What everyone knows is the human proboscis this _Bouquet de Babylon_ bothers. Surely pavements of wood cannot be very good when they lead to such stenches and smothers. Ah, Sir, and dear Madam, I'm sure old MCADAM --though scientist prigs may prove sceptic-- Would be welcomed back by the sore-throated pack. Mother Earth is the true Antiseptic!! And so ends my talk on a late evening walk, and the woes of this dashed wooden pavement, Which worries my nose, sets my thorax in throes, my nostrils stuffs up, till I'm like a pug pup, all snorts, sniffs, and snuffles; my temper it ruffles; gives me a choked lung, and a coppery tongue, a stomach at war, and a nasal catarrh; a cough and a sneeze, and a gurgle and wheeze; a thirst quite immense, and a general sense that the bore is intense; and a perfect conviction, beyond contradiction, that till the new brood paved our city with wood, and its air made impure with dust-powdered manure, I never was sure that at last I had hit on one poor true-born Briton who _was_ for a sore-throated slave meant! * * * * * CABBY'S ANSWERS. (_To Mr. James Payn's Conundrum._) ["Why does a cabman always indignantly refuse his proper fare?"--JAMES PAYN.] Oh well, becos fare is _not_ fair! Becos sech lots o' fares is shabby! Becos yer Briton is a bear, Or else a blessed ignerent babby! Becos bare fare comes bloomin' 'ard, And wot is 'ard cannot be "proper"! Becos we're worrited by the "Yard," The British Female and the "Copper"! Becos if yer takes wot is guv, Yer fare thinks 'e's too freely "parted"! The more _you_ shows yer "brotherly love" The more the fare gets 'arder 'earted. Becos if one bob for two mile You takes, wivout a botheration, Fare sniffs a diddle in yer smile; (That's wy we puts on hindignation!) Becos "strike-measure" do _not_ pay, In sububs lone, with fare's wot's shabby. Becos--well fin'lly. _I_ should say, Becos Fare's Fare, and Cabby's Cabby! * * * * * [Illustration: OUR DECADENTS. _Flipbutt_ (_the famous young Art-Critic_). "ULLO! WHAT'S THIS PENCIL SKETCH I'VE JUST FOUND ON THIS EASEL?" _Our Artist._ "OH, IT'S BY FLUMPKIN--THE IMPRESSIONIST FELLOW ALL YOU YOUNG CHAPS ARE SO ENTHUSIASTIC ABOUT, YOU KNOW. CLEVER, AIN'T IT?" _Flipbutt._ "_CLEVER!_ WHY, IT'S DIVINE! SUCH FRESHNESS, SUCH NAÏVETÉ! SUCH A SPLENDID SCORN OF MERE CONVENTIONAL TECHNIQUE! SUCH A----" _Our Artist._ "ULLO, OLD MAN! A THOUSAND PARDONS! THAT'S THE WRONG THING YOU'VE GOT HOLD OF! THAT'S JUST A SCRIBBLE BY THIS LITTLE SCAMP OF A GRANDSON OF MINE. HIS FIRST ATTEMPT! NOT VERY PROMISING, I FEAR; BUT HE'S ONLY FOUR!"] * * * * * "VIVE LA RÉPUBLIQUE!" ENGLAND TO FRANCE.--JUNE, 1894.