me that you did n't see how the Briggs girls, in their new chips, turned their noses up at 'em? And you did n't see how the Browns looked at the Smiths, and then at our poor "Poor creatures! what figures for girls, as much as to say, 5 the first of May?" You did n't see it? The more shame for you! I'm sure, those Briggs girls- the little minxes! put me into such a pucker, I could have pulled their ears for 'em over the pew. 10 15 What do you say? I ought to be ashamed to own it? Now, Caudle, it's no use talking; those children shall not cross over the threshold next Sunday, if they have n't things for the summer. Now mind-they shan't; and there's an end of it! I'm always wanting money for clothes? say that? I'm sure there are no children in cost their father so little; but that's itwoman does upon, the less she may. How can you the world that the less a poor Now, Caudle, dear! What a man you are! I know 20 you 'll give me the money, because, after all, I think you love your children, and like to see 'em well dressed. 25 only natural that a father should. It's How much money do I want? Let me see, love. There's Caroline, and Jane, and Susan, and Mary Anne, andWhat do you say? I need n't count 'em! Холь кпого how many there are! That's just the way you take me up! Well, how much money will it take? Let me see I'll tell you in a minute. You always love to see the dear 30 things like new pins. I know that, Caudle; and though I say it, bless their little hearts! they do credit to you, Caudle. How much? Now, don't be in a hurry! Well, I think, with good pinching-and you know, Caudle, there's never 35 a wife who can pinch closer than I can-I think, with pinching, I can do with twenty pounds. What did you say? Twenty fiddlesticks? What! You won't give half the money! Very well, Mr. Caudle; I don't care; let the children go in rags; let them stop from church, and grow up like heathens and 5 cannibals; and then you'll save your money, and, I suppose, be satisfied. 10 What do you say? Ten pounds enough? Yes, just like you men; you think things cost nothing for women; but you don't care how much you lay out upon yourselves. They only want frocks and bonnets? How do you know what they want? How should a man know anything at all about it? And you won't give more than ten pounds? Very well. Then you may go shopping with it yourself, and see what you'll make of it! I'll have none of your 15 ten pounds, I can tell you-no, sir! No; you've no cause to say that. I don't want to dress the children up like countesses! You often throw that in my teeth, you do; but you know it's false, Caudle; you know it! I only wish to give 'em proper notions of them20 selves; and what, indeed, can the poor things think, when they see the Briggses, the Browns, and the Smiths, and their fathers don't make the money you do, Caudle, when they see them as fine as tulips? Why, they must think themselves nobody. However, the twenty pounds I 25 will have, if I've any; or not a farthing! No, sir; no, -I don't want to dress up the children like peacocks and parrots! I only want to make 'em respectable. What do you say? You'll give me fifteen pounds? No, 30 Caudle, no; not a penny will I take under twenty. If I did, it would seem as if I wanted to waste your money; and I'm sure, when I come to think of it twenty pounds will hardly do! (THOMAS HOOD was born in London in 1798, and died in 1845. He was destined for commercial pursuits, and at an early age was placed in a countinghouse in his native city. Being of a delicate constitution, his health began to fail; and at the age of fifteen he was sent to Dundee, in Scotland, to reside with some relatives. Here he lived for two years; reading much in a desultory way, and gaining strength by rambling, fishing, and boating. Upon his return to London, he devoted himself for some time to the art of engraving, and thus acquired that knowledge of drawing which he afterwards turned to good account in the humorous pictorial illustrations with which many of his works were accompanied. But his tastes were strongly literary; and at the age of twenty-three he embraced the profession of letters, and began to earn his bread by his pen. His life was one of severe toil, and, from his delicate health and sensitive temperament, of much suffering, always sustained, however, with manly resolution and a cheerful spirit. He wrote much both in prose and verse. His works consist, for the most part, of collected contributions to magazines and periodicals. His novel of "Tylney Hail" was not very successful. His "Whims and Oddities," of which three volumes were published, and his "Hood's Own," are the most popular of his writings. "Up the Rhine" is the narrative of an imaginary tour in Germany by a family party. "Whimsicalities" is a collection of his contributions to the "New Monthly Magazine," of which he was at one time the editor. At the time of his death he was conducting a periodical called "Hood's Magazine," in which some of his best pieces appeared. Hood was a man of peculiar and original genius, which manifested itself with equal power and ease in humor and pathos. He was a very accurate observer of life and manners. His wit is revealed by a boundless profusion of the quaintest, oddest, and most unexpected combinations; and his humor is marked alike by richness and delicacy. As a punster, he stands without a rival. No one else has given so much expression and character to this inferior form of wit. His serious productions are mostly in the form of verse, and are remarkable for sweetness and tenderness of feeling, exquisite fancy, and finely chosen language. A few of them, such as "The Dream of Eugene Aram," ," "The Song of the Shirt," "The Bridge of Sighs," have great power and pathos. In many of his poems the sportive and serious elements are most happily blended. "A Retrospective Review" is a case in point.] Under the sun! Home she had none ! 8 Sisterly, brotherly, Even God's providence 9 When the lamps quiver So far in the river, With many a light From window and casement, From garret to basement, 10 The bleak wind of March Made her tremble and shiver; But not the dark arch, 11 Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care; |