_Mal à la tête_, _ennui_, _migraine_, We risk in trying to explain Why, though the Income-tax is high, This country never can supply Such galleries as line the Seine. Yet gifts are treated with disdain, Which gives the would-be donors pain,-- We've now a name to call _that_ by, "_Mal à la_ TATE." Next time an offer's made in vain MACNEILL, or someone, will obtain, Or ask, at least, the reason why, And even dumber folks will cry, "By Jove! they've made a mull again, MULL _à la_ TATE!" * * * * * OUR BOOKING-OFFICE. [Illustration: Brer Rabbit.] Everybody who took delight in our old friend _Uncle Remus_ will thoroughly enjoy _A Plantation Printer_, by JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS. The Baron doesn't recommend it to be taken at one sitting, the dialect being rather difficult, but a chapter at a time will be found refreshing. The like advice may be acted upon by anyone who has invested in the latest volume of the Library of Wit and Humour, entitled _Faces and Places_. By H.W. LUCY. The "Faces" are represented by a portrait of Ride-to-Khiva BURNABY, and one of the Author of these entertaining papers. The first brief narrative, which ought to have been called "How I met BURNABY," is specially interesting; and the only disappointing thing in the book is the omission of "An Evening with Witches," as a companion picture to "A Night at Watts's." By the way, in my copy of _A Plantation Printer_, the English printer has made one slip, a sin of omission, at p. 153, where, Miss CARTER, a charming young lady, is watching a Georgian Fox-hunt. She sees "a group of shadows, with musical voices, sweep across the Bermuda fields." "'O ow beautiful!' exclaimed Miss CARTER, clapping her little hands," and, we may add, dropping her little "h" in her excitement. "I can put up with the loss of an 'h,' but not for a wilderness of aspirates would I have lost this healthy, cheery chapter," says THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS. * * * * * TO A RAILWAY FOOT-WARMER. At first I loved thee--thou wast warm,-- The porter called thee "'ot," nay, "bilin.'" I tipped him as thy welcome form He carried, with a grateful smile, in. Alas! thou art a faithless friend, Thy warmth was but dissimulation; Thy tepid glow is at an end, And I am nowhere near my station! I shiver, cold in feet and hands, It is a legal form of slaughter, They don't warm(!) trains in other lands With half a pint of tepid water. I spurn thy coldness with a kick, And pile on rugs as my protectors. I'd send--to warm them--to Old Nick, Thy parsimonious Directors! * * * * * RICH V. POOR. (_A NOTE KINDLY CONTRIBUTED BY OUR OWN GRAPHIC REPORTER._)