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WHAT WILL HE DO WITO IT? PART THE LAST.
BY PISISTRATTJS CAXTON.
M Immunis mm si tetlarit nianug,
It is the grey of the evening. Fairthorn is sauntering somewhat sullenly along the banks of the lake. lie 1ms missed, the lost three days, his walk with Sophy—missed the pleasing excitement of talking at her, and of the family in whose obsolete glories ho considers her very interest an obtrusive impertinence. lie has missed, too, his more habitual and less irritating conversation with Darrell. Jn short, altogether he is put out, and he vents his spleen on the swans, who follow him along the wave as he walks along the margin, intimating either their affection for himself, or their anticipation of the bread crumbs associated with his image—■ by the amiable note, half snort and half grnnt, to which change of time or climate has reduced the vocal accomplishments of those classical birds, so pathetically melodious in the age of Moschus and on the banks of Cayster.
"Not a crumb, you unprincipled beggars," growled the musician. "You imagine that mankind are to have no other thought but that of supplying you with luxuries! And if you were asked, in a competitive examination, to define Me, yonr benefactor, you would say—' a thing very low in the scale of creation, without wings or even feathers, but which Providence endowed with a peculiar instinct for affording nutritious and palatable additions to the ordinary aliment of Swans!' Ay, you may grunt; I wish I had you—in a pie!"
Slowly, out through the gap between yon grey crag and the thorntree, paces the doe, hnlting to drink just where the faint star of eve shoots its gleam along the wave. The musician forgets the swans and quickens his pace, expecting to meet the doe's wonted companion. lie is not disappointed, lie comes on Guy Darrell where the twilight shadow falls dark