[Illustration: "I sold my Chanst to the Butcher-boy!"] _Mr. S._ You unspeakable young idiot! But there, you will know better another time; and now go out at once, and order five hundred copies of _Tiddler_--a periodical which offers such intellectual and--ah--substantial advantages, deserves some encouragement. (_Exit_ ROBERT.) Now Mother, PARMENAS, girls--all of you, let us set to work, and see--just for the--ah--fun of the thing--if we can't be more fortunate with the _next_ competition. We'll have Cook and JANE, and--ah--ROBERT in to help; the housework can look after itself for once ... what is it _now_, PRISCILLA? _Prisc. (faintly)._ I've just seen this. (_Reads._) "In consequence of the recent decision at Bow Street, those who send solutions for this, and any future competitions, will not be required to forward any remittance with their coupons----" _Mr. S._ (_approvingly_). An admirable arrangement--puts a stop at once to any pernicious tendency to--ah--speculation! _Prisc._ (_continuing_)--"and successful competitors must, we fear, be content with no other reward than that of honourable mention." _Mr. S._ Here, send after ROBERT, somebody! It's scandalous that the precious time of a whole family should be frittered away in these unedifying and--ah--idiotic competitions. I will not allow another _Tiddler_ to enter my house! _Robert_ (_entering with his arms full of "Tiddlers"_). Please, Sir, I brought a 'undred, Sir, and they'll send up the rest as soon as ever they----Oh Lor, Sir, I on'y done as I was told, Sir! [_He is pounced upon, severely cuffed by a righteously indignant family, and sent flying in a whirlwind of tattered "Tiddlers," as the Scene closes._ * * * * * LAYS OF MODERN HOME. THE MUFFIN MAN. [Illustration] Ah! welcome, through autumnal mist, For each returning ruralist, Waif metropolitan, to list Thy tinkle unto. No sound of seas or bees or trees Can Londoners so truly please-- The cheapest epicure with ease Thy dainties run to. They need not, like the fruits on sticks, The fruits Venetian boyhood licks, A voice with operatic tricks Their praise to trumpet. The simple bell shall, fraught with sense Of teapot, urn, and hearth intense. Best herald thee and thy commensurable crumpet. Lives there a cit with soul so dead Who never to himself hath said, "This is my crisp, my native-bred, My British muffin!"? Let picturesque Autolyci Their cloying foreign dainties cry; _I_ don't see much to buy, not I, Such messy stuff in! Mysterious vagrant, dost prepare Thyself that inexpensive fare; Thyself, partake of it--and _where?_-- The boon thou sellest? 'Tis Home, where'er it be; thy load Can cheer the pauper's dark abode, And lack of it, with gloom corrode The very swellest.