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 tened as if to a nightingale; but all at once he changed both time and tune and song, and began to bawl out such scurvy rhymes that his companion at the foot of the tree called out to him, in great wrath, to descend and restore his guitar, which was never intended for such a blockhead’s hands. But the fellow in the tree became more outrageous than ever, and began to make such provoking songs about the poor scholar and his sweatheart, that my gentleman unable any longer to contain himself, drew his sword, and leaped a yard high in the air, calling on the scoundrel musician to come down and defend his life. Thereupon an ugly visage grinned down upon him from the tree, and at the same moment the guitar fell at his feet with a crash as if it had been shivered into a thousand pieces. The poor scholar swooned away when he beheld the hideous visage above him; but when he recovered and found his guitar lying unhurt at his side, he concluded that he had met with Number Nip himself; and from that hour he has never set foot again on the Giant Mountains.”

“Faith, I can well believe that!” exclaimed one of the group, highly delighted with the story of the unlucky minstrel.—“And I think that fellow would sing as little as possible all his lifetime afterwards!” remarked another.—“Nay, for that very reason,” began a third, “I half suspect we have got the unfortunate minstrel in proper person behind the stove there!”

“Do you really think so?” said the student, looking very thoughtful and pensive. “But I am still owing you the moral, my good friends. Give attention, it runs somewhat thus:

“Let the youth to whom belong The envied arts of verse and song, Shunning jest and idle word Use his gifts to praise the Lord. But should he in some evil hour Pervert the heaven-descended power—