_Farewell!_ The tender is about to depart. It seems to me to be as full as when it arrived. "Cheers, tears and laughter:" only the laughter is a bit forced, while the tears are natural, and the cheers most hearty. The tender hesitates. Tug evidently tender-hearted; can't bear to part with the good ship _Orotava_. No; this is not the cause of the delay. Some one is waited for. Tender crew impatient. Where is he? Who is he? Find him. Some one, in ordinary frock coat and top hat but clearly an official on board tender, puts both hands to his month and shouts out what sounds to me like "Wait for Mister TUBBS!" Evidently tender cannot go ashore without TUBBS; equally evident that TUBBS is not to sail with the _Orotava_. Puzzle, to find TUBBS. Stewards, chief officers, mates, men rush in all directions to rout out TUBBS. Look-out man aloft in sort of suspended clothes basket cannot get a sight of TUBBS either in the offing or out of it. Nothing like TUBBS to be seen anywhere. Somebody reports at top of voice "He's with the captain." Captain up above somewhere, invisible, denies soft impeachment as to being cognisant of the whereabouts of TUBBS. What is TUBBS doing? Playing hide and seek? Search light turned on into darkest and deepest depths of _Orotava_. No TUBBS. Suddenly first gangway withdrawn, and grasp of tender partially relaxed. Exciting moment. Crew of tender rattle second gangway threateningly: their patience is almost exhausted. The cry goes up once more for TUBBS ahoy! Even the weeping wives and sorrowing friends, lovers and children forget their dear ones for a moment and strain their eyes in every direction, gasping for a glimpse of invisible TUBBS. At last a small, stoutish figure appears on the gangway. Is he hatless? breathless? Not a bit of it. He walks the gangway as if he yet had hours of leisure before him, and was quite unconscious of having kept anyone waiting. It is TUBBS himself. The self-possession of TUBBS is remarkable, nay admirable. He notices nobody. Speaks to nobody. Suddenly he disappears; the gangway is withdrawn; more cheers, more waving of pocket-handkerchiefs, and the tender, with the impassive TUBBS to boot, drifts out of sight, and the _Orotava_ is fairly under weigh. * * * * * [Illustration: WITHOUT PREJUDICE. _Ugly Man_ (_who thinks he's a privileged wag, to Artist_). "NOW, MR. _DAUB_IGNY, DRAW ME." _Artist_ (_who doesn't like being called_ Daub_igny, and whose real name is Smith_). "CERTAINLY. BUT YOU _WON'T_ BE OFFENDED IF IT'S _LIKE_ YOU. EH?"] * * * * * THAT POOR IRISH HARP! MOORE hymned the "Irish Melodies," And as he harped all heeded _his_ chords. But heaven help the bard who tries To harmonise the "Irish Discords" The Paddies quarrel, gird, and carp, Blend petty squeak with mad mock-thunder. No Minstrel Boy may tune that Harp Since faction "tore its chords asunder." * * * * *