[Illustration: T]HE kind correspondent who sent the pathetic poem entitled “Another,” which appeared in the May number of _Parodies_, correctly described the difficulty of compiling this collection so as to make it fairly complete, without being tedious, especially as new Parodies on every popular poem are continually appearing. Since Part 18 appeared many other parodies on “My Mother” have been sent in, some of which are so good that they are here inserted, although it had not been intended again to refer to that particular poem in this volume. THE SLUG. No more this silent grief I’ll hug, What shall I do to kill the slug, That haunts the beds which I have dug?―― Curst slug! I’ve sprinkled soot upon its trail, But less than naught does that avail, Over it pass’d th’ unconscious snail―― Vile slug! I dogg’d its footsteps then with lime, Dropping it where I saw the slime, But it did change its route next time―― Sly slug! I keep some salt mixed in a jug, In which I hoped to pop it snug, But it declined to show its mug―― Shy slug! What lots of mischief it can do―― Would you believe it bit in two My _Vincitoxis Thunbergu_? Base slug! Could it not e’en have spared me this? My bulb _Incomparabilis Hookeri Walkeri insignis_―― Low slug! If I could find its hidden lair! I can’t! Ah, cry of wild despair, That breaks upon the tortured air―― Oh, slug! Stranger! who read’st, yet sittest still, I’ll leave you something in my will―― Give me a recipe to kill That slug! _Judy_, July 30, 1873. ――――:o:―――― THE FIRST FOG OF THE SEASON. _By a Victim._ “What may perhaps be said to be the first fog of the season occurred in London on Wednesday last. All through the forenoon the weather was so dark as to make the use of gas requisite within doors. The fog was especially dense in the Northern and Eastern suburbs. In the morning there was a sharp frost.”――_Daily Paper._ What comes this year before its time, To make us execrate our clime, And doth the City streets begrime? The fog! What makes the trains late up in town, And much disgusts Smith, Jones, and Brown; And stops them when they would go “down?” The fog! What spreads destruction round one’s feet By dark’ning every crowded street―― Invades the most secure retreat? The fog! What fills the atmosphere with smoke, Till all who breathe it, all but choke; And much bad language doth provoke? The fog.