The dancing fire flicker’d up and down, Fann’d by the murm’ring bellows gentle gale, And by its crimson light was plainly shown The kitchen-dresser and the housemaid’s pail. Upon the table stood a jug of ale, Some plates and knives and forks were near the same; A frying-pan hung greasy on a nail. With faces ruddied by the leaping flame, The eager, hungry onion-eaters came. Large roots they bore of that full-flavour’d stem, Of pungent taste and odour. These they gave To Cook, who gladly did receive of them. With careful hands these roots she well did lave In pure spring water’s clear and limpid wave; Then toss’d them in the pot, a stew to make. ’Tis for this mess the greedy gluttons crave; The echoes with their eager cries they wake,―― “Oh, give us some, we pray, for mercy’s sake!” They sat them down, a longing, hungry band, To eat, as if they ne’er had ate before, Within the savoury dish each dipp’d a hand, Until ’twas empty. Then arose a roar―― “’Tis not enough! Oh, give us more, _more_, MORE! ’Tis not more filling than the ocean’s foam.” Then some one said,――“Eat not, friends, I implore! Or how, when back to our own shores we roam, Dare we kiss wives and sweethearts left at home?” _Judy_, September 25, 1872. ――――:o:―――― In _Punch_, May 9, 1885, will be found a rather weak parody of “Tears, idle tears,” it is à propos of the farewell performance of Adelina Patti, at San Francisco, and commences “Tears, maudlin tears.” ――――:o:―――― GENERAL GORDON. In reply to a letter from the poet Whittier respecting General Gordon, Lord Tennyson has written as follows―― “Dear Mr. Whittier,――Your request has been forwarded to me, and I herein send you an epitaph for Gordon in our Westminster Abbey――_i.e._ for his cenotaph:―― “‘Warrior of God, man’s friend, not here below But somewhere dead far in the waste Soudan; Thou livest in all hearts, for all men know This earth hath borne no simpler, nobler man.’ “With best wishes, yours very faithfully, “TENNYSON.” On which the _Globe_ (May 7th, 1885,) remarked――“Lord Tennyson must really decline to be prodded. The poet Whittier has been egging him on to write about Gordon, and the result is an epitaph of four lines, giving the information that Gordon is not “here below” (_i.e._, in Westminster Abbey), but in the Soudan. The _Times_, in giving this epitaph, heads it “Gordon, Tennyson, and Whittier,” and the association of three such names with the starveling verse under them, is an ideal example of the short and simple step from the sublime to the ridiculous.” [Illustration] “MY MOTHER.”