A TALE OF PERNAMBUCO.

BY ALBERT ADOLPHE JOHN PERCIVAL HUGHES.

O LISTEN to a tale I got,

Quite fresh from Pernambuco,

A terrible tale of the man who shot,
And the cook who cooked the cuckoo.

You've heard of the tale of the albatross
And the ancient man who slew it,
And how he, to his heavy loss,
Most bitterly did rue it.

But to be compared it is certainly not
With the tale from Pernambuco,
Of that most diabolical man who shot,
And the cook who cooked the cuckoo.

Most good and lovely 'twas to sec

This very bad man's garden,

When the cuckoo came and sat on a tree
Without ever asking pardon.

He cocked his tail and ducked his head,
As innocent as a baby;

And cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo said

As lustily as may be.

Regardless of its innocence,

Which was as any child,
The man most promptly took offence
And became exceeding riled.

He used a very naughty word,
And said, "Now stop that riot;
You hold your tongue, you nasty bird,
Or my gun shall make you quiet."

But the bird he did not understand,
But went on crying cuckoo,
Until no more at last could stand
That man of Pernambuco.

Says he, "The case is very clear
I never saw your equal
For brazen impudency sheer.

A PIE must be the sequel."

But conscience said, "Don't be morose, Nor impudency phrase it,

It's the only word the poor bird knows, And so, of course, he says it.

"And as for hearing what you shout,
Of course he hears a something,
But how is he to make it out
When he is only a dumb thing.

"He's sorter kinder deaf and dumb,
Although he isn't neither,

He never stole a scrap or crumb,
So you might let him be there."

He told his scruples to his cook,
But she said, "O, my master,
If you don't bring that bird to book
"Twill be a sad disaster.

"Now, as for crying out that word,
Why that I sees no harm in;
But the cuckoo's an immoral bird,
And fosters baby farming."

"If that's the case, the thing is done," Cried the man of Pernambuco ;

And he went and got his horrid gun
And shot that harmless cuckoo.

He shot the head off into the air,
And, much to his surprise,
It went on crying cuckoo there
Between him and the skies.

In a fearful rage he climbed a tree,
And caught it like a fly,

And brought it to the cook with glee,
Who put it in a pie.

MALEA; A STORY OF THE CAROLINE ISLANDS.

BY THOMAS TREENAIL, Master Mariner.

A FEW years after the discovery of gold in Australia, I was in Sydney harbour in command of the Lord Clive. We had come out from England with cargo for a house in Sydney, and were bound to China, by the eastern passage. The gold mania was so strong amongst every class of the population that the city was half deserted. Many ships. lay in Port Jackson with not a soul on board; the crews had deserted and gone off to the diggings, and the captains and officers had followed. I had taken precautions to prevent the desertion of my crew, never allowing any of them to go on shore, and the officers and myself keeping watch at night to prevent boats coming alongside; but all our precautions were in vain, for one morning when the mate went to turn the hands out they had disappeared in some mysterious way. No boats had been alongside during the night; our own boats were safe at the davits, and yet there was not a man on board, except the officers and the black cook. When I came on deck, the mate, Tom Brown, stood scratching his head in amazement, and the cook was grinning from ear to ear, both of them fairly bewildered. We soon found that the men had, during the night, paddled themselves on shore on the hatch gratings, every grating and small spar was missing. The ship lay fully half a mile from the shore, and the passage between, over the troubled waters of the harbour, must have been a dangerous one; but what will not sailors do when they have made up their minds to leave a ship? Be that as it may, there was I, Thomas Treenail, with a fine ship under my foot, but without a crew to man her, and with no prospect of procuring one. Even labourers could not be had; broken-down clerks and shopmen getting as much as £3 per day for discharging cargoes. I once thought of going off to the diggings, as other shipmasters had done, and leaving the ship to her fate; but this thought was only momentary, for how could I look my owners in the face again after deserting the property committed to my charge? Although there was not the slightest chance of catching the deserters, I went on shore and reported the matter to the police magistrate; that official gave me no comfort; he informed me that the men were probably twenty miles away, lying hid in the dense gum-tree forests that extend for many miles over that part of New South Wales; and that finding them was as hopeless a task as looking for a needle in a haystack. While we were talking, one of the water police came up, and reported that the hatch gratings had been found on the shore of a little creek on the north side of the harbour; also a letter, written upon a

piece of greasy paper, and addressed to me. Here is a copy of the precious document :—

"Captain Treenail,

“Sir,—As you always treated us well on board of your old hooker, we are sorry to leave you without bidding you good bye. You needn't mind sending our chests up to the diggins, but we wouldn't mind having the black cook sent up if you can spare him. Good bye, old man, from "Your servant to command,

"JACK WIGGINS,

"For the crew of the Lord Clive.”

The cool impudence of this epistle provoked me, but what could I do ; the men were now beyond my reach, and it was foolish to waste time over them; I therefore left the magistrate's office, and strolled round Circular Quay with an intention to go on board again. Near the end of George Street I was accosted by an ill-looking fellow, dressed in a red shirt and trousers, and a Panama hat on his head, with a long sheath knife at his belt. He looked half sailor, half landsman, and spoke with a nasal twang like a Yankee, but some of his words were unmistakeably Irish.

"Well, Captain, and so you have lost your crew. What will you give me if I find you another one?" I was in no mood for joking, and turned away from him with a gruff reply. He still, however, dogged my steps, and as I was about to step into my boat he drew me aside and said, "Now, Captain, I make you an offer, and if you are fool enough to reject it I can't help it. I will put a dozen stout fellows on board your ship to-night, and take her to sea outside the Heads for £200, the money to be paid as soon as the men are on board." I considered his proposal for a few minutes, and then accepted it, not without a feeling that the fellow was trying to hoax me. The sum was large, but nothing to be compared with the loss my owners would sustain by the detention of the ship. Before my boat shoved off he handed me a dirty card, upon which was printed :

JONATHAN JACOB,

Shipping and Boarding Master,

72, COCKATOO STREET,

SYDNEY.

As the boat pulled off towards the ship I could not help thinking that I had made a nice acquaintance. The man was evidently a crimp, half Yankee, half Irish, and probably whole rogue. I had a good mind to have nothing more to do with him. When I reached the ship I held a