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De Quincey (Murder, as one of the Fine Arts).

For when the mellow autumn flushed

The thickets, where the chestnut fell,

And in the vales the maple blushed,

Another came who knew her well,

Who sat with her below the pine

And with her through the meadow moved,

And underneath the purpling vine

She sang to him the song I loved.

N. G. Shepherd.

Mrs. Crupp had indignantly assured him that there wasn’t room to swing a cat there; but, as Mr. Dick justly observed to me, sitting down on the foot of the bed, nursing his leg, “You know, Trotwood, I don’t want to swing a cat. I never do swing a cat. Therefore, what does that signify to me!”

Dickens (David Copperfield).

(After looking at his watch) “Two days wrong!” sighed the Hatter. “I told you butter would not suit the works!” he added, looking angrily at the March Hare.

“It was the best butter,” the March Hare replied.

Lewis Carroll (Alice in Wonderland).

“They were learning to draw,” the Dormouse went on, “and they drew all manner of things—everything that begins with an M—”