_December_.--First signs of a probable second edition of a "good old-fashioned Christmas" recognised. General panic in consequence. Attempt to lynch the Clerk of the Weather at Greenwich, only frustrated by the appearance of a strong force of Police. 1891 terminates in gloomy despair. * * * * * EDWIN AND ANGELINA. (_ONE MORE VERSION._) [Illustration] DEAR MR. PUNCH,--I beg of you to hear my tale of woe, My case is really one of those I'm sure you'd like to know; How EDWIN and myself, at last, have quarrelled and have parted, And I am left to shed a tear--alone, and broken-hearted. We were engaged for eighteen months--he often said that life Would not be worth the living, if I would not be his wife. My eyes, though brown, were "blue" to him, my hair a "silken tangle," He'd given me his photograph, and such a lovely bangle! I had called upon his mother, and had often stayed to tea-- She said that EDWIN had, indeed, a lucky catch in me. I thought him quite a model youth--hard-working, loyal, steady, A thrill of pleasure filled me when he wrote, "Your own, own EDDY.", Oh! a brighter and a gladder day is surely never known Than when EDWIN calls his darling ANGELINA his "own own." It warmed me with the glow of love, it cheered me up when lonely, Yet I didn't feel so happy, when it came to be, "Yours only." The extra syllable indeed did not increase the charm, I tried, however, to believe it didn't mean much harm; So confident was I that naught our love could hurt or sever, But it looked suspicious when next time he only put, "Yours ever." He only called me darling once! how different from before! Oh, could it be he liked me less (or other maiden more)? And was he tired of me--the girl he loved so fondly, dearly? It could not be! And then he wrote, "I am, Yours most sincerely." Yes--was he going to fling me off as though a worn-out glove? You can't do with Sincerity if what you need is Love! I could not think such ill of him, although it did look queerly, That in his next the "most" was gone, and he was mine "sincerely." Yet even then I loved him still, for in the human breast Hope springs eternal, so I dared to hope on for the best; And, after all, such things as these ought not to weigh unduly, But it _was_ more than I could bear to have to read, "Yours truly." The truth was clear--I quickly sent him back his lovely _cartes_, His bangle, and his poetry of Cupid and his darts. I said to him how grieved I was his love had thus miscarried-- And then I found out everything; alas! the wretch was married. So here am I, as beautiful as anyone I know, You couldn't get a better wife, no matter where you go. And if you know, dear _Mr. Punch_, a husband, say you've seen a Nice girl, who'd make him happy and whose name is ANGELINA. * * * * *