AT HER OLD TRICKS AGAIN.

Lady Snobbington (née Shoddy). "OH, BY THE WAY, MR. LOWE, DO YOU EVER DINE OUT WITHOUT YOUR WIFE? I'VE A NICE LITTLE BOHEMIAN DINNERPARTY ON SUNDAY-NICE CLEVER PEOPLE YOU WILL LIKE. COME AND Dine, and BRING YOUR BANJO, IF MRS. LÖWE WILL SPARE YOU, JUST FOR ONCE!"

Mr. Löwe (the Eminent Banjoist). "ACH! YOU ARE FERRY GOOT, LADY SCHNOPPINGTON ! IF IT IS FERRY POHEMIAN INTEET, AND DE LATIES ARE COING TO SCHMOKE, AND DE CHENDLEMEN ARE COING TO TINE IN DEir SchirtSCHLEEFS, I TO NOT MIND PRINGING MY PANCHO, AND LEAFING MY Vife at HOME, CHOOST FOR VUNCE !"

SOMETHING LIKE A MOTHER-IN-LAW.

IN a case in the Probate, Divorce, and Admiralty Division of the High Court of Justice last week, the Mother of the Petitioner for the dissolution of her marriage complained to the examining Counsel that he had not sufficiently established the Respondent's cruelty to her daughter. "Is that all you have to ask me?" she is reported to have exclaimed; "why, I have not said half enough!" Considering that the Barrister in question had already elicited that the Husband had frequently struck his Wife, tried to whip her like a child before the servants, boxed her ears, and "many times" made her arms black-and-blue with his violence, the Lady must indeed have been anxious to prove the case "up to the hilt." If every Wife had so vigilant a Mother, the President of the Court, and his well-meaning and sometimes quite facetious colleague, Mr. Justice BUTT, would have less work to do in that branch of their Division labelled "Divorce."

Retort by a Tory.

Who has heard Lord R. Churchill called a political Will-o'-the- Wisp.

LORD RANDOLPH a Will-o'-the-Wisp? Not at all!

But as he has worried old WEG to his fall,

As tribute at once to his pluck and his skill,

There is fitness in calling Lord R. Whip-poor-Will!

IMPORTANT PHILOLOGICAL DISCOVERY.-That ghosts, when they do talk, always speak in the dead languages.

A BALLAD OF BURDENS.

Some way after Swinburne.

THE burden of Old Women. They delight
In bulky bundles, always in the way;
In 'busses close they wedge you tight at night,
In railway trains they jam you up by day.

Plump dames with pulpy cheeks and locks of grey, In weariness they waddle, puff, perspire.

To banish them for ever one would say,

This must be every busy man's desire.

The burden of Young Misses. 'Tis a bore,
A burden one would gladly from him fling.
Between eleven and fifteen, no more;

Thereafter girlhood is a charming thing.
But giggling chits set manhood shuddering,
And ogling eyes of school girls tease and tire.
To stay their smirks and stop their sniggering,
This must be every wholesome man's desire.

The burden of Long Speeches. Nay, sit down,
Cover thine ears and weep, or verily
These platform pumps that deluge all the town
In these last days will be the death of thee.
In these last days, reviling volubly,

They pelt their foes with verbal mud and mire.
To send the babbling bores to Coventry,
This must be every silent man's desire.

The burden of Rich Living. Thou shalt fear
Waking, and sleeping toss upon thy bed;
And say at night, "No sleep for me, I fear.'
And say at dawn, "Oh thunder, what a head!"
With luscious viands thou shalt be o'erfed,
And wear remorse with indigestion dire.

To simplify the menus wise men dread,
This must be every healthy man's desire.
The burden of Sad Colours. Thou shalt see
Gold tarnished, ghostly grey, and livid green,
And lank and languorous thy face must be

To harmonise with the lugubrious scene.
And thou shalt say of scarlet, "It hath been,"
And sighing of old tints and tones shalt tire.
To bring back brightness and to banish spleen,
This must be every cheerful man's desire.
The burden of Smart Sayings. In this day
All wish as cynic wits to bear the bell.
Men mock at honour, justice, love, and say

The end of life "good stories" is to tell.
The cad's coarse jest, the cackle of the swell
Are much alike, things that the most admire.
To patter slang and tell side-splitters well,
This is the end of every fool's desire.

The burden of Bad Seasons. Rain in Spring,
Chill rain and wind among the budding trees,

A Summer of grey storm-clouds gathering,
Damp Autumn one dull mist of miseries,
With showers that soak, and blasts that bite and
freeze;

A drenching Winter with north-easters dire.
To make an end of seasons such as these,
This must be every suffering man's desire.

The burden of Strange Crazes. Woman's right
To throng the polls, and join the spouting bands;
Theosophy and astral bodies, sleight

Of cunning jugglers from far foreign lands;
Buddhistic bosh which no one understands,
A thousand fads that 'gainst good sense conspire.
To gag the crotcheteers and tie their hands,
This must be every sober man's desire.

L'ENVOY.

Donkeys, and ye whom frenzy quickeneth,

Heed well this rhyme. Life's many burdens tire. To lighten them a little, ere our death, This must be every kindly man's desire.

MOTTO FOR THE NEW CHANCELLOR OF THE DOCHY OF LANCASTER.-" Other times other Manners."

Again the Procession marched on. "What!" exclaimed the Sage, "WHISTLER!" "Yes," returned that eminent Artist, with a particularly musical laugh, "I am actually President of the Society of British Artists! Do you hear,-British! Isn't it a joke?" and the particularly musical laugh was repeated.

Then came Sir JOHN EVERETT MILLAIS, smoking. "You look to greater advantage than your pictures at the Holloway Pillories," said Mr. Punch.

Why, I thought they were capitally hung," replied the matured pre-Raphaelite. "They tell me that the 'Princes in the Tower,' the 'Princess Elizabeth,' and the rest, are placed on a wall facing the Railway Station' of FRITH."

"Facing FRITH! Then you would suggest that they considered you his opposite ?"

"I never said a disagreeable thing of a man in my life," puffed out Sir JOHN, as with a smile he marched on.

Then there was a perfect crowd-HERKOMER, and TISSOT, and a female livid in tone hiding behind a picture by JAN VAN BEERS. When Mr. Punch saw the last, who was staggering about like the galvanised corpse of a Parisienne, he shuddered.

66

A ghastly sight! Were all like yonder phantom I should call this Procession ". And then Mr. Punch paused.

"A classical triumph!" suggested the P.R.A.

"An arrangement in coats and trousers," put in J. McN. WHISTLER.

66 'No," returned Mr. Punch-"I should call it the Funeral of Art."

THE NEW RA(1) KES PROGRESS.-To the office of Postmaster-General. TO CORRESPONDENTS.-In no case can Contributions, whether by a Stamped and Directed Envelope or Cover.

A BOARD-SCHOOL JOURNAL. "Compulsory Calisthenics may, sooner or later, become part of the instruction which the State will impart to every citizen at the expense of the community."-Daily Paper.

Morning-Up at six, studying that difficult problem in Trigonometry which floored me yesterday, and which the Head Teacher said would have to be mastered before I could even hope to get that Entrance Scholarship at Trinity College, Cambridge. Rather interrupted by father (who is a bricklayer) calling me down-stairs to help mother light kitchen-fire and get his breakfast-also in efforts to prevent father trampling on mother with his hobnails because the fire would not light fast enough. Yesterday's Calisthenic practice came in useful. Enabled me to vault skilfully out of the way when father (in a moment of irritation) tried to smash me with the kitchenfender. Father, I am sorry to say, is not a friend to education, and sees no good in Trigonometry.

At School.-First hour taken up with violent trapèze exercise. Feel rather empty and tired after it, having had no breakfast to speak of. Next hour devoted to viva voce work with the Italian Professor. Then another hour in the yard with the dumb-bells. Teacher surprised to see me nearly faint in the middle. Says nobody could possibly get an Entrance Scholarship at Cambridge from a Board School unless he was a perfect master of the dumb-bells. Believe I should master them better if I had some food. Fear I've no chance of Cambridge, after all.

Dinner.-Thank heaven! Curious how much I look forward to this meal. Must try to remember that I am fourteen years old now, and that I must only care for intellectual pleasures. Feel more cheerful, and really think I may get that Scholarship some day.

Afternoon.-A dreadful hour with the Trigonometry Professor. Wonder why I've that singing in my head! Teacher begs me, with tears in his eyes, to try and master what he calls "this elementary problem." Says the School will lose the Government Grant if I don't. Very sorry, but really don't see how I can prevent it.

Go out into yard in state of despair. Cambridge seems farther off than ever. Find Teacher of Calisthenics waiting for me round a corner. Says he will lose his Government Grant if I can't do my Parallel Bar Exercise quicker. Begs me, for sake of his wife and family, to try and exert myself. Do so, violently. At end of hour feel pains all over me. Fear I've over-exerted myself. But Calisthenic Professor very pleased with me-that's one comfort. Asks me, "just to oblige him," to have a round with the gloves before going in to the class on Hydrostatical Dynamics. Make excuse, and get out of it.

66

Evening. At home. So's father, I'm sorry to say. Tell him I've been doing Hydrostatical Dynamics, and he threatens to 'Dynamic me "with the kitchen poker. Hurry upstairs. Singing in head worse. Violent pains continue. Get out my Trigonometry books, and must really try to master that problem, or I shall never get an Entrance Scholarship at Cambridge. Feel so dizzy!

Afterwards.-They took me off to the Hospital, it seems, where I had brain-fever, complicated with rupture of the right cardiac ventricle. The Trigonometry produced the brain-fever, and the Calisthenics the other disease. Now, five weeks after, am still painfully weak. Doctor says I shall never be fit for any mental or physical exertion to speak of. Father (I regret to say) swears at Doctor, and says I must stop "all that dratted book-larnin," and carry up his bricks "on a hod." And so ends my dream of Trinity College, Cambridge!