In an instant the sportsman let fall his gun, and Sugarlips ran
affrighted towards the stile. He found it really "vox et preterea
nihil;" for a few feathers of the bird alone were visible: he had been
blown to nothing; and, peeping cautiously round the angle of the wall, he
beheld a portly gentleman in black running along with the unwieldy gait
of a chased elephant.

"Old Flank'em, of the Finishing Academy, by jingo!" exclaimed Sugarlips.
"It's a mercy we didn't finish him! Why, he must actually have been on
the point of turning the corner. I think we had better be off; for, if
the old dominie catches us, he will certainly liberate our sparrows, and
--put us in the cage!"

But, where's the spoil?"

"Spoil, indeed!" cried Sugarlips; "you've spoiled him nicely. I've an
idea, Tom, you were too near, as the spendthrift nephew said of his
miserly uncle. If you can't get an aim at a greater distance, you'd
never get a name as a long shot--that's my mind."




PRECEPT.


Uncle Samson was a six-bottle man. His capacity was certainly great,
whatever might be said of his intellect; for I have seen him rise without
the least appearance of elevation, after having swallowed the customary
half dozen. He laughed to scorn all modern potations of wishy-washy