I was guileless then, but I gaze on it now With a fluttering pulse and a bended brow, ’Twas there she sickened and almost died―― Of chair――as professors sage decide. Say it is folly, and deem me weak, For my “creepy” spine and my blanching cheek; But I dread it, I dread it! and mean to bear To the broker’s shop that old arm-chair. _Funny Folks._ May 29, 1886. ―――― THE DENTIST’S CHAIR. I hate it, I hate it, and who shall dare To chide me for hating that dentist’s chair? I hated it first in my early youth, When I groaned in its depths with an aching tooth. And many and keen are the pangs through my soul, And the terror I feel is beyond control; I could gnash my teeth in my wild despair, As I gaze on that terrible, terrible chair. It has held me many and many a day, When I fain would have been in the fields at play And I hated the dentist when first I sat In the chair, and he said, “Take off your hat.” Years roll on and are quickly fled, And my teeth became shattered within my head: But I know how much the heart can bear, When I sit in that horrible, horrible chair. Will it ever be thus? I gaze on it now, With affright in my soul and care on my brow; ’Twas there they were stopped; ’twas there they were scaled; ’Twas there with the forceps that I was assailed. Say it is folly, and call me weak, While the raging nerves puff out my cheek, But I hate it to-day in my toothless despair, And I’ll hate it for ever, that vile arm-chair. A. L. D. _Modern Society._ April 17, 1886. ――――:o:―――― SONG OF NOVEMBER. (_Another parody of Eliza Cook_,) That gridiron by the mantel-piece, Its look gives every nerve a thrill; That thing of home begrimed with grease, Whereon our sprats we learn’d to grill. November――month to childhood dear, Old month of Civic feasts and sights, To see that gridiron so near, Fills my sad heart with home delights. November――I remember well The day when I to market hied, In search of one with sprats to sell―― Sprats in which childhood might confide. I bought them, and the savoury fish On yonder gridiron then were broiled Experience is a bitter dish, I had it then――the sprats were spoiled! _Punch’s Almanac_, 1846. ――――:o:―――― WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE. As several of the following parodies are rather out of date extracts only are given. PUNCH TO THE WOODS AND FORESTS.