Thou hast almost made us blind Under England's cloudless skies; Low-toned tints of Orient, Such as Turkish rugs adorn, Would be better for our eyes-- Now upon the pavement bent Since such blazers have been worn. Say, has Paris sent to us Dyes so dreadfully defined? Do the tyrant _modistes_ bring Colours so calamitous, Mixed in ways more fearful still, In this strangely sunny spring? Oh, before thou mak'st us ill, Take away that glare of thine, Unæsthetic Aniline! * * * * * [Illustration: KINDLY MEANT. _Mr. Macmonnies_ (_an old Friend_). "WELL, LOOK HERE, OLD MAN, I'LL TELL YOU WHAT REALLY BROUGHT ME HERE TO-DAY. THE FACT IS MY WIFE WANTS HER MOTHER PAINTED VERY BADLY--AND I NATURALLY THOUGHT OF YOU!"] * * * * * SALE OF THE CLIFDEN AND HIGH PRICE PICTURES. --"The Wife of Burgomaster Six" went for over £7000. This wife of Burgomaster Half-a-dozen was a marvellous specimen of a woman. The Burgomaster was so faithful a husband that "Six to One" has long since become a homely proverb. * * * * * A USEFUL TOOLE.--_Mr. Punch_ was much surprised one day last week to see on the evening newspaper placards:-- TOOLE IN THE BOX. A LUCKY DOG. Was "the Box" a new piece to be put on at the distant period when _Walker, London_, fails to attract? No! The hero of _Homburg_ had only been helping in the _Lucky Dog_ Fight--merely a case of _Verbum Sapte et Alport_, or a Word for SAPTE and ALPORT. * * * * * THE SHORTEST PASSAGE ON RECORD.--Aberdeen to Canada at a pen-stroke. * * * * * SIC ITUR AD--ASTOR! [The American Millionnaire has purchased Cliveden.] RULE, BRITANNIA! 'Twas Cliveden's fair walls which first heard That stout patriot strain--which may now sound absurd "_Yankee Doodle_" indeed might more fittingly ring "In Cliveden's proud alcove," which POPE stooped to sing. O Picknickers muse; and, O oarsmen, repine! Those fair hanging woods, BULL, no longer are thine. Our high-mettled racers may pass o'er the sea-- Shall sentiment challenge _thy_ claims, L. S. D.? Our pictures may go without serious plaint-- What are the best pictures but canvas and paint? Our Press? Let the alien toff take his pick. When the Dollar dictates shall mere patriots kick? Our hills and our forests? If Oil-kings appear, And want them--for cash--as preserves for their deer. Down, down with mere pride--so they're down with the dust! Mammon's word is the great categorical Must! The Dollar's Almighty, the Millionnaire's King! Sell, sell _anyone_ who'll bid _high--anything_. What offers for--London? Who bids for--the Thames? Cracks go, Cliveden follows. What Briton condemns? Cash rules. For the Dollar-King BULL shies his castor. Buy! Buy! That's the cry, JOHN. _Sic itur ad_--ASTOR!