Pouf! Pouf! I'm that awfully out of breath with my long and terrified scamper, With that bull on my track, and this bag on my back, a burden that Milo would hamper. Though Milo was not a pedestrian "pot," nor was it a turnstile that nipped him; No, if I remember my classics aright, 'twas the fork of a pine-tree that gripped him. But nowadays one had need be a Milo and a fleet Pheidippides in one, Sir. And with carrying weight I'm in such a state, it isn't much further _I_ can run, Sir. Oh, drat that bull! Will nobody pull the brute by the tail, and stop him? Such beasts didn't ought to be let loose; in the _clôture_ pound they should pop him, With a gag on his muzzle. This turnstile's a puzzle, with its three blessed wings, confound it! I don't see my way to getting through it, and there's no way of getting round it; And I _am_ that fat--no, I won't say that; but I'm not, like dear ARTHUR, quite lathy. And I'm sure, by the bellow of that bull, that the fellow is getting exceedingly wrathy. Pouf! Now for a burst! Which to take the first of the turnstile wings is the floorer. If I breast it wrongly, though I'm going strongly, I'll expose my rear to yon roarer. Eugh! I fancy I feel his horns, like steel, my person viciously prodding. Against such points broadcloth's no protection, although padded with woollen "wadding." Oh, hang this bag! I shall lose the swag, if I slacken or lag one second. I thought I had measured my distance so well, but I fear that I must have misreckoned. That bull of GLADDY'S most certainly mad is, though he gave me his word, the Old Slyboots, It was perfectly quiet. I have SALISBURY'S fiat, but I wish he was only in _my_ boots. "Tithes first," indeed! Why, with all my speed, and my puffings, and perspiration, I doubt if I'll be in time to get through; and as for that "Compensation," It is sure to stick. "_Quick_, SMITH, _man_, _quick!_" Oh, it's all very well to holloa; With a sack on one's back, and a bull on one's track, 'tisn't easy that counsel to follow. My life's hardly worth an hour's "Purchase," if I'm overtaken by Taurus. Such brutes didn't ought to be loose in the fields, to bore us, and score us, and gore us. "_Run! run!_" Oh, _ain't_ I running like winking? Reach the turnstile? I may just do it But with its three wings--oh, confound the things!--I much doubt if I'll ever get _through_ it! [_Left trying._ * * * * * WEEK BY WEEK.