But no such animal the meadows cropped.
At length, beneath a tree Sir Peter stopped ;
Took a bough, shook it, and down fell

A fine horse-chestnut in its prickly shell.

'There, Tom, take that.'-Well, sir, and what beside?'
'Why, since you're booted, saddle it, and ride.'
'Ride what?- —a chestnut?'-'Ay; come get across.

I tell you, Tom, the chestnut is a horse,
And all the horse you'll get! for I can show,
As clear as sunshine, that 'tis really so;
Not by the musty, fusty, worn-out rules
Of Locke and Bacon--addle-headed fools!
All logic but the wranglers' I disown,
And stick to one sound argument-your own.
Since you have proved to me, I don't deny,
That a pie-John is the same as a John-pie;
What follows then, but, as a thing of course,
That a horse-chestnut is a chestnut-horse !'

THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM. (HOOD.)

Thomas Hood-a poet and a most accomplished writer-was born in London in 1798. His early life was spent partly in a merchant's office, and partly as an apprentice to an engraver. At the age of twenty-four he adopted literature as a profession, and began to write for all the leading periodicals. His poems are chiefly of a humorous character, but he will always be best remembered as the author of some simple and eloquent verses descriptive of the hardships of a poor seamstress. He died, after a long illness, in May 1845. His epitaph is, ' He sang the Song of the Shirt.'

'Twas in the prime of summer-time,

An evening calm and cool,

And four-and-twenty happy boys

Came bounding out of school:

There were some that ran, and some that leapt
Like troutlets in a pool.

Away they sped with gamesome minds,
And souls unscarr'd by sin;

To a level mead they came, and there
They drave the wickets in:
Pleasantly shone the setting sun
Over the town of Lynn.

Like sportive deer they coursed about
And shouted as they ran—
Turning to mirth all things of earth,
As only boyhood can ;

But the Usher sat remote from all,
A melancholy man!

His hat was off, his vest apart,

To catch heaven's blessed breeze;

For a burning thought was in his brow,
And his bosom ill at ease:

So he lean'd his head on his hands, and read

The book between his knees!

Leaf after leaf, he turned it o'er,

Nor ever glanced aside;

For the peace of his soul he read that book

In the golden eventide :

Much study had made him very lean,

And pale, and leaden-eyed.

Then leaping on his feet upright,

Some moody turns he took

Now up the mead, now down the mead,

And past a shady nook,

And, lo! he saw a little boy

That pored upon a book!

Of kings and crowns unstable ? '
The young boy gave an upward glance-

"It is "The Death of Abel."'

The Usher took six hasty strides,
As smit with sadden pain—
Six hasty strides beyond the place,
Then slowly back again;

And down he sat beside the lad,
And talk'd with him of Cain;

And, long since then, of bloody men,
Whose deeds tradition saves;
Of lonely folk cut off unseen,
And hid in sudden graves;
Of horrid stabs in groves forlorn,
And murders done in caves.

He told how murderers walk the earth
Beneath the curse of Cain,

With crimson clouds before their eyes,
And flames about their brain ;
For blood has left upon their souls
Its everlasting stain !

'And well,' quoth he, 'I know for truth,

Their pangs must be extreme,

Wo, wo, unutterable wo,

Who spill life's sacred stream!

For why? Methought, last night, I wrought A murder in a dream!

'One that had never done me wrong,

A feeble man and old :

I led him to a lonely field;

The moon shone clear and cold:
"Now here," said I, "this man shall die,
And I will have his gold!"

'Two sudden blows with a ragged stick,
And one with a heavy stone,
One hurried gash with a hasty knife-
And then the deed was done;
There was nothing lying at my feet
But lifeless flesh and bone.

'I took the dreary body up
And cast it in a stream-
A sluggish water, black as ink,
The depth was so extreme.
My gentle boy, remember this
Is nothing but a dream!

'Down went the corpse with a hollow plunge, And vanished in the pool;

Anon I cleansed my bloody hands,
And washed my forebead cool;
And sat among the urchins young,
That evening in the school!

'Alas! to think of their white souls,
And mine so black and grim;
I could not share in childish prayer,
Nor join in evening hymn :
Like a devil of the pit I seem'd
'Mid holy cherubim,