If you're ever in want of a subject for verse-- (Which I venture to say you may very well be)-- When you're strongly disposed to indulge in a curse, Like a golfer enraged at an afternoon tee, Then take my advice. When you're badly at sea, Just ask some fair lady to help you to settle Your subject. Here's one which was given to me-- _How long would a bat keep alive in a kettle?_ How long would it be, ere it felt getting worse, And seriously thought it must give up the G (Where G is the ghost), and how soon would a hearse Be required for the poor little corpse. Or with glee Would the sprightly small animal gaily make free, And kick up its heels in the finest of fettle, Considering it all as a wonderful spree-- _How long would a bat keep alive in a kettle?_ Now it wouldn't be truthful to say that my purse Has a superabundance of £, _s._, or _d._, Yet I don't mind confessing I'd gladly disburse All I _have_ got to know who it was--he or she-- Who fooled the poor bat to so great a degree. But it's really high time to take hold of the nettle And end this ballade (you must spell with an _e_)-- _How long would a bat keep alive in a kettle?_ _L'Envoi._ Fair Lady, I own that I felt up a tree, At the thought of the subject. But, put on one's mettle, It _can_ be done somehow--your thanks are my fee-- _How long would a bat keep alive in a kettle?_ * * * * * FIZZ AND FUSS. Once more America "takes the cake" for grotesque absurdity. Mr. JAMES PAYN tells us the teetotal folks there are shocked at the idea of christening ships with champagne! Well, perhaps it _is_ a waste of good liquor. "The rosy" in any form must surely be as completely "thrown away" on the hull of an ironclad as titillation on a turtle's back or (as SIDNEY SMITH put it) the dome of St. Paul's. The total abstainer, it seems, "on the occasion of baptising a new liner," sent the President (who was to perform the ceremony) "a bottle of water as a substitute." The Irishman supplied with whiskey to clean windows with drank the liquor and _breathed on the glass!_ Perhaps the President may see his way to taking a leaf out of PADDY'S book. Let him drink the fizz (if it is good enough) and "blow the water-drinkers!" Foolish fanatics! They surely forget that for every bottle of "the boy" bestowed on an insensible, unappreciative ship, there is one less left to "gladden the heart of man." * * * * * THE CHRONICLES OF A RURAL PARISH. VII.--THE REAL THING. The poll is over, and the Parish Council for Mudford is at last a _fait accompli_--or almost so. Yet, before I come to relate the story of the polling, there are one or two matters which, as a conscientious historian, I think I should not be justified in omitting.