The Bishop chuckled at the sight. “This style of dancing would delight A simple Rum-ti-Foozleite. I’ll learn it if I can, To please the tribe when I get back.” He begged the man to teach his knack. “Right Reverend Sir, in half a crack!” Replied that dancing man. The dancing man he worked away, And taught the Bishop every day— The dancer skipped like any fay— Good PETER did the same. The Bishop buckled to his task, With _battements_, and _pas de basque_. (I’ll tell you, if you care to ask, That PETER was his name.) “Come, walk like this,” the dancer said, “Stick out your toes—stick in your head, Stalk on with quick, galvanic tread— Your fingers thus extend; The attitude’s considered quaint.” The weary Bishop, feeling faint, Replied, “I do not say it ain’t, But ‘Time!’ my Christian friend!” “We now proceed to something new— Dance as the PAYNES and LAURIS do, Like this—one, two—one, two—one, two.” The Bishop, never proud, But in an overwhelming heat (His name was PETER, I repeat) Performed the PAYNE and LAURI feat, And puffed his thanks aloud. Another game the dancer planned— “Just take your ankle in your hand, And try, my lord, if you can stand— Your body stiff and stark. If, when revisiting your see, You learnt to hop on shore—like me— The novelty would striking be, And must attract remark.” “No,” said the worthy Bishop, “no; That is a length to which, I trow, Colonial Bishops cannot go. You may express surprise At finding Bishops deal in pride— But if that trick I ever tried, I should appear undignified In Rum-ti-Foozle’s eyes. “The islanders of Rum-ti-Foo Are well-conducted persons, who Approve a joke as much as you, And laugh at it as such; But if they saw their Bishop land, His leg supported in his hand, The joke they wouldn’t understand— ’T would pain them very much!” THE PRECOCIOUS BABY. A VERY TRUE TALE. (_To be sung to the Air of the_ “_Whistling Oyster_.”) AN elderly person—a prophet by trade— With his quips and tips On withered old lips, He married a young and a beautiful maid; The cunning old blade! Though rather decayed, He married a beautiful, beautiful maid. She was only eighteen, and as fair as could be, With her tempting smiles And maidenly wiles, And he was a trifle past seventy-three: Now what she could see Is a puzzle to me, In a prophet of seventy—seventy-three! Of all their acquaintances bidden (or bad) With their loud high jinks And underbred winks, None thought they’d a family have—but they had; A dear little lad Who drove ’em half mad, For he turned out a horribly fast little cad.