I intimated that I was perfectly satisfied. This I did in dumb show by promptly dropping my head and climbing down as quickly as possible. When I reached the stone floor my face was ice for a moment and then turned red hot, following the example set by the rest of my body. Shortly afterwards, staggering in my imperfect fit, I once more returned to the entrance of the boat-house. The robes surrounding me were carefully untied in several directions. I drew off my overalls, my jumper, my shocking bad hat, my torn white gloves. I resumed my ordinary clothes. "RICHARD was himself again." At least, as near himself as he could be after a loss of about two stones of weight and the greater part of his voice. "You will not give particulars that will endanger the safety of the State?" I promised (in a feeble, melancholy tone that seemed to me like a mouse's dying farewell to sorrowing relatives) that I wouldn't. And I hope I haven't. * * * * * Development. (_Brummagem Version of a Celebrated Quatrain._) There was a Rad in the days that were earlier; Years fleeted by, he grew smarter and curlier; Further years gave him a Toryish twist, Then he was _Times_ man, and Unionist! * * * * * [Illustration: PREHISTORIC PEEPS. THERE WERE EVEN THEN QUIET SPOTS BY THE SEA WHERE ONE COULD BE ALONE WITH NATURE UNDISTURBED] * * * * * ODE FOR THE MARRIAGE SEASON. I. Sing now in festal rhyme Of Hymen's harvest-time, The happy chances When Cupid's fragrant torch Leads to the sacred porch And the bells' wedding chime Crowns young romances. Here, whispering somewhat loud, Gathers the wonted crowd; Matrons with heart still young Happily tearful, Critics of dress, avow'd, Too sibilant of tongue, And, thick the throng among, Damsels expectant still Of love, their lives to fill, Chatty and cheerful. See, there the bridegroom waits Till at the flow'r-strewn gates His love descendeth, And all ears listening, And some eyes glistening, Fiction's romances pale While of a real love-tale First chapter endeth. The choir-boys, open-eyed, Forget their psalter For gazing at the bride, Childlike yet dignified, There by her lover's side, Before the altar. Here to the shrine they bring That old pure offering Of all religions, Hallowing their first, young loves-- A pair of turtle-doves, Or two young pigeons. Never since ADAM'S primal banns were cried By every bird in Eden's leafy minster, Has such a bridegroom taken such a bride, So true a Bachelor, so sweet a Spinster. [Illustration: A DISAPPOINTMENT. [_To perambulate_, v.n., in German _spazieren_; in French, _se promener_; in Italian, _passeggiare_.] _Johann Schmidt._ "ACH! VAT A BITTY, MISTER CHONES! ZEN VE MUST NOT GO THEREIN TO BERAMPULATE?"] * * * * * SONG OF THE IMPECUNIOUS BARD.