_The Public_:――Well? _The P. P._:――To draw my salary. _The Referee._ December 2, 1882. ―――― Twinkle, twinkle little star I can tell you what you are; And your atmosphere, I hope, Analyse with spectroscope. Tin, I fancy; lead, I fear, Lurk within your atmosphere. Gold, by Jingo, better far! Twinkle, twinkle little star. SALVE. _Truth._ October 15, 1885. Wrinkles, wrinkles, solar star, I obtain of what you are, When unto the noonday sky, I the spectroscope apply; For the spectrum renders clear Gaps within your photosphere, Also sodium in the bar, Which your rays yield, solar star. CHESSMAN. _Truth._ September 30, 1886. (This latter had previously appeared in _Harper’s Magazine_.) ――――:o:―――― VERB SAP. (_To a Wandering Star._) “I am willing to throw in my lot with that of my friend Huxley, and ‘to fight to the death’ against this wicked and cowardly surrender. A desperate gamester, miscalled a Statesman, has chosen to invoke ignorant foreign opinion against the instructed opinion of his own countrymen.”――_Professor Tyndall’s last Letter to the Times._ Tyndall, Tyndall, learned star, How we wonder where you are! Fizzing up like penny pop, Coming down on Gladstone flop! “Desperate gamester!” Tyndall mine, Such invective is _not_ fine. Have _you_ not a card to trump, Rattling Randolph on the stump? * * * * * Difference exists no doubt; Let us calmly fight it out; But to call each other names Is the vulgarest of games. Honestly one view you hold; If to differ one makes bold, Is it fair, Sir, to infer, That he’s rascal, traitor, cur? Pooh! That’s Party’s puerile plan, Wisdom, Sir, should play the man. Drop these tart polemic pennings, Leave that sort of stuff to Jennings. _Punch._ July 23, 1887. ―――― LINES TO THE ELECTRIC LIGHT IN THE READING ROOM OF THE BRITISH MUSEUM. Twinkle, twinkle, little arc, Sickly, green, uncertain spark! Up above my head you swing, Ugly, strange, expensive thing. When across the foggy air Streams the lightning’s blinding glare Does the Reader in the dark Bless your radiance, little arc? When you fade with modest blush, Scarce more bright than farthing rush, Would he see which way to go, If you always twinkled so? Cold, unlovely, shivering star, I’ve no notion what you are―― How your wondrous “system” works, Who controls your jumps and jerks. Yours a splendour like the day―― Bilious green and purple ray! No: where’er they worship you All the world is black or blue. Though your light _at times_ surpass Homely oil or vulgar gas, Still――I close with this remark―― I detest you, little arc! Slightly altered from _Judy_. June 6, 1888.