But HANCE’S powers began to fail— His constitution was not strong— And PIERRE, who once was stout and hale, Grew thin from shouting all day long. Their mothers saw them pale and wan, Maternal anguish tore each breast, And so they met to find a plan To set their offsprings’ minds at rest. Said MRS. HANCE, “Of course I shrinks From bloodshed, ma’am, as you’re aware, But still they’d better meet, I thinks.” “Assurément!” said MADAME PIERRE. A sunny spot in sunny France Was hit upon for this affair; The ground was picked by MRS. HANCE, The stakes were pitched by MADAME PIERRE. Said MRS. H., “Your work you see— Go in, my noble boy, and win.” “En garde, mon fils!” said MADAME P. “Allons!” “Go on!” “En garde!” “Begin!” (The mothers were of decent size, Though not particularly tall; But in the sketch that meets your eyes I’ve been obliged to draw them small.) Loud sneered the doughty man of France, “Ho! ho! Ho! ho! Ha! ha! Ha! ha!” “The French for ‘Pish’” said THOMAS HANCE. Said PIERRE, “L’Anglais, Monsieur, pour ‘Bah.’” Said MRS. H., “Come, one! two! three!— We’re sittin’ here to see all fair.” “C’est magnifique!” said MADAME P., “Mais, parbleu! ce n’est pas la guerre!” “Je scorn un foe si lache que vous,” Said PIERRE, the doughty son of France. “I fight not coward foe like you!” Said our undaunted TOMMY HANCE. “The French for ‘Pooh!’” our TOMMY cried. “L’Anglais pour ‘Va!’” the Frenchman crowed. And so, with undiminished pride, Each went on his respective road. THE REVEREND MICAH SOWLS THE REVEREND MICAH SOWLS, He shouts and yells and howls, He screams, he mouths, he bumps, He foams, he rants, he thumps. His armour he has buckled on, to wage The regulation war against the Stage; And warns his congregation all to shun “The Presence-Chamber of the Evil One,” The subject’s sad enough To make him rant and puff, And fortunately, too, His Bishop’s in a pew. So REVEREND MICAH claps on extra steam, His eyes are flashing with superior gleam, He is as energetic as can be, For there are fatter livings in that see. The Bishop, when it’s o’er, Goes through the vestry door, Where MICAH, very red, Is mopping of his head. “Pardon, my Lord, your SOWLS’ excessive zeal, It is a theme on which I strongly feel.” (The sermon somebody had sent him down From London, at a charge of half-a-crown.) The Bishop bowed his head, And, acquiescing, said, “I’ve heard your well-meant rage Against the Modern Stage. “A modern Theatre, as I heard you say, Sows seeds of evil broadcast—well it may; But let me ask you, my respected son, Pray, have you ever ventured into one?”