'Tother WILLIAM snorts, L-BBY only grins; But at most all sports It is _judgment_ wins. Breed, though, now consorts With mongrels--for its sins! Long the sport I've loved, Mean to try again, I should be reproved Did I speak too plain: But--are dogs improved By that Irish strain? Steady, my lad, steady! Nearly slipped me then! You're too hot and heady-- (Like no end of men!--) _Near_!--but not _quite_ ready. Steady! _I_'ll say when! * * * * * VESTRYMEN CLIMBING DOWN.--Say the unfortunate Nonconformist Vestrymen of St. George's, Southwark,--"We won't pay the Rector's Rate; but we won't go to prison, at any rate." * * * * * PRUDES AND NUDES. [An "Officer of high rank" has written to _Truth_, complaining of the naked statues and pictures he saw at Londonderry House, at a sale on behalf of Irish Home Industries.] ATTEND and hear the story of a most uncommon _militaire_, Whom the sight of naked statues caused to tingle to his boots, Who was seen to beat his breast, and (which was far more flat and silly) tear His hair by blushing handfuls from its shocked and modest roots. It was dreadful! There were Duchesses (Heav'n bless their handsome faces!) And a host of pretty Countesses, and Maidens by the score, And they sold some Irish Industries--embroideries and laces-- And MADGE described to AMY all the pretty frocks they wore. But the statues and the paintings didn't seem at all to worry them, Having work to do they did it just as quiet as a mouse, Though this soldier took his daughter and his wife, and tried to hurry them In the cause of outraged virtue far from Londonderry House. So when next he goes where statues are, we'll do our best to hide them, Since to prudes all things are prudish, lest his modesty take hurt. Though some one else, perhaps, may write, and say he can't abide them, When Apollo stands in trousers, or when Venus wears a skirt. * * * * * FROM ROBERT.--"Sir, I'm proud of my furrin co-profeshunal LHÉROT, the himminint Waiter, wot nobbled the bomb-ta-ra (hif I may so igspress my sentimenx) waggybun, RAVACHOL. This Waiter is wot my french frend calls a '_Tray bong Gassong_,' and the wunnerful manner the french Waiters has of carryin a tray loded with drinkabels is worthy of the hippythep. He sez orlso has is name, hinsted of LHÉROT, ort to be andid down to posterittory as 'L'HÉROS'--wich word as rote down by hisself means 'The Hero.' He got a 1000 Franks, wich is rayther more nor wos ever got by one BOB." * * * * * [Illustration: A WAITING GAME. THE OLD KEEPER. "GENTLY! GENTLY!--MY BEAUTY! I'LL SAY '_WHEN_'!"] * * * * * [Illustration: REALLY PLEASANT!