old coat, called “a scout,” on an oar at her prow, to signify to intending purchasers that the market is ready for them. Down they troop: first the carts of richer speculators which will carry off the fish to Taunton or Exeter, these being the furthest points to which the Seaton fish are generally taken. Next come several worn-out fishermen, beating couples of sleepy-looking donkeys bearing panniers,—these will hawk the mackarel through the neighbouring villages. Mingled with them is a crowd of private purchasers, and now is the time for Paterfamilias to pick and choose. If the take has been in the evening, the shades of night will fall before all the bargains are made and the chaffering concluded.
Perseus tells us that at Rome the doom of bad poetry was to be sent to the fishmongers for mackarel to be wrapped in it; we must, indeed, finally all “come to vile uses,” but may the like fate never befal our prose!
G.
THE MISTAKE OF THE LOVES.
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To-day, as idly in my chair,
I, hardly half-awake, was dreaming,
Methought, in through the sunny air,
A swarm of laughing loves came streaming,
Winged mischiefs, here and there, without
My leave, the wantons gleamed and fluttered,
Buzzing, like bees, the room about,
Ere half a sentence could be uttered.
In fact, with such glad hushed surprise,
I saw the little urchins flying,
Like humming-birds, before my eyes,
In every nook and corner prying,
Now handling this—now into that
With childish laughs and chatter peeping,
I did not care to stay their chat,
But silent sat as I’d been sleeping.
What would they do? Quick, every one
Found every moment new employment:
They paused at last; well, now what fun
Would yield their smallships fresh employment?
My scrap-book lay before me there;
One saw, and straightway courage mustered,
Helped by five more, the prize to bear
To where all close around it clustered.
Swift over, leaf on leaf was turned;
Small praise, each sketch, while passing under
Those tiny curious quick eyes, earned,
Till, ah! at last, one waked their wonder;
My pencil there had vainly tried,
How vainly! as it oft had striven,
To do that unto it denied—
Image the beauty to you given.
Yet passion there, to labouring art,
A strength beyond its own had granted;
Enough was there to make them start,
However much of you was wanted;
Eyes, dimples, hair, those peeping pearls,
As those red lips so archly show them,
They saw them, and, O flower of girls!
How strange! at once they seemed to know them.
O what a storm of pretty noise,
Of cries and clappings straight I heard then,
Of little feet that stamped the joys,
Enough their small tongues couldn’t word then;
What with delight could thrill them so!
Hardly my wonder I could smother;
Till, listening, soon I laughed to know,
They, in your likeness, saw their mother.
W. C. Bennett.
