He seemed to want the owner, so I fled, distraught with fear, To the Main Drain sewage-outfall while he snorted in my ear-- Reached the four-foot drain-head safely and, in darkness and despair, Felt the brute's proboscis fingering my terror-stiffened hair. Heard it trumpet on my shoulder--tried to crawl a little higher-- Found the Main Drain sewage outfall blocked, some eight feet up, with mire; And, for twenty reeking minutes, Sir, my very marrow froze, While the trunk was feeling blindly for a purchase on my toes! It missed me by a fraction, but my hair was turning grey Before they called the drivers up and dragged the brute away. Then I sought the City Elders, and my words were very plain. They flushed that four-foot drain-head and--it never choked again! You may hold with surface-drainage, and the sun-for-garbage cure, Till you've been a periwinkle shrinking coyly up a sewer. I believe in well-flushed culverts.... This is why the death-rate's small; And, if you don't believe me, get shikarred yourself. That's all. A CODE OF MORALS Lest you should think this story true I merely mention I Evolved it lately. 'Tis a most Unmitigated misstatement. Now Jones had left his new-wed bride to keep his house in order, And hied away to the Hurrum Hills above the Afghan border, To sit on a rock with a heliograph; but ere he left he taught His wife the working of the Code that sets the miles at naught. And Love had made him very sage, as Nature made her fair; So Cupid and Apollo linked, per heliograph, the pair. At dawn, across the Hurrum Hills, he flashed her counsel wise-- At e'en, the dying sunset bore her husband's homilies. He warned her 'gainst seductive youths in scarlet clad and gold, As much as 'gainst the blandishments paternal of the old; But kept his gravest warnings for (hereby the ditty hangs) That snowy-haired Lothario, Lieutenant-General Bangs. 'Twas General Bangs, with Aide and Staff, who tittupped on the way, When they beheld a heliograph tempestuously at play. They thought of Border risings, and of stations sacked and burnt-- So stopped to take the message down--and this is what they learnt-- “Dash dot dot, dot, dot dash, dot dash dot” twice. The General swore. “Was ever General Officer addressed as 'dear' before? “'My Love,' i' faith! 'My Duck,' Gadzooks! 'My darling popsy-wop!' “Spirit of great Lord Wolseley, who is on that mountaintop?” The artless Aide-de-camp was mute; the gilded Staff were still, As, dumb with pent-up mirth, they booked that message from the hill; For clear as summer lightning-flare, the husband's warning ran:-- “Don't dance or ride with General Bangs--a most immoral man.”