, so that
the end of the handle gave her a severe poke in the body, which made her
give up the contest, and exclaim as soon as she recovered her