245 



" Ob, it was only old Bung the brewer, who runs down every run 

 he doesn't ride." 



' ; Well, never mind," replied Sponge, " we'll make the best of it, 

 whatever it was ; "' writing away as he spoke, and repeating the words 

 11 bag one " as he penned them. 



" ' Broke away,' " continued Jack — 



" ' In view of the whole field,' " added Sponge. 



11 Just so," assented Jack. 



" ' Every hound scoring to cry, and making the ' — the — the — what 

 d'ye call the thing ? " asked Jack. 



" Country," suggested Sponge. 



" No," replied Jack, with a shake of the head. 



" Hill and dale? " tried Sponge again. 



"Welkin!" exclaimed Jack, hitting it off himself — "'rnakin' 

 the welkin ring with their melody ! ' makin' the welkin ring with 

 their melody," repeated he, with exultation. 



" Capital ! " observed Sponge, as he wrote it. 



" Equal to Littlelegs,"* said Jack, squinting his eyes inside out. 



" We'll make a grand thing of it," observed Sponge. 



" So we will," replied Jack, adding, " if we had but a book of 

 po'try we'd weave in some lines here. You haven't a book of no 

 sort with you that we could prig a little po'try from ? " asked he. 



" No," replied Sponge, thoughtfully. "I'm afraid not; indeed, 

 I'm sure not. I've got nothin' but ' Mogg's Cab Fares.' " 



" Ah, that won't do," observed Jack, with a shake of the head. 

 " But stay," said he, " there are some books over yonder," pointing 

 to the top of an Indian cabinet, and squinting in a totally different 

 direction. " Let's see what they are," added he, rising, and stump- 

 ing away to where they stood. " I Promessi Sposi," read he off the 

 back of one : " what can that mean ? Ah, it's Latin," said he, 

 opening the volume. " Contes a ma Fille," read he off the back of 

 another. " That sounds like racin'," observed he, opening the volume : 

 " its Latin, too," said he, returning it. " However, never mind, we'll 

 1 sugar Puff's milk,' as Mr. Bragg would say, without po'try." So 

 saying, Mr. Spraggon stumped back to his easy chair. " Well, now," 

 said he, seating himself comfortably in it, " let's see, where did we 

 go first ? ' He broke at the lower end of the cover, and crossing the 

 brook, made straight for Fleecykaugh Water Meadows, over which, 

 you may say, ' there's always a ravishing scent.' " 



" Have you got that ? " asked Jack, after what he thought a 

 sufficient lapse of time for writing it. 



" ' Ravishing scent,' " repeated Sponge, as he wrote the words. 



" Very good," said Jack, smoking and considering. " ' From 



* The Poetical Recorder of the Doings of the Dublin Garrison dogs, in BeWs 

 Life. 



