song; he, in his turn, would call for another of
the sexton's stories, or for a rude play, called
The Dentist, and acted by some of the company,
who represented the doctor, his horse, the
patient, and the nurse. The patient's teeth
(broken pieces of tobacco-pipe inserted in the
mouth) were drawn with the fire-tongs, and the
fainting sufferer was revived by an energetic
use of the bellows.

"How I went to the Coronation," and King
Cole, were favourite songs, scarcely less so
Wellington and Blucher. Again the mason's
really beautiful mellow voice would be put in
requisition for his great song of The Blackbird;
and after that the blacksmith would give us, "I
will hang my Harp on a Willow Tree," &c.

But the evening being now far advanced, the
time had arrived for Mr. Carriss's popular ditty,
Poor Little Mo. While singing it, Mr. Carriss
paraded the room with a basket of wares on his
arm, and interrupted his song from time to time
to make impromptu offers of cottons and hooks
to the ladies present, and of knives and boot-
laces to the men, taking up the thread of his
song again very cleverly after concluding a
bargain or receiving a rebuff. A ventriloquist
might have envied the pretended Jew pedlar
his power of changing his voice as he alternately
attempted by well-turned compliments to insinuate
himself into the good graces of the ladies,
and to cajole the men into becoming
purchasers, now and then assuming the tone of
an injured man, and soliloquising on the
stinginess of his audience before resuming the
ballad.

                     POOR LITTLE MO.

My name it is Mo Samuel, a poor little Jew;
From the Minories I come wi' dis 'ere ting in
    view,
To get all vat I can, and my customers try,
If I runs half a mile, never mind, so they buy.

  ("Vell 'ere dey are all, a ha'penny apiece.
Vell, tree a penny — take four, five." "Give
me six." "Give you six? Vat, do you tink I
stole 'em? Vell, take them wid you.")

                        Dey say no,
                        Off dey go;
                        Den I runs,
                        Wid my buns,
        Wid my sweetmeats and heart-cakes,
        Through the mud, till my feet aches,
Den all de way back I am forced for to go,
An' dey won't spend a farden with poor little Mo.
                                                          Poor little Mo.
An' dey won't spend a farden with poor little Mo.

Dey calls me a deep an' a knowing one too;
All de harm dey can say is to call me a Jew.
Dey are right — and vat den? I am sorry, I says,
I can't call ye Christians, so go your ways.

  ("But stop, will ye buy a good razor? I'll
send ye von cheap." "I suppose you stole
it?" "Stole it! Dat cuts me to de very
heart." "You're a fine blade, but, if you don't
mind, you'll get roughly handled.")

                        Den dey looks
                        In my box,
                        An' I cry
                        Will you buy?
        Wid my slippers and my sticks,
        Dey do play sich slippery tricks;
Dey tink I've all profit, but little do they know
How ill used and abused all day is poor Mo.
                                                   Poor little Mo.
How ill used and abused all day is poor Mo.

Through the city I tramps wid my goods of ev'rykind,
In my shop round my neck you'll each article find.
By the Bank an' de 'Change, and St. Paul's too, I
      stand,
But I meets my best friends wen I come by the
      Strand.

  ("Ah! dere is all my best customers, dat
always gives me de ready money, and never
abuses me. I forget all my troubles ven I gets
their smiles; an' I says, 'Bless my heart, vat
a bargain you're got! Vy, you've got it merely
for an old song.' ")

                       Den dere smiles
                       Pay my toils.
                       Wi' vat glee
                       Do I see
       All my customers' faces,
       An' all their good graces!
Den my heart fill'd in gratitude, homeward I go,
An' dere's no one so happy as poor little Mo—
                                                        Poor little Mo.
An' who's den so happy as poor little Mo?

One very pleasing feature of these harvest-
suppers was the confidence felt by our village
friends that, in joining their festivities, we did
so for our own amusement, and not merely to
see them feast. Never was a greater or better
deserved compliment paid to good breeding and
endurance than an involuntary one received by
the mistress on one occasion from a labourer;
who said with the utmost complacency as the
poor smoke-dried lady (who specially detested
the fumes of tobacco!) left the room, "How
the mistress have enjoyed herself, toe be sure!"
And so she really had, and so we all did, in
spite of the smoky atmosphere. Our only regret
was, that space did not admit of the presence of
the wives and daughters of the guests. These
festivals may not have been of an educational or
South Kensingtonian character, but at least
they ever served the purposes of innocent
amusement, and of drawing together employers
and employed. Nor were serious thoughts and
allusions altogether out of place or impossible
on these occasions. Though drollery and enjoyment
were the rule, still in the later part of the
evening the speakers would often make reference
to the Giver and Preserver of the kindly
fruits of the earth; and the tact and fluency of the
good squire enabled him, without the slightest
strain, to direct the thoughts of his workmen,
to the Great Master, whose labourers we all are,
and whose harvest is the end of the world.