[Illustration: AT THE NATURAL HISTORY MUSEUM. _Mother_ (_trying to calm her lachrymose offspring_). "'ERE, ALBERT--LOOK AT THE PRETTY FISHES."] * * * * * NEW RHYMES FOR OLD CHILDREN. THE PIG. The way in which he eats and drinks Is so extremely crude That nearly everybody thinks The pig enjoys his food. But when I see how very fast, Without one single chew, He gobbles up his huge repast, I'm sure it isn't true. Far nobler than your Uncle Joe, Who simply sits and sits, Revolving, gluttonous and slow, The more attractive bits; Far nobler than your Uncle Dick, Who likes the choicest food, And, if he doesn't have the pick, Is very, very rude; The pig has not a word to say To subtleties of taste; He eats whatever comes his way With admirable haste. In fact, the pig may well resent The insult to his line When certain of the affluent Are said to eat like swine. A. P. H. * * * * * "None are much better than others, and some are much worse."--_New Zealand Paper._ We fear the writer is a pessimist. * * * * * TAFFY THE FOX. [Mr. HORATIO BOTTOMLEY has complained of the war-time efforts of the POET LAUREATE, and desires the appointment of a national bard whose mind is more attuned to the soul of the British nation. Recent political events are not of course a very inspiring subject for serious verse, but we have tried to do our feeble best here in faint imitation of one of the manners of Mr. JOHN MASEFIELD.] Safe and snug from the wind and rain In a thick of gorse with a tranquil brain The fox had slept, and his dreams were all Of the wild Welsh hills and the country's call; He slept all night in the Wan Tun Waste, He woke at dawn and about he faced, He flexed his ears and he flaired the breeze And scratched with his foot some poor wee fleas; He sat on his haunches, doubted, stood; To his left were the lairs of his native wood, The deep yew darkness of Cowall Itchen; He flaired, I say, with his nostrils twitching Till he smelt the sound of the Fleet Street stunt And over the hillside came the Hunt. * * * * * Over the hillside, clop, clip, clep, And the dappled beauties, Ginger and Pep, Live Wire, Thruster, Fetch Him and Snatch Him, They were coming to bite him and pinch him and scratch him, Whimpering, nosing, scenting his crimes, The Evening News and The Morning Times. "Yooi! On to him! Yooi there!" Hounds were in; He slunk like a ghost to the edge of the whin; "Hark! Holloa! Hoick!" They were on his trail. * * * * *