_Dr. R-bs-n R-se._ Must invent something new in the diet line for New Year; shall cut off claret and hot water and their dry toast. _Mem._--To write article in _F-rtn-ghtly_ on "The Here and There of London Life," and point out the absolute necessity of consulting me on every subject. Recommend (as something novel), taking soup after cheese. This advice ought to increase my practice considerably. _The Rev. Dr. P-rk-r._ Shall stay at home; at least, won't go again to United States; too vast. _Mr. B-s-nt._ Keep my name well before the public. Think New Novel, _All Sorts of Mortiboys_, by Sir W-LT-R B-S-NT, Bart., would have good effect with publishers. Get W-LS-N B-RR-TT to dramatise with me, of course. Shall ask him not to act in it. Off to Africa, to get away from "London blacks." _Mr. N-rm-n L-cky-r._ Write _Magnum Opus_, on the action of Snowballs in Space. _Sir M-r-ll M-ck-nz-e._ Make careful study of the peculiar diseases incident to "Rumour's lying throat"--especially in Germany. _Ch-rm-n of M-ddl-s-x M-g-str-t-s._ Attend some Metropolitan Music Hall every night of my life. _Ed-t-r of P. M. G._ Get Stead-ier every day. _Mr. Punch._ To wish a Happy New Year to everybody generally. * * * * * [Illustration: THE PENNY READING. (ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD.) _Distinguished Amateur Vocalist (both Serious and Comic)._ "I CAN'T SAY YOU HAVE A VERY APPRECIATIVE PUBLIC UP HERE! I NEVER SANG '_VILIKINS AND HIS DINAH_' BETTER--BUT NOBODY LAUGHED A BIT!" _Horrid Boy._ "OH, BUT THEY DID WHEN YOU SANG '_THE DEATH OF NELSON_.' I SAW THEM!"] * * * * * THE INFANT PHENOMENON. What will he play? Oh! young New Year, Precocious power and baby skill To Music's zealots are strangely dear; The tiny fingers that thump and trill, That sweep the keyboard with splendid speed, Like rattling rain-drops, or fairy-feet, Are sure of flattery's fullest meed, And praise is sweet. An early _début_, my little man! The dimpled digits you swiftly spread The sounding octaves can scarcely span, The pedals hardly your toes can tread. Yet here you are, and the public ear Is all agog for the opening chords, With breathless mingling of hope and fear, Too deep for words. The Future's Music before you stands, Time at your elbow is prompt to turn. 'Twill tax the force of your infant hands, Prodigies even have much to learn. MOZART, or HOFFMANN, or LISZT, of course, You may turn out in your own new line; May give us freshly the fire and force Of RUBINSTEIN. The hour, young Hopeful, seems something scant In present promise of Harmony; Our leading music is militant. Touch us a stave in a cheerful key! We have abundance of crash and blare, Drums and trumpets make angry noise; Most of us long for a Lydian air, O, best of boys!