Curried rabbits, come not nigh; Hence, tomato-tinners, hence! He can eat what you or I Wouldn’t for a hundred pence. (_Chorus as before._) “There,” exclaimed the dean, turning to me, “that goes pretty well, I think. Shakespeare would be pleased. I shall play _Midsummer Night’s Dream_ on the first night of the visit of my lady friends. On the second night I am going to sing them some songs. On the third night I shall give a conjuring entertainment.” He suddenly stopped, and burst into tears. “And on the fourth night,” he sobbed, “their funeral will take place, and they are so young and fair!” “Couldn’t you fix their funeral for the first night?” I asked. “They’d suffer less so.” “No,” said the dean firmly, “they must be amused first--amused and interested and entertained. And I must amuse them, and I never amused any one in my life before. I can’t take them to the races, because there are undergraduates about. I can’t take them to dances for similar reasons. I’m going to do it all myself.” He burst out sobbing again. “And I know it will kill them. The fairies won’t play out of Epping Cocoa, so I shall have to undertake every character in the piece. Now I must go back, and practise my songs. I am _so_ anxious to be amusing. It quite weighs on my mind. You don’t know anything that would do for the conjuring entertainment, do you? Card-tricks, you know, or think-of-any-number-you-like, or something of that sort?” As he said these words he got into my boat, which started down a river that flowed into a drawing-room. We got out. Then the boat changed into a piano, and the dean sat down to it, and began to play the symphony. “It’s one of those simple, touching songs, and it’s called ‘Papa.’” Then he sang: Take my head on your shoulders, papa, Let’s have it back when you’ve done; I only unscrewed it in jest, papa-- Only unscrewed it in fun. And it’s pleasant to lie and to think, papa, You can give it me back all right; My head, though it’s screwed, is loose, papa, And you, when you’re screwed, are tight. “You can’t possibly sing that to the ladies,” I said. “No,” he answered; “I’ve kept the words a little too long, and the weather’s been hot. I’ll try another--a fervent and passionate one.” “No, you won’t,” I said firmly, and jumped into the piano, which changed into the canoe again, and started away down the river. “That’s the wrong ’bus!” the dean shrieked after me. He shrieked so loudly that he woke me. At least, he half woke me. I was so full of the idea that I was in the wrong ’bus that I got out. The canoe was in the middle of the river at the time. You will find an excellent edition of Plato’s “Phædo,” a copy of last week’s _Review_, and my nicest pipe at the bottom of the river in King’s. At any rate, you may go and dive for them if you like. IV. ON REFLECTION; TO WHICH IS ADDED THE STORY OF THE TIN HEART.