Labour? Well yus, the best of hus must work; yer carn't git quit of it; And you and me, POLL, like the rest, must do our little bit of it. But oh, I loves my _freedom_, POLL, my hevenings hoff is 'eaven; But wives and slavies ain't allowed even one day in seven. Jigger the men! SAM spouts and shouts about the 'Onest Worker. That always means a Man, of course--_he's_ a smart Man, the shirker! But when a Man lives upon his wife, and skulks around his diggings, Who is the "'Onest Worker" then?--Yours truly, 'ARRIET 'IGGINGS. * * * * * FROM GRAVE TO GAY; OR, THE SECRET OF SUCCESS. [Illustration] DASH BLANK was a genius. He had been an immense success at school, and had done admirably at the University. He then came up to town and tried many things. He was a poet, a musician, an artist, an inventor. And everyone he knew, said it was absolutely wonderful, and that he should make a fortune. But just at the moment he had a fair income, which had been left to him by his deceased relative, and there was no occasion to augment his means. On the contrary, if anything, his accomplishments were rather a loss to him than a gain. So the situation existed for a time. Then came a crash in the City, and poor DASH BLANK found himself penniless. It was then he tried to turn his talents to account, but found that their market value was _nil_, or even less. But, fortunately, he was "such a genius," and to persons of that class often come what may be termed happy thoughts. DASH BLANK disappeared--completely, absolutely. His absence remained unnoticed for some time, and then, of a sudden, his death got into the papers. It was copied from one journal to another, until the intelligence was conveyed from one end of the Empire to the other. Then some one made the discovery that DASH BLANK had not been appreciated. Immediately all his brilliant failures were unearthed, and advertised into popularity. His poems on republication realised hundreds, and his pictures thousands; his wonderful invention was patented, turned into a Company of Limited Liability, and quickly realised a fortune. DASH BLANK was a name to conjure with--it was typical of success. At length a statue was erected to his memory, and the unveiling became an important function. All sorts of smart people were present, and the finest things imaginable were said about his career. When it was all over, the Sculptor was left alone with what had been recently termed his "masterpiece." "No," said he; "it is not a bit like poor DASH. I never could get his expression." "It's not bad," observed a man in a cloak, who had come up while he was murmuring, and who now stood beside him; "not at all bad, considering he never gave you a sitting." "That's true enough," replied the Sculptor; "but how did you know it?" "Because I happen to be DASH BLANK himself!" and then the man in the cloak threw off that covering, and revealed his identity.