ruined. In Canto II I have pictured the musical
propensities of the genus _Cat_, the wandering vagaries of the moon-dane
cow, the purp's withering contempt thereat, and the frisky evolutions of
the dish which rolled off on its ear. In Canto III I have portrayed the
"tender passion" and its melancholy result on the hill-side--a fitting
illustration of the fact that the course of true love never did run
smooth, especially if there were big rocks to knock one's toes against.
And now, in Canto IV, I am about to portray childish innocence in the
pursuit of bliss.

All things are graded, with the trifling exception of many of our
streets. But who cares about this grade of bliss? I don't, and I am sure
the poet didn't when he sang the lines at the head of this chapter.
Bliss is graded. The old man in Wall street, with white hair and white
necktie, and smooth polished tongue, has his degree of bliss when he is
engaged in throwing stones at the Apes in the tree-top, that they may
return the throw with gold cocoa-nuts. The young lady has her degree of
bliss when her waist is entwined by "Dear CHAWLES," who soothes her
troubled spirit with the tender melody of "Red as a beet is
she,"--alluding to her would-be rival. The nice young man has his degree
of bliss when he chews a tooth-pick--poor goose! (not the nice young
man, but the fowl which gave the quill,)--and is given a smile by a
dark-eyed female in a passing stage.

And Infantdom has--But our poet beautifully illustrates this in the
stanzas we have quoted.

"Little JACK HORNER,"

says he, with the easy grace of one perfectly familiar with the subject
he is to treat; neither frightened at its immensity, nor putting himself
in the way of a dilemma by stopping to examine details. Little JACK was
the poet's pet because he was the afflicted one of the household, and
poets know full well how to sympathize with affliction. Perhaps JACK sat
down to dinner next to cross-eyed SUSAN ANN, "by Brother BILL'S gal,"
and perhaps JACK'S nose was tickled by a little blue-bottle, and that he
sneezed right into her soup-plate; and then he was hurried from the
table for blowing a fly into SUSAN ANN'S soup! He would lose his dinner.
His napkin would miss its accustomed wash!

"Shall it be thus? No!" says the poet. "Dry your tears, little JACK, go
to the well-stocked pantry, my boy, and get something to eat. The jury
will not convict you of stealing, for their verdict will be that you did