Two "social questions" soon, we may expect. Will, in two continents, raise a social storm:-- "Is it _correct_ to say a thing's 'correct'"? "Is it _good form_ to use the phrase 'good form'"? Or will both go, with those who finely feel, The way of "gentlemanly," and "genteel"? Shall _Punch_ attempt to settle it? No, thankee! He rather thinks he'll leave it to the Yankee. What matters it about _our_ played-out tongue? (In which some good things _have_ been said and sung.) Let those the war of "Saxon _versus_ Slang" wage, Who have the charge of "the American Language." That _has_ a future (HOWELL'S law, and Fate's!) "The language of the Great United States" (Unless through cant and coarseness it goes rotten) The world will speak when "English" is forgotten. * * * * * The Coming Fall. The Autumn comes. We welcome it-- A change from Summer heat appalling. The birds once more begin to flit To warmer climes, the leaves are falling. But portent clear as clear can be, We know that Autumn comes by reasoning "Look all the papers that we see Are daily stuffed with silly seasoning." * * * * * "A QUIET PIPE." [Illustration] "One touch of nature" kins To-day With classical Arcadia. This faun-like "nipper," Tree-perched, is tootling, tootling on, Though Pan be dead, Arcadia gone, And wild "Kazoos" are played upon By the cheap tripper. Half imp, half animal, behold The 'ARRY of the Age of Gold In this young satyr! Lover of pleasure and of "lush" (Silenus at the slang might blush), Of haunted Nature's holy hush Irreverent hater. Mischief and music, mockery, Swift eyes oblique in goblin glee, And nimble finger; Sardonic lips that slide with speed Athwart the ranged pastoral reed; Upon these things will fancy feed, And memory linger. Imp-urchin of the budding horn, Native to Nature's nascent morn, The same quaint pranks You played 'midst the Arcadian shade, By satyrs of to-day are played; Their nether limbs in "tweeds" arrayed Not shaggy shanks. Not cheap tan kids and KINO'S best Can hide the frolic faun confest, Or coarse Silenus; Like SPENSER'S satyrs, they attack us, With rompings rouse, with noises rack us, Brutes in the train of beery Bacchus, And vulgar Venus. 'ARRY'S mouth-organ is, indeed, Far shriekier than your shrilling reed, Pan-fathered piper; While his tin-whistle!--a wood-god, Whose tympanum _that_ sound should prod, Would start, and shriek, as though he trod Upon a viper. Ah, yes, my little satyr-friend, Better Arcadia than Southend On a Bank-Holiday! You and your Pan-pipe _might_ appear, And tootle, yet not rend my ear. Or with a novel Panic fear Upset a jolly day.