absorb the blood as it flows from the wound, and at last fall off, when the danger is considered to be over.
“But now we must leave this fertile subject of discussion, and I can only say I sincerely trust we may never have cause to resume it from the appearance of another serpent here, of any sort, size, or description.
“Come, Ernest, can you not give us an epitaph for our unfortunate friend the donkey?
“We must afford him more honourable sepulture than he enjoys at present, when we proceed, as we speedily must, to disembowel his murderer.”
Ernest took the matter quite seriously, and planting his elbows on his knees, he bent his thoughtful brow in his hands, and remained wrapt in poetic meditation for about two minutes.
“I have it!” cried he, “but perhaps you will all laugh at me?”
“No, no, don't be shy, old fellow; spit it out!" and thus encouraged by his brother, Ernest, with the blush of a modest author, began—
“Beneath this stone poor Grizzle's bones are laid,
A faithful ass he was, and loved by all.
At length, his master's voice he disobeyed,
And thereby came his melancholy fall.
A monstrous serpent, springing from the grass,
Seized, crushed, and swallowed him before our eyes.
But we, though yet we mourn our honest ass,
Are grateful; for he thereby saved the lives
Of all the human beings on this shore—
A father, mother, and their children four.”
“Hurrah for the epitaph! Well done, Ernest!” resounded on all sides, and taking out a large red pencil I used for marking wood, the lines were forthwith inscribed on a great flat stone, being, as I told the boy, the very best poetry that had ever been written on our coast.
