LESSONS FOR THE LITERATI. 267 



THE ZOOLOGIST AND THE WEASELS. 



Upon a garden's sunny side, 

 A sage zoologist espied 

 Two weasels once, he seized the prize, 

 And bore them home t' anatomize. 

 One that was plump (for one was slim), 

 He takes and slaughters, limb by limb ; 

 The microscope he next applies, 

 He views the legs, the tail, the eyes ; 

 Looks o'er each part, without within 

 Head, back, intestines, belly, skin ; 

 He takes his pen, then looks once more, 

 Writes a few lines and reads them o'er, 

 And when his notes are full and plain, 

 Turns to the butchery again. 

 While yet his zeal is quite alive, 

 Some virtuoso friends arrive, 

 To whom he shews what he has written. 

 Some are with admiration smitten 

 Some hear with coldness his reflections 

 Some question others raise objections. 



Th' anatomizing mania over, 

 At length began he to discover 

 He'd had enough of weasels, so 

 He let the slim survivor go. 

 Soon as her ancient haunts she found, 

 The neighbours all came flocking round, 

 And she proceeded to declare, 

 The whole unheard and strange affair. 

 " There's not a doubt," (she thus went on), 

 ' ' With my own eyes I saw it done, 

 I did the man a whole day mark, as 

 He bent o'er our poor friend's carcase. 

 Who calls us reptile now ? how long 

 Shall we submit to such a wrong, 

 When we have qualities inviting 

 Such eager search, such careful writing ? 

 My noble brethren give not way ! 

 They know our worth whate'er they say." 



