consumed!

Rose was in the parlor. The basket was still in its place, and she was
looking over the remaining manuscripts. "'Gideon Fish,'" she
murmured, "no one wants to hear that; 'Lida Powers,' 'William Mount,'
'Edith Chase,'--oh, here is something! I know the handwriting,
although there is no name. Let me see,--yes; this is Hugh's. It is
sure to be good, and I mean to have it read." So, just before the
company broke up, Rose rapped on the table with her plump little fist.

"Ladies and gentlemen," she began, in her merry voice, "I presume you
all know Mr. Pete Trone, the distinguished terrier, whose
accomplishments and sagacity are in every mouth."

"Oh, we know him!" answered the company; "we know him well." "He is
the celebrated dog of republican principles,"--"who climbs trees;"--"and
walks the tight-rope;"--"and dances the hornpipe!"

"I perceive that you know him," said Rose, "and therefore you will be
pleased to hear an epic poem in his honor. Indeed, it is supposed that
he wrote it himself. He speaks with modesty of his achievements,
alludes with feeling to his fancy for digging in the garden, and begs
for sympathy. With your permission, I will read the:--

'COMPLAINT OF PETE TRONE, ESQ.

I'm only a poor little terrier,
Very small, black-and-tan,
But a dog who is brighter or merrier
Never breathed, never ran.