fortune and comfort, that should be like brothers, Though fought for and bled for where fortunes are made, Though sought for and failed of by ten thousand others, Are not worth the fighting and fuss that is made. But fortune for Merdle by Cupid was cast, And bade him look higher than wax and the last, That Merdle his father, with good honest trade, Had used with the stitches his waxed end had made. I knew when old Merdle lived down by the mill, I often went fishing and Jack dug the bait; But Jack Merdle then never thought he should fill With fish and roast meat such a full dinner plate:    Nor I, when my line which I threw for a trout While Jack watched the bob of the light floating cork, Ever thought of the time in a “Merdle turn out”     To ride, or to dine with a pearl handle fork In Jack's splendid mansion, where taste, waste and style, Contend for preemption, as then by the mill, Old Merdle contended with fortune the while, For bread wherewithal Jack's belly to fill.     {Illustration: “I NEVER THOUGHT THEN LITTLE KITTY MALONE, AS HEIR TO OLD CRIPUS WOULD BRING HIM THE CASH."}     I never thought then little Kitty Malone As heir to old Gripus would bring him the cash,    'Pon which as a banker Jack Merdle has shone, And Kitty in fashion has cut such a dash; Nor when as a girl not a shoe to her feet, She accepted my offers of coppers or candy, She would tell me in satin “we've nothing to eat,”     While eating from silver or sipping her brandy, And wond'ring that Merdle, the Jack I have named, Should bring home a friend—('twas thus she exclaimed—    The day that I've mentioned—a day to remember—    When Merdle and I in his carriage and bays, Through Avenue Five on a day in September, Drove up to a mansion with gas-light ablaze.) 

  

  

       Mrs. Merdle At Home.     

    She Discourseth of Nothing to Eat and the Cost thereof. Why Merdle—why did you bring Dinewell to-day? So very, though welcome, so quite unexpected! For dinner, if any, I'm sure I can't say, Our servants with washing are all so infected. If any's provided, 't is nothing but scraps Of pot-luck or pick up of some common fare; Or something left over from last week perhaps, Which you've brought a friend, and an old one, to share. I never, I'm sure now, so much was ashamed, To think he'll discover—what's true to the letter—    We've nothing, or next to't that's fit to be named, For one who is used every day to what's better. But what can you expect if you come on a Monday?  

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