_Progressists_, indeed! Ah, _I_'d "progress" 'em, pack o' perposterous hasses, A regular pollyglot lot, breeding strife 'twixt the classes and masses. The masses is muck; that's _my_ motter, as who should have learnt it more betterer? BUMBLE could hopen the heyes of them BOOTHSES, JOHN BURNSES, ancetterer. Snow? Is it _me_ brings the snow, and the hice, and the peasoupy slushiness, Making the subbubs one slough? No! The Age is give over to gushiness. Parties as writes to the Papers is snivellers, yus, every one of 'em, Barring the few as cracks jokes, though I own as I can't see the fun of 'em. Look at "UCALEGON," now, him as writes to a cheap daily journal, Along o' the '"Orrors of 'Ampstead," as _he_ calls hy--wot's it?--"hybernal," (Wotever that crackjaw may mean) or that fellow, "INFELIX THE"-- blow it. Sech names you can't write nor yet spell, if you're not a School Board or a Poet. Talks of our "hard hide," does, "INFELIX," I'd like to lay hands upon hisn! All becos Upper 'Ampstead, it seems, is a sort of a dark ice-bound prison. No 'busses, no trams, and no cabs, no grub, and no gas, and no water! Ha! ha! Pooty picter it is, and thanks be I don't dwell in _that_ quarter! But wot's it to do with poor Me? If he wants it himproved he had best try Them proud County-Councillor coves, not come wallopping into the Westry. Wot use, too, to talk of Wienna? Don't know where that is, and don't wanter, But, 'cording to "SNOWBOUND," their style of snow-clearing beats ourn in a canter. Ratepayers' Defencers may rave, and the scribblers may scold or talk funny, But clean streets in Winter mean this,--_you must plank down a dollup more money_! _Me_ up and be doing meanwhile? No, not if I jolly well knows it. I likes my own fireside too well to go snow-clearing, don't you suppose it. A choice between slither and slush may come 'ard on the Mighty Metrolopus, But Westrydom ain't on the job, 'owsomever they worry and wallop us. Bless yer, we've stood it before, and can stand it agen, all this fussing. _My_ game's a swig and a smoke; as for them--they can go on "discussing." [_Shuts door, and retires to his snuggery for spirituous solace_. * * * * * [Illustration: BUMBLE AT HOME; OR, "THE WINTER OF OUR DISCONTENT." "CLEAR THE STREETS!--AND IN SUCH BEASTLY WEATHER?--UGH! NOT IF I KNOW IT!!" (_December 31, 1890, and January, 1891._)] * * * * * THE COMPOSER COMING. [Illustration: "I've an hoe," by Sir Arthur Sullivan.] [Illustration: Mus Doc.]