Breke-fast party!) "pleased him." He was easily pleased. Then "he began to think the island cider preferable to Pommery. In short, the eccentric Peer fell in love with Breke." Well! he must have been an eccentric Peer to prefer Channel Island cider, even from the best orchards, to the '84, '80, and '74--the last still existing in some exceptionally favoured spots--from the vinevards of Pommery. This eccentric nobleman on seeing the Island of Breke, observed the absence of a landing-stage, and jocosely remarked to himself, "They're in want of a _pier; I_ will fix myself there." And so he did. But of all that happened to him there and elsewhere, and to the Earth-to-Earth Girl, and to the two sons, is it not to be read by the purchaser in the book itself, which, the Baron is pleased to add, will well repay perusal, and will hold the reader's attention to the very last line. At least, this was its effect on the not always easily pleased. BARON DE BOOK-WORMS. * * * * * A NEW "ARNOLD'S EXERCISE." MY DEAR MR. DACRE, I have seen your Play, and, since then, I have not seen any other like it. "When will I come again?" To see it twice within a week would be too ecstatic a joy for a dweller--may I say a Liver--in London, who is more at home as one of the Lights of Asia. So, for the present--to paraphrase what I believe were the words of a popular poet whose name has passed from my memory--such, alas! is popularity--I will say to you, "Not to-day. DACRE"--(I fancy the last word was "Baker" in the original Syriac)--but, some other day, when, as one of the Lights aforementioned, I shall, at a _Matinee_ be day-lighted to re-witness your admirable performance. Yours ever most sincerely sincere, EDWIN TAILS-LOSE, C.B. P.S.--"C.B." is not "Commander of the Bath," but stands for "_Cox and Box_," in which piece (have you ever played it? I forget--but how perfect you would be as _Sergeant_ or _Corporal Bouncer!_) you will find the immortal quotation which precedes these descriptive initial letters. * * * * * MY DOCTOR. When Influenza pangs attack My tortured head and limbs and back, You soothe me, stretched upon the rack, My Doctor. When, convalescent, I'm too weak To stand, or sit, or see, or speak, Your tonics make me tough as teak, My Doctor. No symptoms seem to cause surprise; Though I turn green or blue, your eyes Are still impenetrably wise, My Doctor. If grave or slight the case, you still Awe folks with look of learned skill; You cure them, whether well or ill, My Doctor. One needs trepanning of the head, Another just one pill--of bread, And neither, thanks to you, is dead, My Doctor. Long may you live to see the tongue, To listen to the wheezy lung, To feel the pulse of old and young, My Doctor!