Mr. Gish Makes a Present.
In the season for making presents my friend
Stockdoddle Gish, Esq., thought he would so far
waive his superiority to the insignificant portion of
manking outside his own waistcoat as to follow one
of its customs. Mr. Gish has a friend—a delicate
female of the shrinking sort—whom he favours with
his esteem as a sort of equivalent for the respect she
accords him when he browbeats her. Our hero
numbers among the blessings which his merit has
extorted from niggardly Nature a gaunt meat-hound,
between whose head and body there exists
about the same proportion as between those of a
catfish, which he also resembles in the matter of
mouth. As to sides, this precious pup is not
dissimilar to a crockery crate loosely covered with
a wet sheet. In appetite he is liberal and cosmopolitan,
loving a dried sheepskin as well in proportion
to its weight as a kettle of soap. The
village which Mr. Gish honours by his residence
has for some years been kept upon the dizzy verge
of financial ruin by the maintenance of this animal.
The reader will have already surmised that it was
this beast which our hero selected to testify his
toleration of his lady friend. There never was a
greater mistake. Mr. Gish merely presented her
a sheaf of assorted angle-worms, neatly bound
with a pink ribbon tied into a simple knot. The
dog is an heirloom and will descend to the Gishes
of the next generation, in the direct line of
inheritance.
