―――― BOULANGER. Twinkle, twinkle, little Star, How I wonder what you are! Still more what you mean to be, When you get back to Par_ee_! Are you a Republican, Wedded to the Rights of man? Or an embryotic King? Emperor? Despot? Anything? When you’re President-elect, What new move may we expect? Will you show us what you are By a bloody Coup d’Etat? Here meanwhile in London town You will certainly _go down_; Social crowds will stare and cheer; Of expulsion there’s no fear! Twinkle, twinkle, Gallic Star! We’ve no notion what you are; Living low and flying high. Like a comet in the sky. _Puck._ May 1, 1889. The political adventurer Boulanger, having done all he could to embarrass the French Government, and to create disturbances on the eve of the opening of the great Paris Exhibition, ignominiously fled to Belgium, when he found that his selfish and unpatriotic conduct was likely to bring upon him the punishment he deserved. Whilst in Brussels he issued a ridiculously theatrical manifesto, whereupon the Belgian Government hinted that his presence was undesirable in that country, and in April last he sought refuge in London. His reception was cool, and in a few days he was completely forgotten. Boulanger, who is fifty-two years of age, has none of the qualities necessary in a man who aspires to be a great political leader, and had he not been supported by the wealth and influence of the re-actionary parties in France, he would long since have sunk back into his native obscurity. THE SPIDER AND THE FLY. “Will you walk into my parlour?” said a spider to a fly, “’Tis the prettiest little parlour, sure, that ever you did spy; You’ve only got to pop your head within side of the door, You’ll see so many curious things you never saw before, Will you walk in pretty fly?” “My house is always open,” says the spider to the fly, “I’m glad to have the company of all I see go by;” “They go in, but don’t come out again――I’ve heard of you before;” “Oh yes, they do, I always let them out at my back door. Will you walk in, pretty fly?” “Will you grant me one sweet kiss, then!” says the spider to the fly; “To taste your charming lips, I’ve a cu-ri-os-i-ty!” Said the fly, “If once our lips did meet, a wager I would lay, Of ten to one, you would not after let them come away.” “Will you walk in, pretty fly?” “If you won’t kiss, will you shake hands?” says the spider to the fly, “Before you leave me to myself, with sorrow sad to sigh.” Says the fly――“there’s nothing handsome unto you belongs; I declare you should not touch me even with a pair of tongs.” “Will you walk in, pretty fly?”