Anonymous.

THE FRENCHMAN AND THE FLEA-POWDER.

A FAVORITE COMIC RECITATION.

A Frenchman once—so runs a certain ditty—
Had crossed the Straits to famous London city
To get a living by the arts of France,
And teach his neighbor, rough John Bull, to dance.
But, lacking pupils, vain was all his skill:
His fortunes sank from low to lower still.
Until at last,—pathetic to relate,—
Poor monsieur landed at starvation's gate.
Standing one day beside a cook-shop door,
And gazing in, with aggravation sore,
He mused within himself what he should do
To fill his empty maw, and pocket too.
By nature shrewd, he soon contrived a plan,
And thus to execute it straight began.
A piece of common brick he quickly found,
And with a harder stone to powder ground;
Then wrapped the dust in many a dainty piece
Of paper, labelled "Poison for de Fleas,"
And sallied forth, his roguish trick to try,
To show his treasures, and to see who'd buy.
From street to street he cried with lusty yell,
"Here's grand and sovereign flea-poudare to sell!"
And fickle Fortune seemed to smile at last,
For soon a woman hailed him as he passed;
Struck a quick bargain with him for the lot,
And made him five crowns richer on the spot.
Our wight, encouraged by this ready sale,
Went into business on a larger scale;
And soon, throughout all London, scattered he
The "only genuine poudare for de flea."
Engaged one morning in his new vocation
Of mingled boasting and dissimulation,
He thought he heard himself in anger called;
And, sure enough, the self-same woman bawled—
In not a mild or very tender mood—
From the same window where before she stood.
"Hey, there," said she, "you Monsher Powder-man!
Escape my clutches now, sir, if you can.
I'll let you dirty, thieving Frenchmen know
That decent people won't be cheated so."
Then spoke monsieur, and heaved a saintly sigh,
With humble attitude and tearful eye:
"Ah, madame! s'il vous plait, attendez vous,
I vill dis leetle ting explain to you.
My poudare gran'! magnifique! why abuse him?
Aha! I show you how to use him,
First, you must wait until you catch de flea;
Den tickle he on de petite rib, you see;
And when he laugh—aha! he ope his throat;
Den poke de poudare down!—Begar! he choke."

THE FRENCHMAN AND THE SHEEP'S TROTTERS.

A CELEBRATED COMIC RECITATION.

A monsieur from the Gallic shore,
Who, though not over-rich, wished to appear so,
Came over in a ship with friends a score—
Poor emigrants, whose wealth, good lack!
Dwelt only on their ragged backs—
Who thought him rich: they'd heard him oft declare so,
For he was proud as Satan's self,
And often bragged about his pelf;
And as a proof—the least
That he could give—he promised when on land,
At the first inn, in style so grand,
To give a feast!
The Frenchmen jumped at such an offer.
Monsieur did not forget his proffer;
But at the first hotel on shore,
They stopped to lodge and board.
The Frenchman ordered in his way
A dinner to be done that day;
But here occurred a grievous bore:—
Monsieur of English knew but little.
Tapps of French knew not a tittle.
In ordering dinner, therefore, 'tis no wonder
That they should make a blunder.
Whether the landlord knew, or no,
The sequel of my tale will show.
He blundered, and it cannot be denied,
To some small disadvantage on his side.
The order seemed immense to Boniface:
But more the expense, to him the greater fun;
For all that from the order he could trace,
Was,—"Messieur Bull, you lettee me have, I say,
Vich for vid cash, I sal you pay,
Fifteen of those vid vich the sheep do run!"
From which old Tapps could only understand
(But whether right or wrong, cared not a button),
That what monsieur desired, with air so grand,
Was fifteen legs of mutton!
"A dinner most enormous!" cried the elf.
"Zounds! each must eat a leg, near, to himself!"
However, they seemed a set of hungry curs;
And so, without more bother or demurs,
Tapps to his cook his orders soon expressed,
And fifteen legs of mutton quick were dressed.
And now around the table all elate,
The Frenchman's friends the dinner doth await.
Joy sparkled in each hungry urchin's eyes,
When they beheld, with glad surprise,
Tapps quick appear with leg of mutton hot,
Smoking, and just ejected from the pot!
Laughed, stared, and chuckled more and more,
When two they saw, then three, then four!
And then a fifth their eager glances blessed,
And then a sixth, larger than all the rest!
But soon the Frenchman's countenance did change,
To see the legs of mutton on the table.
Surprise and rage by turns
In his face burns,
While Tapps the table did arrange
As nice as he was able.
And while the Frenchmen for the feast prepared,
Thus, in a voice that quite the landlord scared,
Our hero said,—
"Mon Dieu, monsieur! vy for you make
Dis vera great blundare and mistake?
Vy for you bring to me dese mouton legs?"
Tapps with a bow his pardon begs:—
"I've done as you have ordered, sir," said he.
"Did you not order fifteen legs of me?
Six of which before your eyes appear,
And nine besides are nearly done down-stair!
Here, John!"—"Go, hang you, Jean! you fool! you ass!
You one great clown to bring me to dis pass:
Take vay dis meat, for vich I sall no pay.
I did no order dat."—"What's that you say?"
Tapps answered with a frown and with a stare,
"You ordered fifteen legs of me, I'll swear,
Or fifteen things with which the sheep do run,
Which means the same:—I'm not so easy done."
"Parbleu, monsieur! vy you no comprehend?
You may take back de legs unto de pot:
I telle you, sare, 'tis not de legs I vant,
But dese here leetel tings vid vich de sheep do trot!"
"Why, hang it!" cried the landlord in a rage,
Which monsieur vainly tried to assuage,
"Hang it!" said he, as to the door he totters:
"Now, after all the trouble that I took,
These legs of mutton both to buy and cook,
It seems instead of fifteen legs,
You merely wanted fifteen poor sheep's trotters!"