Dear CHARLIE,--I've bin on the scoop, and no error this time, my dear boy! I must tell yer my rounds; it's a barney I know you are bound to enjoy. Talk of _Zadkiel's Halmanack_, CHARLIE, JOHN KEATS, or the _Man in the Moon_-- Yah! I've cut all _their_ records as clean as a comet would lick a balloon. 'ARRY ain't no Astronomer, leastways I ain't never made it my mark To go nap on star-gazing; I've mostly got other good biz arter dark. But when _Mister Punch_ give me the tip 'ow he'd take poor old TIME on the fly, Wy I tumbled to it like a shot; 'ARRY's bound to be in it, sez I. So I took on the Lockyers and Procters, and mugged up the planets and stars. With their gods and their goddesses, likeways their thunderbolts, tridents and cars. I jogged on with old Jupiter, CHARLIE, and gave young Apoller a turn, While as to DIANNER!--but there, that is jest wot you're going to learn. It wos dry and a little bit dazing, this cram, and you won't think it's odd If yours truly got doosedly drowsy. In fact I wos napped on the nod, But the way I got woke wos a wunner. Oh! CHARLIE, my precious old pal, If you'd know wot's fair yum-yum, 'ook on to a genuine celestial gal. "_Smack!_" "Hillo!" sez I, starting sudden, "where ham I, and wot's this 'ere game?" Then a pair o' blue eyes looked in mine with a lime-lighty sort of a flame, As made me feel moony immediate. "Great Pompey," thinks I, "here's a spree! It's DIANNER by all that is proper, and as for Enjimmyun--that's _Me_!" [Illustration] For I see a young person in--well, I ain't much up in classical togs, But she called it a "chlamys," I think. She'd a bow, and a couple of dogs, "Rayther forward and sportive young party," thinks I, Sandown-Parky in style; But pooty, and larky no doubt, so I tips her a wink and a smile. "All right, Miss DIANNER," sez I. "You 'ave won 'em--the gloves--and no kid. Wot size, Miss, and 'ow many buttons?" But she never lowered a lid, And the red on her cheeks warn't no blush but a reglar indignant flare-up, Whilst the look from her proud pair of lamps 'it as 'ard and as straight as a Krupp. Brought me sharp to my bearings, I tell yer. "Young mortal," she sez, "it is plain An Enjimmyun is not to be found in the purlieus of Chancery Lane. And that Primrose 'Ill isn't a Latmos. The things you call gloves I don't wear, Only buskins. But don't you be rude, or the fate of Actæon you'll share." I wosn't quite fly to her patter, but "mortal" might jest 'ave bin "cub," From the high-perlite way she pernounced it, and plainly DIANNER meant "snub." Struck me moony, her manner, did CHARLIE, she hypnertised me with her looks, And the next thing I knowed I was padding the 'oof in a region of spooks.