Best of all my friends is GEORGE III. He is portrayed with a jolly red nose and a mouth that positively yawns for pudding. His character, which is his chief glory, is "benevolent." Who would not rejoice to have been the object of his regal philanthropy? SAMUEL JOHNSON himself did not hesitate to accept the bounty of this kindly monarch, though, while his predecessor reigned, the great lexicographer had defined a pensioner as "a state hireling" paid "for treason to his country." Such are my friends the kings and queens of England. Happy the child who has such majesty to be his guardian spirit. To him life will be a pomp, where vulgar democracy can have no part, and death a trysting-place with old comrades--the child for whom "The kings of England, lifting up their swords, Shall gather at the gates of Paradise." * * * * * [Illustration: _The Super-Tramp._ "MADAM, IF YOU HAVE ANY MORE OF THAT PIE YOU GAVE ME THIS MORNING I SHOULD BE PLEASED TO PAY FOR IT."] * * * * * A HOME FROM HOME. (_An actual incident_.) My fancy sought no English field, What time my holiday drew near; I felt no fond desire to wield The shrimping net of yesteryear; I found it easy to eschew All wish to hear a pierrot stating His lust to learn the rendezvous Of flies engaged in hibernating. Beyond the Channel I would range (I called it "cross the rolling main") And there achieve the thorough change Demanded by my jaded brain; It might be that an alien clime Would jog a failing inspiration, Buck up a bard and render rhyme Less difficult of excavation. A thorough change? Ah, barren quest, Foredoomed to fail ere half begun! Though left behind, my England pressed In hot pursuit of me, her son; London was brought again to view By hordes of maidens out for pillage, When from the train I stepped into A flag day in an Alpine village. * * * * * WIRE AND BARBED WIRE. This was the telegram that, after much hesitation, I had written out at the side desk in the post-office and carried to the main desk to despatch:-- Pactolus, London. St. Vitus carburetter stammer tyre scream Sanguine. You will observe that it is unintelligible. Decoded, it meant that I, whose betting pseudonym is Sanguine, wished to invest with Messrs. Lure, commission agents (not bookmakers, no, not for a moment), whose telegraphic address is "Pactolus, London," a sum of ten pounds (carburetter) on a horse called St. Vitus to win (stammer), and twenty pounds (tyre) for a place (scream). I had done this for various reasons, none really good, but chiefly because every paper that I had opened had urged me to do so, some even going so far as to dangle a double before me with St. Vitus as one of the horses. Nearly all had described St. Vitus as a nap, setting up the name not only in capitals but with a faithful asterisk beside it.