But O I proved, ere I wandered home, There yet was a friend most true, Who bore the corse to a silent tomb, Ah! yes, and embalmed it too, A kind purveyor came walking by, And he stopped on the edge of the flag, Then turned to his boy, and exclaimed with a sigh, "Jim, slip the dead rat in your bag." [Decoration] [Illustration: A Confidential Sonnet] I MET him one night there, North east of Leicester Square, Within about a quarter of a mile, "I've confidence," said he, "In all humanity, I'll leave my bloomin' purse with thee awhile!" He left it, went away Then coming back, "I say," Said he, with an insinuating smile, "Now lend your watch to me, For I am like yourself without no guile," He took it, went away, And from that evil day, I keep that man's description on my file. [Illustration: A TRAM CAR GHOST.] THE last car at night, is a vehicle laden with varied symptoms of mysterious hauntings that more or less oppress the fares, some toned down by the lassitude of overwork, drop gratefully into their seats, and quickly fall into fitful slumber, others seem to court a spasmodic notoriety by loud and disjointed converse. A weary of world expression clouds the features of a few with an unuttered protest, for the disagreeable fact of their birth, whilst others seem by their grumpy glances to suggest a jealous objection to other people's existence. A select few, unconsciously advertise a flippant gratification at the possession of life, and squeeze festivity from it, as colour from a blue rag. But all are haunted with the mysterious workings of unseen spirits, that usually accompany the fares, in the latest car at night. THERE wasn't a soul in the tramway car, Well not that myself could see, But the sad conductor took my arm, And steadfast gazed on me-- Then pointing up to the corner seat, "Look! that's his regular game, I'm sorry to have it to say of a ghost, But he hasn't a tint of shame!" You'll think the tram conductor was drunk, His breath was sweet as mine, Like the orris root, or a tint of mint, Or scent of a similar line. It might be a ginger cordial; but The air of the night was strong, And it wouldn't be proper to say I'm sure, I might perhaps be wrong. "Will you slack?" said I, but he caught my arm "The man that I killed is there! I hate to have it to say. But no, I can't recover my fare! I asked it from him one winter's night, But full as a tick with drink, The only answer he gave to me, Was just a chuckle and wink. With this American tink-a-ting, I couldn't defraud the Co., So caught his collar, and chucked him off The back of the tram car, so.