_Lottie and Carrie_. If you say one word more, either of you, we'll go home! [_FREDDY and 'ECTOR follow them meekly in search of Aunt MARIA as the Scene closes in._ * * * * * VOICES OF THE NIGHT. (_IN FLEET STREET._) Oh raucous street--"_Echo_," whose vile _vox clamantis_ Is, like the Salvationist's shout, heard a mile hence, I wish, _how_ I wish,--ah! yes, that what we want is!-- Some Cockney Narcissus could charm you to silence. Ah, me! no such luck; in the clear autumn twilight Your shriek on my tympanum stridently jars. "_Echo_" murders repose, mars the daffodil sky light; And if one thing sounds worse 'tis "the Voice of the _Stars_"! * * * * * [Illustration: JUST CAUGHT THE POST!] _Sir J-m-s F-rg-ss-n loquitur_:-- Just in time to catch the Post! Pheugh! But the Pats would have "had me on toast" (As 'ARRY would say in his odious slang), If I had been but a little bit later. Out o' breath as it is. Ah, hang This hurrying business! My mouth's like a crater, Dreadfully dry, and doosedly hot. Rather a downer, this is, for SCOTT's lot! Feared Mrs. Manchester _might_ just say (In the popular patter of my young day) "_It is all very well_ (with a wink and a jeer), _But you_, Master FERGUSSON, _don't lodge here!_" All right now, though! Saved my bacon. My defeat might the Cause have shaken. Just in time. There! Popped it in! Awfully glad it conveys a Win; Although One Fifty ain't _much_ to boast,-- 'Twixt you and me and the (General) Post! * * * * * WILLIAM HENRY SMITH. BORN, JUNE 24, 1825. DIED, OCTOBER 6, 1891. O'er-busy Death, your scythe of late seems reaping Swiftly our heads of State; The wise who hold our England's weal in keeping, The gentle and the great. GRANVILLE is gone; and now another Warden Falls with the fading leaf, Leaving at Hatfield sorrow, and at Hawarden Scarcely less earnest grief. All mourn the Man whose simple steadfast spirit Made hearty friends of all. Whilst manhood like to his her sons inherit England need fear no fall. No high-perched, privileged and proud possessor Of lineal vantage he; Of perorating witchery no professor, Or casuist subtlety. A capable, clear-headed, modest toiler, Touched with no egoist taint, To Duty sworn, the face of the Despoiler Made him not fear or faint. O'erworn, o'erworked, with smiling face, though weary, The tedious task he plied. Sagacious, courteous, ever calm and cheery Unsoured by spleen or pride. As unprovocative as unpretentious, Skilful though seeming-slow; Unmoved by impulse of conceit contentious To risk success for show. O rare command of gifts, which, common-branded, Are yet so strangely rare! Selflessness patient, judgment even-handed And spirit calmly fair!