Something Arcadian, manly-sweet, Blending notes of the lyre and flute; Pastoral Symphony gaily fleet, Moaning chords in the minor mute. Something stirring to lift the heart, Something merry to move the toes; Melody pure with a mirthful start And a moving close. Charges, marches, bugle-blasts, Clarion-calls to the onset, tire; Martial music a sadness casts, Too long blown, e'en on hearts of fire. Still the trumpet, and drop the drum! Bid the fife for a moment cease! Boy, we'll bless you if you'll but strum The notes of Peace. Wagner-worry of key and string Has its power, and holds its place; Touch to-day, boy, the chords that sing Of love and gladness, of mirth and grace. The future's Music you fain must play? True! Yet turn ere a chord is struck. A bumper, boy, to a brighter day! Here's health and luck! * * * * * UNCOMMON. Mr. PUNCH lately learned to his extreme astonishment and delight that he is one of the independent Electors of the Ward of Farringdon Without. He gathered this important information from the receipt of a highly illustrated card from one of the numerous candidates to represent him in that illustrious body the Court of Common Council, during the coming year, soliciting the honour of his vote and interest. The Candidate in question described at length his various qualifications for the office he sought. He kindly informed _Mr. Punch_ that he was a Citizen, a Loriner--whatever that mysterious occupation may mean--and a People's Caterer, and any doubt that might have been entertained with regard to the especial business for, which he catered was at once removed by the perusal of the last line of his canvassing card, which, after kindly informing Mr. Punch that he had no less than sixteen votes at his disposal, finished with the remarkable request, "Kindly PLUMP for your Little SAUSAGE MAKER!" Naturally wondering why a little Sausage Maker should be considered as so peculiarly eligible for the office of Common Councilman, that every elector should plump for him, _Mr. Punch_ again examined the mysterious card, and found on its back a graphic representation of a race for the "Pork Sausage Derby," showing the Candidate, mounted on a decidedly thoroughbred Pig, coming in an easy winner with the rest nowhere, amid the chorus of the surrounding multitude. Doubting whether a Large Tripe Dresser, or a Middle-sized Mutton-Pieman, would not have equal claims upon his Plumper to that of a Little Sausage Maker, _Mr. Punch_ decided to take no part in the Election for Common Councilmen until the real meaning of the word "Common" is better understood than it evidently is at present by some aspirants to the Office in question. [Illustration: THE INFANT PHENOMENON. LITTLE 1888. "WHAT SHALL I PLAY?" FATHER TIME. "THE 'MUSIC OF THE FUTURE,' MY DEAR, OF COURSE"!!!] * * * * * DOLL-CE DOMUM.