es. A few strokes of the hammer in connexion with some
trifling moulds and measures, attached to the anvil, perfect, in two or
three minutes the blade and its tang or shank. Two men, the maker and
striker, produce about nine blades in an hour, or seven dozen and a half
per day.

"The rough blade thus produced then passes through the hands of _the
filer_, who files the blade into form by means of a pattern in hard
steel. It then goes to the halters to be hafted in ivory, horn, &c. as
may be required; it next proceeds to the finisher, to Mr. Rodgers for
examination, and is then packed for sale or exportation. In this
progression every table-knife, pocket-knife, or pen-knife, passes step
by step, through no less than sixteen hands, involving in the language
of Mr. Rodgers, at least 144 separate stages of workmanship in the
production of a single pen-knife. The prices vary from 2_s_. 6_d_. per
dozen knives and forks, to L10."

(_To be concluded in our next_.)

* * * * *

FUN.

Monosyllables are always expressive, but seldom more comprehensive than
in this instance. A thousand recollections of urchin waggeries spring up
at its repetition. Our present example is "_Skying a Copper_," from Mr.
Hood's _Comic Annual_, of which a copious notice will be found in the
SUPPLEMENT published with the present number.

A REPORT FROM BELOW!

"Blow high, blow low."--_Sea Song_.

As Mister B. and Mrs. B.
One night were sitting down to tea,
With toast and muffins hot--
They heard a loud and sudden bounce,
That made the very china flounce,
They could not for a time pronounce
If they were safe or shot--
For memory brought a deed to match
At Deptford done by night--
Before one eye appear'd a Patch
In t'other eye a Blight!

To be belabour'd out of life,
Without some small attempt at strife,
Our nature will not grovel;
One impulse mov'd both man and dame,
He seized the tongs--she did the same,
Leaving the ruffian, if he came,
The poker and the shovel.
Suppose the couple standing so,
When rushing footsteps from below
Made pulses fast and fervent;
And first burst in the frantic cat,
All steaming like a brewer's rat,
And then--as white as my cravat--
Poor Mary May, the servant!

Lord how the couple's teeth did chatter,
Master and Mistress both flew at her,
"Speak! Fire? or Murder? What's the matter?"
Till Mary getting breath,