style="font-size:15px;"> “Then here goes, sir, to drown Tom’s impudence:—
“Glide on my bark, the morning tide
Is gently floating by thy side;
Around thy prow the waters bright,
In circling rounds of broken light,
Are glittering, as if ocean gave
Her countless gems unto the wave.
“That’s a pretty air, and I first heard it sung by a pretty woman; but that’s all I know of the song. She sang another—
“I’d be a butterfly, born in a bower.”
“You’d be a butterfly!” said the Dominie, taking old Tom literally, and looking at his person.
Young Tom roared, “Yes, sir, he’d be a butterfly, and I don’t see why he shouldn’t very soon. His legs are gone, and his wings aren’t come: so he’s a grub now, and that, you know, is the next thing to it. What a funny old beggar it is, father—aren’t it?”
“Tom, Tom, go forward, sir; we must shoot the bridge.”
“Shoot!” exclaimed the Dominie; “shoot what?”
“You aren’t afraid of fire-arms, are ye, sir?” inquired Tom.
“Nay, I said not that I was afraid of fire-arms; but why should you shoot?”
“We never could get on without it, sir; we shall have plenty of shooting, by-and-by. You don’t know this river.”
“Indeed, I thought not of such doings; or that there were other dangers besides that of the deep waters.”
“Go forward, Tom, and don’t be playing with your betters,” cried old Tom. “Never mind him, sir, he’s only humbugging you.”
“Explain, Jacob. The language of both old Tom and young Tom are to me as incomprehensible as would be that of the dog Tommy.”
“Or as your Latin is to them, sir.”
“True, Jacob, true. I have no right to complain; nay, I do not complain, for I am amused, although at times much puzzled.”
We now shot Putney Bridge, and as a wherry passed us, old Tom carolled out—
“Did you ever hear tell of a jolly young waterman?”
“No, I never did,” said the Dominie, observing old Tom’s eyes directed towards him. Tom, amused by this naïveté on the part of the Dominie, touched him by the sleeve, on the other side, and commenced with his treble—
“Did you ne’er hear a tale
Of a maid in the vale?”
“Not that I can recollect, my child,” replied the Dominie.
“Then, where have you been all your life?”
“My life has been employed, my lad, in teaching the young idea how to shoot.”
“So, you’re an old soldier, after all, and afraid of fire-arms. Why don’t you hold yourself up? I suppose it’s that enormous jib of yours that brings you down by the head.”
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