EDWARD WATTS _did_ marry MARY BEETLES, and they are now doing well at Little Pannington. The village all-sorts shop has grown into a "Stores," and those who are in the know say that at a near date it will be converted into a "Company, Limited." Be this as it may, EDWARD and MARY drive to chapel in their own gig. And what became of PAUL PETERSON? Overwhelmed with the secret sorrow that could never be shared by another, he went his way to the wilds of Australia. And there, under the starlight influence of the Southern Cross, and amidst the glorious glaciers of the Boomerang Mountains, he tries to forget the terrible and half-forgiven details of the "Deed in Drab." THE END. There, Sir, you have the ending of ninety-nine novels out of a possible hundred. In the hands of an experienced writer the sentences might be so adapted as to meet the requirements of the book completing the century. Surely the suggestion is worthy of the attention of a MUDIE, and the consideration of a W. H. SMITH. Yours faithfully, MULTUM IN PARVO. * * * * * [Illustration: SUPPRESSIO VERI. _Mr._ "AND HOW OLD ARE YOU, DEAR CHILD?" _Little Miss._ "I SHOULD LIKE TO SAY I'M EIGHT--BUT MAMMA WON'T LET ME!"] * * * * * YE GENTLEMEN OF HOLLAND. AN ODE TO THE DUTCH CRICKETERS. AIR--"_Ye Mariners of England._" I. Ye Gentlemen of Holland That guard your native stumps, Ye come to bat on wickets damp, And block the ball that bumps. The "glorious game" you play amain, And may you match the foe; And smite left and right, While the balls for "boundaries" go; While your batsmen run 'em fast and long, And the balls for "boundaries" go! II. The spirits of your fathers Should watch you from the wave!-- The brine, it was their field of fame; On turf you're just as brave. As VAN TROMP'S and DE RUYTER'S did Your manly breasts must glow As you smite left and right, While the balls for "boundaries" go; Whilst the batsmen run 'em fast and long, And the balls for "boundaries" go! III. BRITANNIA loves to encounter Her ancient foes--in peace. Our march is to the wickets green, Our home is at the crease. With volleys from her native wood She meets the friendly foe, As they smite left and right, And the balls for "boundaries" go; While the batsmen run 'em fast and long, And the balls for "boundaries" go! IV. The willows of old England, Dutch willows shall not spurn! Your team we'll cheer when they depart, We'll welcome their return! Then, then ye willow-warriors, Our song and feast shall flow To the fame of your name, When to Holland back ye go; When the shout "How's that?" is heard no more, And to Dutchland back ye go! * * * * * PUTTING HIS FOOT IN IT; _Or, The Wilful Markee._