CHAPTER I.
With a pipe between his lips,
Two young dogs upon his hips,
Jogs along old Caspar Sly;
How that man can smoke,—oh, my!
But although the pipe-bowl glows
Red and hot beneath his nose;
Yet his heart is icy-cold;
How can earth such wretches hold!
"Of what earthly use to me
Can such brutes," he mutters, "be?
Do they earn their vittles? No!
'Tis high time I let 'em go.
What you don't want, fling away!
Them's my sentiments, I say!"
O'er the pond he silent bends,
For to drown them he intends.
With their legs the quadrupeds
Kick and squirm,—can't move their heads
And the inner voice speaks out:
How 't will end we gravely doubt.
Hubs!—an airy curve one makes;
Plish!—a headlong dive he takes.
