_Miss Di (six feet in her stockings, to deeply-enamoured Curate, five feet three in his, whom she has inveigled out Otter-hunting)._ "OH, DO JUST PICK ME UP AND CARRY ME ACROSS. IT'S RATHER DEEP, DON'T YOU KNOW!" [_The Rev. Spooner's sensations are somewhat mixed._] * * * * * [Illustration: "THE APPLE OF DISCORD; OR, WHICH IS THE LAUREATE?" _Paris_ ... LORD R-S-B-RY. _Venus (à la Japonaise)_ ... SIR EDW-N ARN-LD. _Juno_ ... L-W-S M-RR-S. _Minerva_ ... ALFR-D A-ST-N.] * * * * * THE APPLE OF DISCORD. (_Modern Parliamentary Version._) [Replying to questions concerning the delay in filling up the post of Poet Laureate, Sir W. HARCOURT said, "This is a delicate question, and, amidst conflicting claims, I must shelter myself in the decency of the learned language, and I would reply, '_Poeta nascitur, non fit._' ... My hon. friend must remember what happened to the shepherd Paris when he had to award the apple, and the misfortunes which befel him and his partners--_spretæque injuria formæ_."] _Unpoetical Statesman sings:_-- I'm Paris the Shepherd, _pro tem._, And here are the three pseudo-goddesses!-- Different, truly, from them Who appeared, without veils, skirts, or bodices, Unto oenone's false swain. Well, I've no oenone to wig me; _But_--at the first glance it's so plain, Paris can't give the fruit to--a pigmy. HERÉ? Ah! this must be she! A classico-Cambrian Juno! Propriety's pink _all_ must see; But what other claims has she? Few know! Dull decency's all very fine; She has a fine smack of the chapel; But, dash it, I still must decline To give Goddess Grundy the apple! I'm sure she's domestic and chaste, A virtuous, worthy old body; But--that's scarce a goddess's waist, Her tone, too, is--well, Eisteddfoddy. I fear, if I gave the award To this _ex_cellentest of old ladies, Apollo might send me--'twere hard!-- To read one of her Epics--in Hades! Then Pallas! Well, Pallas looks proud, And I have no doubt might deserve a Big crown from a true Primrose crowd: But--she runs rather small for Minerva! Men _might_ mistake her for her owl. "Her rhymes," say swell Tories, "are rippin'!" But still, though the _Standard_ may scowl, I _can't_ award Pallas the pippin!