Then there is the daily arrival of the "coach," for such is the faded yellow omnibus styled, that meets the London train from Boxminster, which pulls up with a flourish at the "Three Golden Cups." There is seldom anything brought by this noteworthy conveyance, unless it be a package or parcel for Mr. DUNSTABLE, the one highly respectable tradesman in the town. DUNSTABLE's is _the_ emporium _par excellence_ where anything, from a patent drug down to the latest new novel, can be ordered down from Town. There is a tradition that old GEORGE THE THIRD, when passing through Torsington in the year 1793, stopped at DUNSTABLE's for some boot-laces, and, patting the grandfather of the present proprietor on the head, said, "What! what! none in stock! Then I think we must have some of these pretty curls instead." Anyhow, that is given as the reason for the style and title of "Dunstable's _Royal_ Library and Reading Room," which it has enjoyed without dispute from the commencement of the present century to the present day. I came here, as I said, by the advice of my medical adviser, to "pick up." How far Torsington-on-Sea has helped me to do this, I must deal with subsequently. * * * * * IGNORANT BLISS. [Illustration] At noon through the open window Comes the scent of the new-mown hay. I look out. In the meadow yonder Are the little lambs at play. They are all extremely foolish, Yet I haven't the heart to hint That over the boundary wall there grows A beautiful bed of mint. For a little lamb Will run to its mam. And will say "O! dam," At a hint, however well intentioned, When the awful name of mint is mentioned. At the close of day the burglar comes For to ply his gentle trade. I fondly gaze on his jemmy, and Grow timid and quite afraid. I wouldn't for kingdoms have him know That my neighbours of titled rank Went abroad on a sudden last night and left Their jewels at COUTTS's Bank. For a burglar bold Grows harsh and cold When he finds he's sold, And his burglar's bosom heaves at knowing That the sell of a swag isn't worth the stowing. I'm a poet--you may not know it, But I am and hard up for "tin," So I've written these clever verses And I hope they'll get put in. Yet Life is an awful lottery With a gruesome lot of blanks, And I wish the Editor hadn't slips That are printed "Declined with Thanks." For it's rather hard On a starving bard When his last trump card Is played, and he wishes himself bisected When his Muse's lays come back--rejected! * * * * * STORICULES. III.--THE DEAR OLD LADY.