* * * * * IMPERIAL INSTITUTE NOTICE AT THE RECEPTION.--"Guests must retain their wraps and _Head Coverings_." Evidently no bald men admitted. * * * * * AUSTRALIAN SONG IN MINOR KEY FOR ANY NUMBER OF VOICES. --"_I Know a Bank!_" * * * * * A BUSINESS LETTER. ["Marriage is daily becoming a more commercial affair." --_A Society Paper._] DEAR FRED,--Your favour of the 3rd, Has had my very best attention, But yet I cannot, in a word, Accept you on the terms you mention; Indeed, wherever you may try, According to the last advices You'll meet, I fear, the same reply-- "It can't be done, at current prices!" In vain an ancient name you show, In vain for intellect are noted, Blue blood and brains, you surely know, At nominal amounts are quoted; And then, I see, you're weak enough To offer "love, sincere, unstudied,"-- Why, Sir, with such Quixotic stuff The market's absolutely flooded! But--every day this fact confirms-- The time is over for romances, And whether we can come to terms Depends alone on your finances. So, would you think me over-bold If I, with deference, requested A statement of what funds you hold? In what securities invested? For, candidly, in such affairs A speedy bid your only chance is, A boom in Yankee millionnaires May soon result in marked advances; With you I'd willingly be wed, To like you well enough I'm able, But first submit your bank-book, FRED, To your (perhaps) devoted MABEL! * * * * * SUSPIRIA. (_By a Fogey._) I would I were a boy! Not for the tarts we once were fain to eat, The penny ice, the jumble sticky-sweet, The tip's deciduous joy-- Not; for the keen delight Of break-neck 'scapes, the charm of getting wet, The joy of battle (strongest when you get Two other chaps to fight). No! times have changed since then. The social whirlpool has engulfed the boys; Robb'd of their simple, hardy, rowdy joys, They start from scratch as men. The winners in the race! Secure of worship, each his triumphs tells, Weighing with faintly-praising syllables The fairest form and face. Once, in the mazy crush, Ingenuous youth, half timid, and half proud, By girlhood's pity had its claims allow'd, And worshipp'd with a blush. Time was when tender years Would hug sweet sorrow to the heart, and blur The cross-barr'd bliss of the confectioner With crushed affection's tears. That humbleness is sped, The vivid blazon of self-conscious youth, The unwilling witness to whole-hearted truth, Ne'er troubles boyhood's head. Now with a solemn pride, Lord of the future's limitless expanse, The Stoic stripling tolerates the dance Weary, yet dignified.