_Miss. P._ (_on the balcony, musing_). Poor fellows! I couldn't very well say anything more definite at present. By the time I see them again, I may understand my own heart better. Really, it is rather an exciting sensation, having two suitors under vow and doing penance at the same time--and all for my sake! I hope, though, they won't mention it to one another--or to BOB. BOB does not understand these things, and he might-- But, after all, there are only _two_ of them. And RUSKIN distinctly says that every girl who is worth _anything_ ought always to have half-a-dozen or so. Two is really _quite_ moderate. * * * * * A TOO-ENGAGING MAIDEN'S REPLY. (_BY MR. PUNCH'S KIND PERMISSION._) [Illustration] Yes, I read your effusion that lately got printed, And at first never guessed there was anything meant. But when someone suggested that something was hinted, On your verses some time I reluctantly spent. They are fair--and perhaps _you_ consider them clever, You're a poet, no doubt, of a _minor_ degree, But I never was startled so strangely--no, never! As to learn that the lady you mentioned was me! In the coolest of ways you sum up my attractions, Pray allow me to turn my attention to _you_. You are good, I believe, at the vulgarest fractions, You have cheek and assurance sufficient for two. You are what people reckon "a nice sort of fellow," Your sense of importance very strongly you feel. You are bilious, you've got a complexion of yellow, You are plainer than I am--which says a good deal. "Am I free altogether from blame in the matter?"-- And as to my frowning, I don't know the way-- Do you really imagine that insolent chatter Can affect me, or that _I_ care for what people say? With fervent adorers around by the dozen, For whom but my word is the law of their life. Do you think I'd occasion to pitch on a cousin, And announce that _you_ wanted myself as your wife? Do not think I am angry, I am good at forgiving, Have my constant refusals then made you so sour? Even poets in _Punch_ have to write for their living, And must wear their poor lives out at so much the hour. I am weary and tired of being proposed to, And at times I'm afraid it will injure my brain, But my heart for the future yourself, mind, is closed to, So don't, I implore, come proposing again. * * * * * A REAL BURNING QUESTION.--What should be done with the mischievous and malicious noodles who communicate false alarms (to the number of 518 in one year) to the London Fire Brigade, by means of the fire-alarm posts fixed for public convenience and protection in the public thoroughfares? The almost appropriate Stake is out of date, but _Mr. Punch_ opines that the Pillory would be none too bad for them. * * * * *