_The Verger_ (_austerely_). There's nothing in _this_ Cathedral for gentlemen o' _your_ sort, and I'm surprised at your expecting of it. [_He turns on his heel._ _First 'Arry_ (_to Second_). I spoke civil enough to _'im_, didn't I? What did 'e want to go and git the fair 'ump about? _Second 'Arry._ Oh, _I_ dunno. But you don't ketch _me_ comin' over to no more cathedrils, and wastin' time and money all for nuthink--that's all! [_They tramp out, feeling that their confidence has been imposed upon._ * * * * * TO A GREEK AT "THE ORIENT." At your dress I marvel mutely-- Green and white, with gold about; Grandly gay, you absolutely, Cut me out. Like a lamp-shade is that nether Garment, yet, without a doubt, You look fine, and altogether Cut me out. I, dull Englishman, am neatly Clothed in black and grey, without Any colours. You completely Cut me out. She, whose smile is sweetly dimply, Pretty, even though she pout, Seems entranced. With _her_ you simply Cut me out. She admires you, and she barely Looks at me, a sombre lout. Hang you, in that dress you fairly Cut me out. * * * * * GENTLE AND SOOTHING OCCUPATION FOR AN OARSMAN.--"Stroking an eight." * * * * * [Illustration: BOTANY; OR, A DAY IN THE COUNTRY. "SAY, BILLIE, SHALL WE GAVER MUSHROOMS?" "YUS. I'M A BEGGAR TO CLIMB!"] * * * * * MEETING A VERY OLD FRIEND. (_A Postscript to a Well-known Work._) ALICE was delighted with all she saw. Statesmen, generals, celebrities of every kind. Then there were marvellous animals--some ferocious, others satirical, every one of them as true to nature as could be. "Where am I?" asked ALICE. "In the gallery of the Fine Arts Society, 148, New Bond Street." "And, please, who has done all these wonderful things?" "The great J. T.," was the reply. And then she fell to admiring them. She had some difficulty in getting to the drawings, for every picture was surrounded by a little crowd of worshippers. And she was not in the least surprised, because the devotion had been justly earned. Before her she found a specimen of the labours of nearly half a century. Everything good and beautiful. "Dear me!" she murmured, as she approached No. 160 in the Catalogue. "Why here I am myself! I am so glad I am like that. What should I have been had I not had so kind an artist to sketch me?" And the possibility opened out such a vista of disasters that ALICE was almost moved to tears. But she soon regained her gaiety when she had glanced at "_Winding 'em up_" (No. 161), "_A Bicycle built for Two_" (No. 148), and "_The Mask of Momus_" (No. 99). "But shall I meet the Knights?" she asked, after a while. "I should, because I certainly am living in Wonderland."