I'd take thy bites, you'd love my sting, And bear the petty pains they bring Just like a Hindoo Saint; I would not blame you, 'bottle fly, You have to live the same as I-- A beauty without paint. We cannot all be butterflies, Or larks that carol in the skies,-- Take life for what it's worth; We've all our wretched aches and pains, Our losses now--and now our gains-- A little while on earth. And when we get our final call-- Mosquito, pole-cat, skunk, and all The vermin meek or bold-- We shall not for the verdict quake, We've lived our lives for Nature's sake, And done what we were told. * * * * * CONNECTED WITH THE PRESS. MY DEAR MR. PUNCH,--I see that some of your contemporaries have got up a "Press Band" which plays on the Thames Embankment between one and two o'clock every day (save Saturday) for the benefit of compositors out for their dinner-hour. I must confess that I think the idea excellent, but could it not be extended? A newspaper consists of more than "setters up at case." Could not some entertainment be contrived for the amusement of editors, theatrical critics, and city correspondents? For instance, there are generally a number of ladies and gentlemen hanging about Fleet Street in the vain hope of obtaining interviews with the powers that are in the world journalistic. A really talented would-be contributor (especially if a lady) might "get at" an editor when he was most at his ease and least on his guard. I will suppose that the _Rédacteur en chef of the Imperial Universe_ is seated beside the Fountain in the Temple, quietly smoking his cigar. The authoress of "_Tiger Songs_" (adapted from the original Norwegian) may see the Editor from afar off, and come dancing towards him with the airy gaiety of a _Morgiana_. She executes a _pas de fascination_, and, when he is completely captivated by the exquisite grace of her movements, causes him to seize a bundle of MS. When she has retired, and the Editor gradually resumes his normal composure, he discovers that the authoress of "_Tiger Songs_" has left him an article upon "Voyages to the North Pole." Subjugated by the poetry of motion, and further moved (almost to tears) by the soft, sweet strains of the Press Band, he reads the contribution, and accepts it. Then recreation, combined with instruction, might be found for special correspondents by erecting steam roundabouts on the Thames Embankment. The "special" might mount his wooden steed, and career round and round until he has done a good twenty miles. Then he would be prepared to give his experiences, which should (if written in the proper spirit) be of exceptional value as "copy." A thousand details will occur to those who take an interest in the matter, and may be filled in at leisure. I merely throw out the idea, leaving its development to others more worthy of the task than one who signs himself, in all humility, A PEN PLUS A LYRE.