At last at the top. Look over at happy, sleepy Pisa, and wish I was down there. So I should be, pretty soon, if he threw me over! Just then he says he would like a few cigars. Tell him I will make it six lire, and that I should now like to go down. No! I must see Livorno. Hang Livorno! But obey him meekly. Then he says he has some antiquities for sale, among them some swords and daggers. Ah! Just what I thought. Glance nervously at the straight thing in his pocket, and say I will look at them. Then he wants me to look over the iron railing at the sloping base below. Hang over in the air? Never! But he will hold my legs. What? Balance myself on a slender bar, while a brigand, as he probably is, tilts me over by the boots? Would sooner buy all the antiquities in Pisa. Good idea. Tell him I will buy his swords if I can go at once to see them. Whereupon he hurries down so fast that I cannot keep pace with him. But I feel happier as I get nearer the outer world, and at last step out safely on to the level earth. Look joyously at the beautiful grass and the road to the railway station. Then perceive the _custode_ and a little man with him. Can that be my guide? Why, I could knock him down easily! What a fool I was to be afraid of him! Still, that dagger--I must pay him the six lire as I have promised them. He reminds me that I also promised to buy his swords. Feel inclined to dispute this, but cannot. So settle it by giving him six lire more. Then, before hurrying to the station, ask him to show me the thing in his pocket. "_Si, signore_," says he, in a meek, deferential tone, and pulls it out. It is a flute. A FIRST IMPRESSIONIST. * * * * * [Illustration: _Temperance Enthusiast._ "LOOK AT THE BEAUTIFUL LIVES OUR FIRST PARENTS LED. DO YOU SUPPOSE _THEY_ EVER GAVE WAY TO STRONG DRINK?" _The Reprobate._ "I 'XPECT EVE MUST 'A' DONE. SHE SAW SNAKES!"] * * * * * THE SEASONS. When Winter flies, and sunny skies Invite the lark to sing, my dear, My heart in exultation cries, "Ah! give me balmy Spring, my dear!" When scented Summer fills the air With zephyrs from the West, my dear, I stretch me on the grass and swear I love the Summer best, my dear. When gorgeous Autumn paints the wood In red and gold, and green, my dear, I cry delighted, "By the Rood, But Autumn is the Queen, my dear!" And yet, when through the leafless trees Skirls loud the icy blast, my dear, We, basking by the fire at ease, Do hear it sweeping past, my dear; And when you mix, as well you know, My tumbler reeking hot, my dear, Why then, what matter ice and snow?-- Bleak Winter beats the lot, my dear! * * * * * DIARY OF A DUCK. ["It is even hinted that the London County Council may fill the lakes and ponds of the Metropolitan Parks with sea water."--_Daily Paper._]