Fytte III. The Rivals.

"Nothing like soup," is still the cry In each well ordered family; So on Christine the duty fell To cull the herbs they love so well; And every morn, the charming maid Within her father's garden strayed, Parsley to pluck, wherewith to make The soup, which they at noon should take.

Her father's garden marched, I ween, With that of Mr. Richard Dean; A school-master by trade was he, And she esteemed him—maidenly. But by degrees, within her soul A softer, tenderer passion stole; Love—full of joy and full of sorrow, Sunshine to day, and storm to-morrow,— Love may forget a parsley bed, And dream of golden flowers instead.

And so the maiden stooped to cull a Crocus, and an auricula. These flowers, together-bound, she placed Just half a foot above her waist.

Then sat her down beneath the shade, And thought about him—happy maid. Now Mr. Dull a nephew had, A most audacious, awkward lad; Some fifteen summers he had seen And still was very, very green.

Christine he eyed, and with desire He felt his little soul on fire. With cat like pace behind the wall He crept (he was not near as tall.)

Leapt up, and from the affrighted Miss Ravished the much desired kiss.

"Stop little monster", and a whack Descended on his upturned back— (The place I cannot more define Within the limits of a line) —Side, I should add, but wherefore tell What every school-boy knows so well. Dick Dean so roundly plied the stick That rogue Eugene skedaddled quick.

Then Richard raised the fainting maid, And many a tender thing he said; Her chin he chucked, his arm he placed About her little taper waist;

Her flowers admired, and begged them too: Christine, she knew not what to do;

But blushed assent; the flowers he took, And thanked her with an ardent look.

"Sweets are repaid by sweets I wiss", He said, and he too had a kiss. "Adieu and—au revoir—" to night

Pray let us meet, my heart's delight, Behind your father's Bee-house, when The Church-clock shall have sounded ten. Eugene, still smarting with the cane, His heart on fire, with jealous pain,

O'erheard the place of assignation, And crept out from his hidden station; Rushed to the Bee-house, found John Dull Asleep, and snoring like a bull. "Wake, Uncle, wake" in startling tone He shouted, "for your swarm is gone."