And those he left had no just cause to grieve.
'Twas WILLIAM'S turn to take the other's place,
And do his best to bring it no disgrace.
He now had under him a younger boy,
While better work did his own hands employ.
The workshop was a cellar, close to th' street,
And passers-by would oft the workmen greet.
The light came through an iron-grated space,
Making a prison-like and dismal place.

One day a stir was made that street within,
And each felt anxious to behold the scene.
The errand-boy was busy cleaning knives,
As others have done often in their lives.
He in a moment climbed upon the bench,
And the huge _carver_ in his hand did clench.
WILLIAM was looking up, with outstretched throat,
Quite unobservant, being lost in thought.
"I'll cut! I'll cut!" fell quickly on his ear;
He felt sharp pain, and thus had cause to fear!
The boy, for fun, across WILL'S neck had drawn
The carving-knife, and stood still as a stone;
Quite terrified at sight of blood, he said,
"I thought it was th' _back!_" it proved the edge instead.
The wound was slight, but might have been far worse--
And he might ne'er have figured in my verse.
One thing the serious reader would expect--
To give God thanks he could not well neglect.
Ah, me! his passion drove such thought away--
Strong Passion's call he hastened to obey;