Behemoth meanwhile snorted in his own earthquaky fashion, And yawned, and lashed and trampled like a tiger in a passion. By the gleaming of his optics, and the clashing of his tushes, He _seemed_ to be preparing for the Ugliest of Rushes. Quoth Leo, "Good friend Porcupine, you _may_ be quite prophetic, And I a bit 'too previous.' Your picture's most pathetic; But I've seen your pachydermatous Poor Innocent when furious, And for a gentle graminivorous creature, it is curious How he'll run amuck like a Malay, and crunch canoes and foes up, With those same tusks, which might have made a Mammoth turn his toes up. So if you please, friend Porcupine, your quills I shall not trust again To meet those spears, which hate would wash--in blood, 'ere they should rust again. Mere quills won't quell an Impi, or make Behemoth good-neighbourly. Leo must guard this spot, where British enterprise and labour lie, The Monster seems to meditate attack, if _I_ may judge of him, So let _me_ have the first slap at, whilst you keep on scribbling fudge of him! MORAL. It may appear superfluous to point this fable's moral; But--teeth that could crush chain-mail seem scarce shaped for mumbling coral! * * * * * [Illustration: A WEIGHTY PROSPECT. _The Captain (who has just been giving a spin to his last purchase, for his Wife's inspection)._ "GOOD GOER, AIN'T HE? AND A FULL FOURTEEN-STONE HORSE, YOU KNOW!" _Young Wife (as yet somewhat innocent in horsey matters)._ "OH, I'M SURE HE'S _MORE_ THAN THAT, DEAR. WHY, _MAMMA_ WEIGHS NEARLY AS MUCH!"] * * * * * A LETTER HOME. (_From our Youngest Contributor._) MY DEAR MR. PUNCH,--This is about the last letter you will receive from me. I know it is, as all will soon be over! And I shall be glad of it. I can't last out until the Christmas holidays. Who could with such food? Why, it would make a dog cough! It's no use learning anything. Why should I, when it will be all over almost directly? What's the good of Latin and Greek if you are going to chuck it almost at once? And mathematics, too! What use are they if the end is near? It's all very well to cram, but what's the good of it when you know you won't survive to eat the plum pudding? There's no news. There's never any news. SMITH Minor has got his cap for football, and SNOOKS Major is going up to Oxford instead of Cambridge. What does it matter when the beef is so tough that you might sole your boots with it? And as for the mutton! Well, all I can say is, that it isn't fit for human food, and the authorities should be told about it. As for me, I am passing away. No one will ever see me more. For all that, you might send me a hamper. Your affectionate friend, JACKY. * * * * * STAR-GAZING. ["Astronomy has become a deservedly fashionable hobby with young ladies."]