Then he that made the little songs For ARTHUR--deftly could he make the same-- Budged not; but ARTHUR rose and silently, Whether by malice of the mind prepense, Or by the merest inadvertency, (As he alleged that felt it,) drew his fist And smote him on the digit heavily, And ceased, * * * * * But lo! ARTHUR was 'ware of one that winked on him, Clothed all in sable, stout, constabular: Then murmured ARTHUR, "Place me in the dock!" So to the dock they came eventually. And there the pressmen came and sampled him; And later came the Bar and pleaded for him; And last the Bench observed, "More things are wrought By misadventure than you might suppose, And such the case before us; yea, a tort Committed in a temporary state Of sheer oblivion. We dismiss the suit." So from the Court serenely ARTHUR passed, And passing held communion with himself How he should work it up for future gag. * * * * * FRIENDLY FRENCH FEELING AND FISHING.--Oh, of course, nothing could be nicer. They _are_ so fond of us English in France! Can't possibly do without us. The latest development of it, in a small way, being the seizure of a Ramsgate fishing-smack, called the _Bonnie Bell_, by a French fishing-boat, which hauled the _B. B._ into Gravelines. "Hard lines" this. Anyway it is a nasty fishing "smack" in the eye, given and taken. And where's the friendly feeling? * * * * * [Illustration: STUDIES IN ANIMAL LIFE. THE SEA-LION ASHORE.] * * * * * AN AWFUL OUTLOOK. (_For "Love in the Arbour."_) A DARWINITE tells us some flowers can _see_! This adds a new terror to botany. For lovers, and ladies, will surely agree Blossoms' tongues could tell tales--had they got any: The _Fat Boy_ in _Pickwick_, an Arbour-eaves-dropper, To amorous "spoons" was a terror; But flowers with eyes for what Aunts call "improper"? That is a look-out, and no error! 'Tis climbers and parasites chiefly, we're told, Who're gifted with optical powers. Well nymphs will be roguish, and swains will be bold, Notwithstanding inquisitive--flowers! The Virgin, no doubt, will invite the sly kiss, Despite the Virginian Creeper; And _Corydon_ clasp in the moonlight sweet miss Though Convolvulus play _Tom the Peeper_. But should science discover that blossoms can _speak_, And tell tales about bower-hid passion; I'll wager it wouldn't be more than a week, Before flowers would go out of fashion! One prospect at least this new doctrine discovers: Did eyes and glib tongues fill our bowers, The man whom a maiden deems "flower of lovers," Would no more be lover of flowers * * * * * THE LAY OF THE OLD ALDERMAN.