You ask me how I am, nor let it pass, But keep on asking till I tell you how; 'Twere rude to bid you not to be an ass, Churlish to turn a greeting to a row; But, knowing that my general health is fair, Why should you daily ask, why should you care? I sometimes wonder, while my knuckles ache With unrequited pressure of your digits, While whispered mysteries of nought you make, And take no notice of my patent fidgets-- I wonder how a real old friend you'd flatter, And how reveal a really private matter. Think but a moment, (if you ever think,) I never knead your knuckles with my thumb, I never proffer an untimely drink, About my own affairs I'm ever dumb, Yet I believe, in your impulsive way, You think we're bosom friends from childhood's day. Yes, though they brand our English ways as cold, Meetings like ours make glad the whole huge city. The magnate, weighty as though shod with gold, The lawyer's clerk, precocious, slim and writty, All have the same convulsive warmth of greeting For casual people whom they're always meeting. Is it perchance self-preservation's law That drives good will, drowning in Mammon's sea, To clutch in frenzy at a man of straw, And cheer a heart with the hand's amity, That in the way of business would stab it-- Or is it only an absurd bad habit? * * * * * A PUFF AND A BLOW. Should tropical weather continue, let dusted, wooden-pavemented, sore throated, weary Londoner, take train Sunday Morning 11 A.M. Victoria, or rather let train take _him_, right away to Dover, where he will at once step on board the _Calais-Douvres_, and get one hour and a quarter's worth of ozone into his system. Then at 2.15 he will land at Calais, when, free of baggage, wraps, and all such-like _impedimenta_, he will walk into the buffet of the hotel, and having made his choice from many excellent things there set before him, he will proceed to walk into his _déjeuner à la fourchette_, for which meal he will have ample time, seeing that the _Calais-Douvres_ does not start on its return voyage till 3.45. After _déjeuner_ comes the _fourchette_, or "fork out," which, if the voyageur be wisely content with the _ordinaire_, will amount to a very moderate sum. Then, exclaiming with the ancient pirate of bye-gone nautical melodrama, "Once aboard the lugger and we are free," he will saunter, leisurely, with cigar, pipe, or cigarette, according to the taste and fancy of the smoker, down to the boat. There, if he be wise and wary, he will at once re-embark, in order to secure a comfortable arm-chair in a good position, long before any trains bearing hot and dusty travellers from Belgium or Paris shall appear. There he can sit, smoking calmly under a cool sunshade, placidly watching the shooting of the luggage, which is unattended by any danger, each box