One continuous flash of lightning: Shouted loudly cries of Tennis, "Forty-thirty" and "advantage," Giving fifteen, owing thirty For a bisque, anon half-thirty Owing, giving, taking, wanting, Till the brain was almost reeling, [Sidenote: Colenso's Arithmetic.] Handicapping calculations All too hard for Pepperhanger! Presently the tea-bell sounded Through the pine-tree-shelter'd gardens To the ne'er inebriating Ever cheering goblet summons. From _Pastime_, August 24, 1883. * * * * * The late Mr. Shirley Brooks composed a number of clever parodies, many of which were contributed to _Punch_ during his Editorship of that journal. Three of the longest and most amusing of these were _The Very Last Idyll_, after Tennyson; _The Rime of the Ancient Mariner_, after Coleridge; and The _Song of Hiawatha_, after Longfellow. A quotation from The _Very Last Idyll_ was given on page 44; and the parody on Coleridge will be quoted when that author is reached; the parody of Longfellow, which appeared in _Punch_ as far back as 1856, commenced thus:-- THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. (_Author's Protective Edition._) You, who hold in grace and honour, Hold as one who did you kindness When he published former poems, Sang Evangeline the noble, Sang the golden Golden Legend, Sang the songs the Voices utter, Crying in the night and darkness, Sang how unto the Red Planet Mars he gave the Night's First Watches, Henry Wadsworth, whose adnomen (Coming awkward for the accents Into this his latest rhythm) Write we as Protracted Fellow, Or in Latin, Longus Comes-- Buy the Song of Hiawatha. Should you ask me, Is the poem Worthy of its predecessors, Worthy of the sweet conceptions Of the manly, nervous diction Of the phrase, concise or pliant, Of the songs that sped the pulses, Of the songs that gemmed the eyelash, Of the other works of Henry? I should answer, I should tell you, You may wish that you may get it-- Don't you wish that you may get it? * * * * * Should you ask me, What's its nature? Ask me, What's the kind of poem? Ask me in respectful language, Touching your respectful beaver, Kicking back your manly hind-leg, Like to one who sees his betters; I should answer, I should tell you, 'Tis a poem in this metre, And embalming the traditions, Tables, rites, and superstitions Of the various tribes of Indians. * * * * *