Now, hang it, when a fellah comes to think of it, I don't quite see why Awabella should take such a vewy tender concern in me. Confound it, I don't care what her fav'wite widdle is. She'll want to know next which is my fav'wite corn. And I never did think much of widdles. Never can see where the laugh comes in. And so I have to pwetend to enjoy them so awfully and be a regular hip-hip-hippopotamus -no, that's not it-hypocrite. The best widdle I ever heard, and that wath a good one, my bwother Tham uthed to ask it evewywhere-said it was his own, that-that was a good one. (Chuckles in relish of the riddle.) What was it? "Why"-I know it began with "why." A good many of Tham's widdles used to begin with “why.” Why was"well, I don't quite wekomember the first part, but the anther wath awfully good: "Becauth it makth the buttercup." I always uthed to laugh when Tham athked that widdle. Poor Tham! Poor Tham! (Wipes away a tear.) Auguthta Gadfly wath too much for him. "Gadfly”—of courth, I wekomember now. The anther wathn't "Becauth it makth the buttercup," but the butterfly. Knew it had something to do with-butter.

66

I may as well see what else she wants to know. Ah! "Who's your fav'wite poet ?" Yeth, that's just what the girls are always asking me in quadrilles. I do hate questions of that sort. They thound so much like widdles. Only last night, little Laura Gushington was boring me with some doosid nonsense of this kind. Wanted to know if I didn't adore Tennyson? I told her no, I didn't care a—well, I let her know I managed to get along vewy well without him. Why should I adore Tennyson? I don't suppose he adores me. Perhaps, though, that's because he doesn't know me. And then, Was I fond of Longfellow? I told her again, no, nor of any other fellow.

And here comes No. 5: "Were you ever in love, and, if so, how much?" Well, I hope I may never make thuch ath of myself as that. Poor Tham uthed to ask, "Have you ever had the meathles, and, if tho, how many?" Talking of meathles-no, I mean of being in love-I suppothe that lovely Fwench widow I met at Lady Gelatine's last night will be dwopping in here in a moment. She said she wanted

me to help her in something or other, to belong to some idiotic society; but she would keep wattling away in Fwench, and I couldn't make her more than half out. I only hope her intentions are honorable. Ah! I hear a wing.

LORD DUNDREARY AND THE FRENCH WIDOW.*

MADAME DE MILLE GRACES.--Ah, mon cher Lord Dundrérie, que je suis heureuse de vous revoir! N'est-ce pas que l'on s'est bien amusé hier au soir chez Madame Gelatine? Ah! quelle musique! quelle belle soirée! Et, surtout, quelles belles femmes ! Et c'est moi qui vous ai bien observé faisant la cour à la petite Anglaise, en soie verte. Ah, que vous êtes méchant, méchant!

LORD DUNDREARY.-Weally, this is a doothid painful position for a fellah to be in! I call it ex-ex-crushutorious. Madame, voulez-vous-je vous pwie, parler twès dithtinctement et twès-slow? Mais, madame, ce qui therait beaucoup -better thera parler Anglais. Madame, vous qui êtes toutà-fait trop awfully charmante, pouvez sans doute bien parler Anglais.

MADAME M. G.-Ah, milord Dundrérie est toujours gallant. But I will try for to speak in poor English. Eh bien, milord, il faut vous expliquer dat der is a socièté on de tapis pour l'abolition of what you call white keed glove, aux bals et aux soirées. Vous demandez, n'est-ce pas, pourquoi l'on veut un tel changement: ah! excusez-moi; you ask why we demand this great revolution, and we respond, "For de great cause of réforme morale."

LORD D.-More what, madame?

MADAME M. G.-Réforme morale. De moral reform. LORD D.-Why, what a thtoo-thtoo-no, not thtoopidthtoopendous idea. As you would say, "Gwandiose!"

MADAME M. G.-Mais voici la théorie sur laquelle se base notre grande réforme. La philosophie does prove dat all de goot human emotions are in de heart, and dat de heart is, what you call, connected-est en sympathie wid de hand and de tumb and de fingairs. Well, what does now happen?

*This can be read in connection with the foregoing article, or rendered sepe rately a suits convenience.

At de balls and de soirées et surtout dans la danse, we all do cover up our hand in de skin of keeds, of de goats and of de rats. Et c'est ainsi dat we do prevent de free and natural échange of de goot emotions, de bons sentiments et spécialement de celui de l'amour. Est-ce que c'est possible for de fine essence of love to penetrer-to pass through de skin gloves of beasts? Non, ce n'est pas possible. Et c'est ainsi que nos sentiments les plus purs se trouvent souvent étouffés dans leur naissance.

LORD D.—I dare say it's all vewy fine, but I'm blowed if I know what she's up to.-Continuez, madame, continuez.

MADAME M. G.-Si, done, vous serez assez bon-just for one moment, to gif me your hand, I will let you feel de operation of dis principe. Voici ma main, comme vous la voyez, bien gantée. I take now your own hand into mine. You will see dat de fluid current of warm affection cannot pass entre nous deux. Why for not? Why you feel so cold to me? Why your heart not sympathique? C'est bien clair. Because de keed glove does prevent de goot spirit to pass from de one hand to de oder. Il n'y a rien qui tue l'amour comme le gant. But I will now take off my glove. Attendez. You will please put your hand into mine, encore une fois. -And I will count ten secondes: Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf, dix. Ah, je m'en aperçois bien.— I do perceive you like me ver—much more et que vous êtes bien plus aimable et plus gentil qu'auparavant.

LORD D.-Well, I thuppothe all this is what they call in Fwance twès-twès-I know the word-something to do with a pin-ah, yes-twès piquant-but, by Jove, if I let her hold my hand that way, I'll be caught like poor Tham wath, and get mikthd up in a beathly bweach of pwomise caith.-Eh bien, madame, you wish me to join this new Society?

MADAME M. G.-Oui, milord, l'abonnement est very little; une bagatelle of five leetle soverin for de whole year. You will let me haf your name, n'est-ce pas?

LORD D.-Let her have my name! By Jove, she is coming it wather strong. Oh, well, perwaps I had better say yes, at all events. If I don't, perwaps she'll take an action against me.-Well, madame, a fellah doesn't quite

like lending his name in beathly weather like this: he might catch cold, you know, if he hadn't his name on and he stood in a dwaft. But if the Society particularly wishes to borrow my name, I'll twy and do without it for a short time.

MADAME M. G.-Ah, milord, vous êtes trop bon.

LORD D.-Yeth, and I'll have it packed up carefully in a bathket and thent to you, Madame.

MADAME M. G.-Mille remerciements. And for de five soverin? Will you send him also in de basket?

LORD D.-Pardon, madame. I will twy to recommem-to recollect to have them counted and wrapped inside a postal card for safety, and sent by mail.

MADAME M .G.-Encore une fois je vous remercie. Et maintenant, bonjour, milord. You will not forget my leetle lesson in de philosophie of de hand and de heart.

LORD D.-Mille--mille remerciements, madame, de votre awfully charming visite.

THE DRUNKARD'S DEATH.*-I. EDGAR JONES.

Driven wild with rum, he turned into the street,
And reeled along with lingering, leaden feet,
With stupid brain, through many winding ways,
To where he earned his bread in better days,
As fireman, 'mid a foundry's busy hum.

But now 'twas night-the idle wheels were dumb,
While monstrous shapes uprose on either hand
Of huge machines, with silent wheel and band.
Near by a boiler stood, with open lid,
And scarcely realizing what he did,
Into its dark interior slowly crept,

And in its iron bosom deeply slept.

How long he lay he knew not, but awoke;
No lingering ray of light the darkness broke,
But water swiftly rose around his feet,
The air was close with fast-increasing heat.
Down underneath he heard the roar of fire,
And still the water slow and sure crept higher-
While o'er his soul a deadly faintness grew;
His brow was wet with horror's deadly dew,

The incident upon which this poem is founded is true.

H

As o'er him flashed the dreadful truth at last,
That in this fire-bound prison he was fast,
And that its scalding heat and burning breath
Would slow and surely torture him to death.

And then he hoarsely shrieked and wildly cried,
Rained maddened blows against its iron side,
And cursed with burning words his cruel fate,
To know that all his efforts were too late;
For still the fire embraced his iron shell,
Red tongues of flame hissed forth his dying knell;
Hope fled afar-and then in dull despair

He crouched like some wild beast within its lair,
While to his inner vision's anguished gaze
Appeared the sights and scenes of other days.
He saw the hours in which his fortunes fell,
The steps that brought him to this boiling hell,
The patient face of her he called his wife,
The years of anguish and of bitter strife,
The child that walked a beggar in the street
With shivering form and bleeding, blistered feet,
And all the horrors of the wasted years,

That led by devious paths through vales of tears-
Until at last the bitter end had come,

And one more soul was sacrificed to rum.

But still the water gurgled in its ire;

He seemed to breathe an atmosphere of fire;
The burning, blasting, cruel, withering heat
Ate all the flesh upon his quivering feet,

And licked the substance from his burning bones,
Unmindful of his cries and piteous groans;
Then, as his tortured senses stole away,
He clasped his hands and weakly tried to pray;
And pleading thus, death pitied him at last-
The drunkard's life with all its pains was past.

A week or more had swiftly passed apace,
When some one came to clean the gloomy place,
And shuddered as he saw the bones inside,
And realized how some poor wretch had died.
The workmen gathered 'round with 'bated breath;
The jury called it “accidental death."

But down in hell the savage demon crew

Might well have laughed in scorn; for well they knew
That he was only one of hosts that come
To swift destruction by the rage of rum,
And fall by thousands o'er the horrid brink,
Pushed over by the demon dire of drink.