TO THE COUNTY COUNCIL. (_AD REMPUBLICAM._) [Illustration] New vessel, now returning ship From this thy tried and trial trip, Refit in dock awhile: I fear Your ballast looks a trifle queer. Your rigging ("rigging" is a word By other folk than seamen heard) Has got a little loose; you need An overhaul, you do indeed. Your sails (or purchases?) should stay The stress--and Press--that on them weigh: This constant playing to the gods Will scarcely weather blustering odds. In vain to blazon "London's Heart" As figure-head, if thus you part Unseaworthy; in vain to boast Your "boom"--a cranky boom at most. We rate you, _we_ who pay your rates: Beware the overhauling fates, Beware lest down you go at last The sport and puppet of the blast. I always voted you a bore, But never quite so much before Besought you with a frugal mind To sail not quite so near the wind. * * * * * MRS. R. AGAIN.--To our excellent old lady, being convalescent, her niece was reading the news. She commenced about the County Council, the first item in the report being headed, "An Articulated Skeleton." "Ah!" interrupted the good lady, "murder will out! And where did they find the skeleton of the Articulated Clerk?" * * * * * [Illustration: AN INCOMPLETE BIRTHDAY PRESENT. _Ethel_. "WHAT'S THE MATTER, MAMMA?" _Mamma_. "ETHEL, THERE ARE YOUR NEW GOLF THINGS JUST COME, THAT I ORDERED FOR YOU FROM EDINBORO, AND--ISN'T IT PROVOKING?--THEY'VE ACTUALLY FORGOTTEN _THE LINKS_!"] * * * * * OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.