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“ Walk in, walk in, mother,” said he,
And shut the door behind
That he was wondrous kind.
But ere the midnight clock had tolled,
Like a tiger of the wood,
And drunk of her heart's blood!
A little season's space,
Was riding from the chase.
The sport was dull, the day was hot,
The sun was sinking down,
Into the dusty town.
At the first house I come to;"
Came suddenly in view.
Loud was the knock the Baron gave
Down came the churl  with glee,
I ask your courtesy ;
 Fell—fatal, murderous.
 With thate an old phrase meaning -just at that moment.
 Churl-an ill-mannered, miserly person.
I am wearied with a long day's chase
My friends are far behind.” “You may need them all,” said Web-Spinner,
“ It runneth in my mind.” “ A Baron am I,” said Bluebottle ;
“ From a foreign land I come;". “I thought as much,” said Web-Spinner,
“ Fools never stay at home!” Says the baron, “ Churl, what meaneth this?
I defy you, villain base !”
He was safely from the place.
And a loud laugh laughed he,
And they wrestled furiously.
A swordsman of renown;
And kept the Baron down.
From a pocket at his side,
His hands and feet he tied ;
And said, in savage jest,
So, Baron, take your rest!”
Arranging dish and platter,
As if nothing were the matter.
At length he seized on Bluebottle,
That strong and burly man,
To hoist him up began.
He went with heavy tread;
Poor Bluebottle was dead !
Who lived in a house hard by, 
Through a window privily:
With a loud and thundering sound,
And level it with the ground;
Had looked for such a day,
And took himself away.
'Twas said that, under ground, He died a miserable death,
But his body ne'er was found. They pulled his house down, stick and stone,
“For a caitiff  vile as he,” Said they, “ within our quiet town Shall not a dweller be!”
Mary Howitt.  Hard by close, near at hand,  Caitiff-villain, base fellow.
11.—THE SPIDER. The treach'rous Spider, when her nets are spread, Deep ambush'd  in her silent den does lie, And feels, far off, the trembling of her thread, Whose filňy cord should bind the struggling Fly; Then, if at last she find him fast beset, She issues forth, and runs along her loom,  Eager to seize the captive in her net, And drag the little wretch in triumph home..
Dryden. 12.—THE CONTENTED BLIND BOY. Oh! say, what is that thing call'd light,
Which I must ne'er enjoy ?
Oh! tell a poor Blind Boy!
You say the sun shines bright:
Or make it day or night?
Whene'er I sleep or play ;
With me 'twere always day.
You mourn my hapless woe;
A loss I ne'er can know.  Ambushid-concealed, with a view to surprise an enemy.
 Loom—a weaver's frame-here, the frame of the spider's web.