It was a sight to see Doctor GLADSTONE'S little friends returning to School _after_ the Easter Vacation. The Doctor, looking complacently expansive, cheerily anticipative, welcomed them on the doorstep. _They_ did not welcome _him_. Oh, dear no! Look at them; the five senior pupils in front, headed, of course, by that overgrown and somewhat ungainly Irish boy, Master PATRICK GREEN, cock of the School, and prime favourite of Doctor GLADSTONE! Can you not fancy them singing--after a famous original--the following quintett? _The Five._ Five little boys for school are we, Back from a very short ho-li-dee; All as reluctant as well can be,-- Five little boys for School! _Master Green._ Holiday's over, there's no more fun! [_Groans._ _Master Hodge._ Only just started! Wish I was done! [_Snivels._ _Master Bung._ As for _me_, wish I'd never _begun_! [_Howls._ _The Five._ Five little boys for School! _All_ (_shrinking_). Five little boys who, all unwary, Entered old GLADSTONE'S big seminary, Slaves to his Genius tutelary---- _The Five_ (_suddenly demure, on catching sight of the Doctor_)-- Five little boys "back to School!.!" * * * * * [Illustration: BACK TO SCHOOL; OR, DR. GLADSTONE AND HIS YOUNG FRIENDS.] * * * * * SONGS OF SOCIETY. II.--A LETTER OF ADVICE. _From Miss Belinda Bullion at Monte Carlo, to Miss Angelina Veaudor, in Mayfair._ (_Being a Pendant to a celebrated Poem by Praed._) [Illustration] They tell me you've "landed" a lover (Don't pout at the slang, dear, 'tis _chic_), Before your first Season is over, Before I have left you a week. I learned the good news through my mother. Who _is_ he? I wish I could guess. If it's dear Lord FITZ-FRUMPINGTON'S brother, My own ANGELINA, say "Yes." _Tres chere_, we know Fortune and Fashion Are sensible girlhood's sole guides, Smart maidenhood ridicules passion, And sentiment calmly derides. I gave you "Bel Ami" as token That we were not victims of "glow;" You gave me your vow--is it broken? My own ANGELINA, say "No!" We vowed, dear, no matter at what age, By Sentiment not to be hooked, Or cheated by Love in a Cottage, Or Shepherds enchantingly crook'd. Too well, dear, _we_ know modern men's tone, Of "briar" the pipes which _they_ blow. Say, have you gone soft _a la_ SHENSTONE? My own ANGELINA, say "No!" Remember the cynic romances We read in that Devonshire glen! We are not the slaves of girl-fancies, We've learned far too much about Men! 'Tis nice, with your head on his shoulder, To whirl through the waltz with FRANK LOWE, But should poor Adonis grow bolder, My own ANGELINA, say "No!"