Mrs Jogglebury Crowdey then prepared to pour her husband out another cup of tea, and the musical snuff-box, being now left to itself, went off of its own accord with --

‘Diddle, diddle, doubt,
My candle’s out,
My ’ittle dame’s not at ’ome --
So saddle my hog, and bridle my dog,
And bring my ’ittle dame ’ome.’

A poem that in the original programme was intended to come in after ‘Obin and Ichard,’ which was to be the chef-d’0156uvre.

Mrs Jog was delighted, and found herself pouring the tea into the sugar-basin instead of into Jog’s cup.

Mr Sponge, too, applauded. ‘Well, that was very clever,’ said he, filling his mouth with cold ham. ‘ ‘‘Saddle my dog, and bridle my hog’’ -- I’ll trouble you for another cup of tea,’ addressing Mrs Crowdey.

‘No, not ‘‘saddle my dog,’’ sil--l--e--y man!’ drawled the child, making a pet lip; ‘ ‘‘saddle my hog.’’ ’

‘Oh! ‘‘saddle my hog,’’ was it?’ replied Mr Sponge, with apparent surprise; ‘I thought it was ‘‘saddle my dog.’’ I’ll trouble you for the sugar, Mrs Jogglebury; ‘adding, ‘you have devilish good cream here; how many cows have you?’

‘Cows (puff), cows (wheeze)?’ replied Jogglebury; ‘how many cows?’ repeated he.

‘Oh, two,’ replied Mrs Jogglebury, tartly, vexed at the interruption.

‘Pardon me (puff),’ replied Jogglebury, slowly and solemnly, with a full blow into his frill; ‘pardon me, Mrs (puff) Jogglebury (wheeze) Crowdey, but there are three (wheeze).’

‘Not in milk, Jog -- not in milk,’ retorted Mrs Crowdey.

‘Three cows, Mrs (puff) Jogglebury (wheeze) Crowdey, notwithstanding,’ rejoined our host.

‘Well; but when people talk of cream, and ask how many cows you have, they mean in milk, Mister Jogglebury Crowdey.’

‘Not necessarily, Mistress Jogglebury Crowdey,’ replied the pertinacious Jog, with another heavy snort.

‘Ah, now you’re coming your fine poor-law guardian knowledge,’ rejoined his wife. Jog was chairman of the Stir-It-Stiff Union.

While this was going on, young hopeful was sitting cocked up in his high-chair, evidently mortified at the want of attention.

Mrs Crowdey saw how things were going, and, turning from the cow question, endeavoured to re-engage him in his recitations.

‘No, my angel!’ exclaimed she, again showing him the sugar; ‘tell us about ‘‘Obin and Ichard.’’ ’

‘No -- not ‘‘Obin and Ichard,’’ ’ pouted the child.

‘O yes, my sweet, do, that’s a good child; the gentleman in the pretty coat, who gives baby the nice things, wants to hear it.’

‘Come, out with it, young man!’ exclaimed Mr Sponge, now putting a large piece of cold beef into his mouth.

‘Not a ’ung man,’ muttered the child, bursting out a-crying, and extending his little fat arms to his mamma.