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Search the Silurian beds for proof, what then ?
Sprang from a polyp.
ROAST PIG.–A BIT OF LAMB. I speak not of your grown porkers—things between pig and pork, those hobbledehoys that a young and tender suckling, under a moon old, guiltless as yet of the sty, with no original speck of the amor immunditio, the hereditary failing of the first parent, yet manifest; his voice as yet not broken, but something between a childish treble and a grumble—the mild forerunner or præludium of a grunt.
He must be roasted. I am not ignorant that our ancestors ate them seethed or boiled; but what a sacrifice of the exterior tegu. ment.
There is no flavor comparable, I will contend, to that of the crisp, tawny, well watched, not over roasted crackling, as it is well called. The very teeth are invited to their share of the pleasure at this banquet, in overcoming the coy, brittle resistance, with the adhesive oleaginous--oh, call it not fat! but an indefinable sweetness growing up to it, the tender blossoming of fat-fat cropped in the bud, taken in the shoot in the first innocence; the cream and quintessence of the child pig's yet pure food; the lean, no lean, but a kind of animal manna; or rather, fat and lean (if it must be so) so blended and running into each other that both together make but one am. brosian result, or common substance.
Behold him while he is “doing ;" it seemeth rather a refreshing warmth than a scorching heat that he is so passive to. How cquably he twirleth round the string! Now he is just done. To sce the extreme sensibility of that tender age!. He hath wept out his pretty eyes—radiant jellies, shooting stars.
See him in the dish, his second cradle: how meek he lieth! Wouldst thou have had this innocent grow up to the grossness and indocility which too often accompany maturer swinehood ? Ten to one he would have proved a glutton, a sloven, an obstinate, disagree. able animal, wallowing in all manner of filthy conversation. From these sins he is happily snatched away. His memory is odoriferous. No clown curseth while his stomach half rejecteth the rank bacon. No coal heaver bolteth him in reeking sausages. He hath a fair sepulchre in the grateful stomach of the judicious epicure, and for such a tomb might he content to die.
He is the best of sapors. · Pineapple is great. She is, indeed, almost too transcendenta delight, if not sinful, yet so like to sin. ning, that really a tender conscienced person would do well to pause: too ravishing for mortal taste, she woundetli and excoriateth the lips that approach her. She is a pleasure bordering on pain from the fierceness and insanity of her relish; but she stoppeth at the palate; she meddleth not with the appetite; and the coarsest hunger might barter her consistently for a mutton chop.
Pig-let me speak his praise-is no less provocative of the appetite than he is satisfactory to the criticalness of the censorious palate. The strong man may fatten on him, and the weakling refuseth not his mild juices.
Unlike to mankind's mixed character, a bundle of virtues and vices, inexplicably intertwisted, and not to be unravelled without hazard, he is good throughout. No part of him is better or worse than the other. He helpeth, as far as his little means extend, all round. He is the least envious of banquets. He is all neighbor's fare.
THE DEOK HAND AND THE MULE.
The mule stood on the steamboat deck,
The land he would not tread:
And whacked him o'er the head.
But obstinate and braced he stood,
As born the scene to rule-
A stubborn, steadfast mule.
They cursed and swore: he would not go
Until he felt inclined:
He altered not his mind.
“The varmint's bound to stay!" And still upon the critter's liide
A sounding lash made play.
His master, from the shore, replied,
"The boat's about to sail ;
Suppose you twist his tail.
It's likely that will make him land !"
The deck hand, brave, though pale,
To make the twist avail.
Then came a kick of thunder soud;
The deck hand-where was he?
Beheld him in the sea.
A moment, not a voice was heard,
But winked the mule his eye
“Now, how was that for high ?"
"Just cut his throat!" the captain roared,
"And end the awfiH brute."
Was he who tried to do't.
THE SOLEMN BOOK AGENT. He was tall, solemn and dignified. One would have thought him a Ronian scnator on his way to make a speech on finance. But he
wasn't singularly enough, he wasn't. He was a book agent. He wore a linen duster; and his brow was surrowed with many care lines, as if he had been obliged to tumble out of bed every other night of his life to dose a sick child. He called into a tailor shop on Randolph street, removed his hat, took his “Lives of Eminent Phil. osophers " from his cambric bag, and approached the tailor with
“I'd like to have you look at this rare work." "I haf no time," replied the tailor.
" It is a work which every thinking man should delight to peruse," continued the agent.
“Zo?" said the tailor.
“Yes. It is a work on which a great deal of deep thought has been expended, and it is pronounced by such men as Wendell Phil. lips to be a work without a rival in modern literature.”
“ Makes anybody laugh when he zees it ?" asked the tailor.
“No, my friend ; this is a deep, profound work, as I have already said. It deals with such characters as Theocritus, Socrates and Plato, and Ralph Waldo Emerson. If you desire a work on which the most eminent author of our day has spent years of study and research, you can find nothing to compare with this.
“Does it shpeak about how to glean cloze?" anxiously asked the man of the goose.
"My friend, this is no receipt book, but an eminent work on phil. osoply, as I have told you.. Years were consumed in preparing this volume for the press, and none but the clearest mind could have grasped the subjects herein discussed. if you desire food for deep meditation you have it here."
“Does dis pook say sumding about der Prussian war ?" asked the tailor, as he threaded his needle.
“My friend, this is not an everyday book, but a work on philosophy—a work which will soon be in the hands of every profound thinker in the country. What is the art of philosophy? This book
these pages for a reply. As I said before, I don't see how you can do without it."
"And he don't haf any dings about some fun, ch!" inquired the tailor, as the book was held to him.
"My friend, must I again inform you that this is not an ephemeral work—not a collection of nauseous trash, but a rare, deep work on philosophy? Here, see the name of the author. That name alone should be proof enough to your mind that the work cannot be surpassed for profundity of thought. Why, sir, Gerritt Smith testifies to the greatness of this volume !"
"I not knows Mr. Schmidt; I make no cloze mit him," returned the tailor in a doubting voice.
"Then you will let me leave your pace without having secured your name to this volume? I cannot believe it. Behold what research! Turn these leaves and see these gems of richest thought. Ah! if we only had such minds, and could wield such a pen. But we can read, and, in a measure, we can be like him. Every family should have this notle work. Let me put your name down; the book is only twelve dollars."
" Zwelve dollars for der pook! Zwelve dollars, und he has nod. dings about der war, und no fun in him, or say noddings how to get glean cloze! What you take me for, inister ? Go right away mit dat pook or I call der bolice and has you locked up pooty quick!"
I's a-holdin' ob the lines.
Dat I'll cure you ob your shines.
Look heah, mule! Better min' out-
On your ugly stubborn back.