William is short, and likes shorts. He likes nothing of _longs_, but the St. John of them: and he only takes to _him_, because that saint is partial to a _rubber_. Whist seems to influence his face as well as form; it is like a knave of clubs. I sometimes fancy whist could not go on without William, and certainly William could not go on without whist. His whole conversation, except on cards, is wool-gathering; and on that subject is like wool--carded. He “speaks by the card,” and never gives equivocation a chance. At the Olympic once he had a quarrel with a gentleman about _the lead_ of Madame Vestris or Miss Sydney: he was required to give his card, and he gave the “Deuce of Hearts.” This was what he termed “calling out.” Of late years William only goes out like a bad rushlight, earlyish of a night, and quits every table that is not covered with green baize with absolute disgust. The fairies love by night to “_gambol_ on the _green_,” and so does William, and he is constantly humming with great gusto, “Come unto these yellow sands, _And then take hands_.” The only verses, by the way, he ever got by heart. He never cared to play much with the Muses. They stick, he used to say, at Nine. William can sit longer--drink less--say as little--pay or receive as much--shuffle as well--and cut as deeply as any man on earth. You may leave him safely after dinner, and catch him at breakfast time without alteration of attitude or look. He is a small statue erected in honour of whist, and like Eloquence, “holds his hand well up.” He is content to ring the changes on thirteen cards a long Midsummer night; for he does not _play_ at cards--he _works_ at them, and considering the returns, for very low wages. William never was particularly lucky; but he bears the twos and threes with as much equanimity as any one, and seems, horticulturally speaking, to have grafted Patience upon Whist. I do not know whether it is the family motto, but he has upon his seal--with the great Mogul for a crest--the inscription of “Packs in Bello.” William is now getting old (nearly fifty-two), with an asthma; which he says makes him rather “weak in trumps.” He is preparing himself accordingly to “take down his score,” and has made his will, bequeathing all he has or has not, to a whist club. His funeral he directs to be quite private, and his gravestone a plain one, and especially “that there be no cherubims carved thereon, forasmuch,”--says this characteristic document, “that they never hold Honours.” [Illustration: A DOUBLE AT LONG’S.] THE FOX AND THE HEN. A FABLE. Speaking within _compass_, as to fabulousness I prefer _Southcote_ to _Northcote_.--PIGROGROMITUS.