_The Row at the Post Office_.--As the Savings' Bank Department has for years been the Cinderella of the Civil Service, this is a subject that will not create much interest; however, you might possibly extract a pleasantry out of the name of the present Postmaster-General in connection with the now-appeased _employés_. With a little trouble you should be able to say something quite sparkling about what the "officers" _hoe_ to _Raikes_! _The Portuguese Difficulty in Africa_.--Rather a good subject at a Christmas Dinner, where relatives (on particularly affectionate and intimate terms) are gathered together. Say you have got to the dessert, and you start the subject. Observe that it is fortunate that the SULTAN OF TURKEY is not interested in the matter, or there would be further trouble of a like character. To the question, "Why?" reply, taking up a bottle of red wine to point your witticism, "would it not be a second difficulty with the _Porte, you geese_?" To make the jest perfect, connect Turkey in Europe with the _dindon aux marrons_, of which you will have just partaken. _The Weather_.--If forced to fall back upon this venerable subject (which should only be broached in the wilds of Cornwall, or other equally primitive spots), of course you can speak of a hard frost being "_an ice_ day for a hunting-man, although he is sure to swear at it." If the weather breaks, you may observe, "_You thaw so_," but not when you have to shout the quibble through the ear-trumpet of a deaf old maid. And this, with the other witticisms recorded above, should carry you (by desire) into the middle of next week. * * * * * A DEADLY KISS.--The Hotch-kiss. * * * * * A PANTOMIMIC REVERIE. (_BY A "SLIPPERED PANTALOON."_) [Illustration] Tax-gatherers molest one's door, The streets are choked with messy mist; I'm the proverbial Bachelor, An old, prosaic Pessimist. Yet somehow--who can tell me why?-- Urged by the Past's dim Phantom, I'm Disposed my cosy Club to fly, And prank it at the Pantomime. A Phantom weird of things forgot! My mother, proud of me at her Sweet side--our yellow chariot-- The long, long drive--the theatre-- My fear to miss--my thrill when in-- The Fairy Queen, the jolly King-- The laughter flung at Harlequin, And Pantaloon arollicking. And sister PRUE, and brother TIM, (I scarcely recollected them), Magnificent in gala trim: Dear me, how I respected them! I deemed them quite grown up, so bold Seemed they, glared so defiantly: Yet they, too, cowered to behold Prone before JACK the Giant lie. Yes! Where is TIM, where PRUE, alack! Where mother fondly pliant now? Where for that matter too is JACK, And where the grisly Giant now? In lonely stall, with vacant brow I sit and eye the _coryphées_: In my time they were Fairies; now They seem to me but sorry fays.