She took a bite, and John a chew; And then the trouble began to brew,— Trouble the doctor couldn’t subdue. Too true!
Under the turf where the daisies grew, They planted John and his sister Sue, And their little souls to the angels flew. Boo-hoo!
But what of the peach of emerald hue, Warmed by the sun and wet by the dew? Ah, well, its mission on earth is through. Adieu!
MR. PICKWICK’S ROMANTIC ADVENTURE WITH A
MIDDLE-AGED LADY IN YELLOW CURL-PAPERS.
“Dear me, it’s time to go to bed. It will never do, sitting here. I shall be pale to-morrow, Mr. Pickwick!”
At the bare notion of such a calamity, Mr. Peter Magnus rang the bell for the chambermaid; and the striped bag, the red bag, the leather hat-box, and the brown-paper parcel, having been conveyed to his bedroom, he retired in company with a japanned candlestick to one side of the house, while Mr. Pickwick, and another japanned candlestick, were conducted through a multitude of tortuous windings to another.
“This is your room, sir,” said the chambermaid.
“Very well,” replied Mr. Pickwick, looking round him. It was a tolerably large double-bedded room, with a fire; upon the whole, a more comfortable-looking apartment than Mr. Pickwick’s short experience of the accommodations of the Great White Horse had led him to expect.
“Nobody sleeps in the other bed, of course,” said Mr. Pickwick.