As evening fell, a tottering form, All heedless of the gathering storm, Defied each notice-board he passed, And cried--determined to the last: "The Heath is ours!" * * * * * A youth, when next the sun came round, Buried in summonses was found; Still gasping, as yet more were served, In accents, feeble and unnerved: "The Heath is ours!" * * * * * There to the Police Court brought next day, He'd many pounds and costs to pay; And from his lips no more was heard That cry he'd learned was so absurd: "The Heath is ours!" _Truth_, August 2, 1883. * * * * * The following description of an unpleasant nocturnal adventure has been written especially for this collection:-- The shades of night were falling fast, One mile from town was Knightsbridge passed, We found ourselves (it was not nice) Tripped up by two men in a trice, And felt so sore! Our brow was muddy, as beneath Their pressure we could scarce draw breath, Our "withers" seemed to be unwrung. As we were in the gutter flung, And felt so sore! We never shall forget that night Rising in pitiable plight, We found our jewellery gone, Ourselves a sight to look upon, We felt so sore! "Try not to pass!" they might have said. Alas! they tripped us up instead. Such warning was to us denied, And stretched upon the pavement wide, We felt so sore! "Oh, stay a moment, that arrest May police vigilance attest," Was what we were inclined to cry, But we could only heave a sigh-- We felt so sore! Beware a court, where the roads branch, Be wary, lest an avalanche Of blows should, when out late at night, On your poor occiput alight, We felt so sore! They ran away with watch and guard, And left us on the pavement hard, Whilst we to follow did not dare, Because we had no breath to spare-- We felt so sore! No passers by to make a sound, And not a "peeler" to be found. Still gasping from their hands of _vice_, Glad to escape at any price, We felt so sore! Then all at once we cried "hooray!" Here comes a "Bobby" on his way. A LONG FELLOW we spied afar, And mentally exclaimed, "Ha! ha!" Excelsior. T. F. DILLON CROKER. * * * * * A courteous correspondent has forwarded a little pamphlet, which was issued by Enoch Morgan, Sons, and Co., New York, about three years ago. It has some quaintly comical _silhouette_ illustrations, beneath each of which is one of the following verses:--