[MISS DOLORES LLEONART-Y-CASANOVAS, M.D., has just, at the age of 19, taken her doctor’s degree at Barcelona. July, 1886.] With dark eyes that flash like a jewel, And red lips that flame like a flower Capricious, coquettish and cruel, When flirting in boudoir or bower; So shine Spanish girls in old stories. But thou’rt of a different strain, Oh learned and lucky DOLORES, Our M.D. of Spain. Thy studies commencing, sweet virgin, At College when scarce more than seven, Now past mistress scalpel and purge in A full-blown Physician! Great Heaven! Sangrados no more to our sorrow Our veins shall deplete; the control Of our hearts goes to girls, whence we borrow Much hope――on the whole. It startles us, though, the reflection That you are not twenty to-day, Yet our tongues may invite your inspection, Our pulses your touch may assay. Thou, a girlish she-Galen, arisest: In faith thou may’st fairly feel vain, O young among women yet wisest, Our M.D. of Spain! Will you “fee” in the fearless old fashion, And dose like a horse-drenching Vet.? Ah! it is not alone the Caucasian Who’s nearly played out, I regret. However, unless luck desert you, Barcelona its fame may regain. Let us hope HAHNEMANN mayn’t convert you, Our M.D. of Spain. (_Five verses omitted._) _Punch._ July 31, 1886. ―――― OCTOPUS.[1] Strange beauty, eight-limbed and eight-handed, Whence camest to dazzle our eyes? With thy bosom bespangled and branded With the hues of the seas and the skies; Is thy home European or Asian, Oh mystical monster marine? Part molluscous and partly crustacean, Betwixt and between. Wast thou born to the sound of sea trumpets? Hast thou eaten and drunk to excess Of the sponges――thy muffins and crumpets, Of the seaweed――thy mustard and cress? Wast thou nurtured in caverns of coral, Remote from reproof or restraint? Art thou innocent, art thou immoral, Sinburnian or Saint? Lithe limbs, curling free, as a creeper That creeps in a desolate place, To enrol and envelop the sleeper In a silent and stealthy embrace; Cruel beak craning forward to bite us, Our juices to drain and to drink, Or to whelm us in waves of Cocytus, Indelible ink! Oh breast, that ’twere rapture to writhe on! Oh arms ’twere delicious to feel Clinging close with the crush of the Python, When she maketh her murderous meal; In thy eight-fold embraces enfolden, Let our empty existence escape; Give us death that is glorious and golden, Crushed all out of shape!