When Sir Thomas Brassey lost his seat in the House of Commons, he was promoted to a peerage for his services to his party. Some snobbish toadies immediately set to work to trace a pedigree for the new Baron, and asserted that one of his ancestors came over with the Duke William from Normandy. Whereas it was well known that the father of Sir Thomas was of very poor and humble origin, and made his money by honorable hard work as a Railway Contractor. _Truth_ represented Sir Thomas, attired in a suit of mail as a Norman Knight, appearing to his father, who sits smoking a short pipe, in the loose and easy costume of his early calling, a “navvy,” or road excavator. The father thus addresses the newly made Baron:―― Out, Tom! Out, Tom! what have you been about, Tom? Though, if you truly know yourself, I’m very much in doubt, Tom! To think, though, that a man of sense, for you are not a fool, Tom! Should act in such a way, oh, dear! I hardly can keep cool, Tom! What’s that you say? “You’ve only claimed what should be yours by right,” Tom? And that Le Sieur Bresci was indeed a Norman knight, Tom? My poor, poor boy! Come, tell me who has told you of such stuff, Tom! I should have thought your father’s name for you’d be good enough, Tom! What’s that? “The Heralds searched for you, and found you our old crest,” Tom? For any Brassey’s crest I think my pickaxe would serve best, Tom; While for a motto, here is one that cannot be attackt, Tom, For it is merely “We enlarge the more that we contract,” Tom. But, come, let me be serious, and this, at least, I’d pray, Tom: Do not, in common-sense’s name, go on in such a way, Tom. If you’ve been made a Lord, why I suppose you must be one, Tom, But do now try to be more like your poor old father’s son, Tom. Don’t make the people laugh at you, by silly, empty pride, Tom; And don’t your father’s honest trade be so inclined to hide, Tom. You always were a clever boy, so let me then implore, Tom, That of these Norman ancestors I never may hear more, Tom. _Truth._ Christmas Number, 1886. ――――:o:―――― THE OLD HOUSE AT HOME. Oh! the old house at home where my forefathers dwelt, Where a child at the feet of my mother I knelt, When she taught me the prayer, where she read me the page, Which, if infancy lisps, is the solace of age; My heart, ’mid all changes, wherever I roam, Ne’er loses its love for the old house at home! ’Twas not for its splendour that dwelling was dear, ’Twas not that the gay or the noble were near; O’er the porch the wild rose and wood-bine entwined, And the sweet-scented jessamine waved in the wind; Yet dearer to me than proud turret or dome Were the halls of my fathers, the old house at home!