PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Volume 93

December 17th 1887

edited by Sir Francis Burnand

THE LETTER-BAG OF TOBY, M.P.

From the Minister to Persia.

Hampstead, Saturday.

Dear Toby,

I am, as you will understand, so busy in my preparations for departure, that I fear I may not find time to call upon you, p.p.c., and therefore take up my pen to write these few lines, hoping they will find you well, as they leave me at present. It is an odd reflection to one who has reached my time of life, that henceforward sixteen-shilling trousers shall have no more interest for me. Already, in the privacy of my room, I don the flowing robes of the East, and sit by the hour as you see me in a little sketch I have had made, and beg your acceptance herewith. It is all very strange to me yet. As Gr-nd-lph says, it is the oddest thing in the world that the Ark and I, after much tossing about in troublous waters, should finally settle down in the neighbourhood of Ararat. If I had had my choice, I would not have gone so far afield. The wise men, you know, come from the East, they do not go there; at least, not further than Constantinople, which would have suited me admirably. Rome I have eyed askance. I could have dressed the part for St. Petersburg. Berlin would not have been bad; and I feel that I was born for Paris. But the Markiss of course has his way, and he has mapped mine out for Teheran.

It is odd to reflect (and as I sit here trying to grow accustomed to the hookah, I feel in a reflective mood) that if Br-dl-gh had not been elected for Northampton in 1880, I would never have been Her Majesty's Minister at the Court of the Shah. Do you remember the night, nearly eight years gone, when I jumped up from my seat below the Gangway and physically barred Br-dl-gh's passage up the House? In the loose way history is written, Gr-nd-lph gets the credit of incubating the Fourth Party. But if it had not been for me, that remarkable cohort would never have existed, and the history of English politics for the last seven years would have been written differently. Gr-nd-lph was actually not in the House when I created the Br-dl-gh difficulty. Three weeks earlier, on Br-dl-gh's first presenting himself, Freddy C-v-nd-sh had moved for a Select Committee to consider his claim to make affirmation. St-ff-rd N-rthc-te had seconded the hum-drum motion, the Committee was agreed to, and there the matter ended. When Gr-sv-n-r moved to nominate the Committee, I came to the front, was snubbed by H-lk-r at the instance of our respected Leaders, but stuck to it then and after, till presently, the Conservative Party, seeing the advantage, came round to my view and poor St-ff-rd N-rthc-te had to eat his words. Gr-nd-lph came on the field and the ball was set rolling; but it was I who gave it the first kick.

And now behold me solemn, sedate, responsible, the Representative of the greatest of Western Powers at the Court where once Artaxerxes ruled! In quitting Parliamentary life I leave behind me an example which young Members will find it profitable to study. The opportunities I possessed were held in common with hundreds of others whom I leave in obscurity. I had no particular gifts that promised the comfortable pre-eminence I have reached. The coarsest flatterer could not accuse me of oratorical ability. Gr-nd-lph, I confess, excelled me there, and so did G-rst, an abler man than either of us, but lacking in the quality that brought Gr-nd-lphand me to the front and kept us there. What I did, was to keep myself in evidence, and to make myself as disagreeable as possible to people in authority. If the object of attack were Gl-dst-ne, good; if it were N-rthc-te, better, as showing more independence, and as securing the favourable attention of the Opposition. It is a commonplace, ordinary thing to be cheered by your own side. What the young aspirant to Parliamentary distinction should look to, is to gain the applause of the Benches opposite. R-b-ck knew that in old days, and so did H-rsm-n, and in these later times Gr-nd-lph better and more successfully than either.

I quit the House of Commons with unfeigned regret, tempered only by the anticipated pleasure of watching from Teheran the coming cropper of my old friends. The deluge is surely coming for them, whilst I loll landed high and dry upon Ararat. I like to make B-lf-r uneasy by telling him this. But he boasts of an infallible receipt the Government have for keeping up their Parliamentary majority. Here and there a bye-election may reduce it, "but," says B-lf-r, "we can always play next, and win. For every bye-election lost we clap an Irish Member in gaol, or, for the matter of that, a Radical, and thus maintain an even balance. We lose Coventry and they lose O'Br-n's vote. Spalding goes, and T. H-rr-ngt-n's vote is crossed out. Northwich is lost, and the Lord Mayor of Dublin is lagged. We lose a vote in the Exchange Ward, Liverpool, and they are bereft of Sheehy, whilst we have left to the good Cox and E. H-rr-ngt-n, with P-ne safe within the mud walls of his castle."

That is all very well, but evidently it cannot go on indefinitely. I at least am out of the scuffle happily, and in good time, and, political life's fever over, shall live well.

Yours faithfully,
H. D. W-lff.

THE STRAIGHT TIP.

(To All whom it may concern.)

Hasty assumption, by spite inspired,

Spouting in public before you've inquired

Basis of fact or authority's worth;

Wriggles, provoking much cynical mirth,

Roundaboutation, sophistical fudge;

Then retractation, but done with a grudge!—

Gentlemen, gentlemen, is this good form?

Would you political citadels storm

Like Heathen Chinees with (word) "stinkpots"? For shame!

This is not manfully playing the game.

It is not "good business," believe me, but bad,

Whether you're Tory or whether you're Rad.

Young and conceited, or old and grand,

To tell taradiddles—at second-hand!

THEATRICAL RECIPROCITY.

First of all came The London Savoyards, who, after sending their D'Oyly Carte de visite in advance, showed our cousins-German the way to perform Burlesque Opera of native English growth. Then followed Herr Wyndham, and Fraülein Moore, who have just been instructing the Berliners in the art of playing Comedy, and have achieved an undeniable success in David Garrick. Odd international combination this, English actors playing before a German audience a piece adapted by an English author from a French play translated into German. Our actors and actresses will go in for the study of German, and as we now hear in England that German labour ousts native labour from the market, so we may expect very soon to hear German actors protesting against the influx of English Theatrical Companies who are taking the bread out of their mouths. What will be the next move in this game? Will Sardou adapt The Butler to be played here by Coquelin, in Toole's part, and at his theatre, with Sarah Bernhardt as the Cook, just to strengthen the cast? Herr Wyndham appeared at the Residenz Theatre. We hope he is not going to take up his Residenz there, as we can't spare him.

Fling at Fair-Traders.

Duet in the "Tempest." Stephano and Trinculo.

"Flout 'em and scout 'em, and scout 'em, and flout 'em.

Trade is free."

A MALADE IMAGINAIRE.

"Why!—has your Dachs got a Sore Throat, Lizzie?"—"No; but he thinks he has!"

ALTERAM PARTEM.

Sir,—The reason why I have not hitherto contributed to the controversy on the recent unhappy (Police) Divisions is, because I have been laid up in the Hospital. Never mind which Hospital—but I have not been so comfortable since I had the mumps, years and years ago, at school. Being a born economist, I naturally turned out in my myriads to assist at a gratis show in Trafalgar Square; and, Sir, I never came so near realising what a "dead head" was in the whole course of a chequered (not to say chuckered) career. But do I turn round and abuse the Police? Why, ever since that fortunate Sunday, I have enjoyed, at no expense to myself, the most delicate of viands, the tenderest of nursing, and a complete immunity from even the suggestion of getting anything to do; and, in addition to all this, the satisfaction of having employed the services of a force to whose maintenance I have never contributed one farthing. But soft, a nurse approaches, and I must dissemble.

Yours, in Clover,
Freeman Grubber.

"Re-Joyce!"

The Woodford tenants

Must have liquor'd

To hear of the penance

Of Lord Clanricarde.

A RASHER THEORY OF BACON.

Dear Mr. Punch,

I. It is plain that the soi-disant Shakspeare was poor to the end of his days. This is proved by Milton's sonnet beginning—

"What needs my Shakspeare for his honour'd bones?"

This shows that the person in question was in the habit of selling his kitchen refuse, and more noteworthy still, that Milton was in the habit of buying it. Whether out of respect for the vendor, which would go a long way towards proving the esteem in which he was held, or because Milton was in the marine store line at this period, I leave to Mr. Donnelly to decide.

II. It is certain that there is a cypher in the Midsummer Night's Dream. Pyramus has the line, "O, dainty duck. O, dear!" Now "duck" stands with cricketers for 0, and 0 is a cypher (or is it figures that are cyphers? but, never mind). Therefore we have here the expression, "O, dainty cypher, O, dear!" which proves conclusively, that the cypher was dainty,—exquisite, elaborated; and also that Bakspeare was heartily tired of it, unless, "dear" refers to the terms he had to pay to Shakon to hold his tongue. But the fact that the supposed author used to sell bones, and inferentially rags, to Milton, rather militates against this hypothesis. And here note what a flood of light is thrown upon the disappearance of the manuscripts. They were indubitably sold, with the honoured rags and bones to Milton, who has certainly more than one suspicious coincidence of thought and phraseology, especially in his earlier poems.

III. My play, Piccoviccius, contains the clue to the whole matter. There is a picture on the title-page of a boy blowing an egg, while an elderly gentlewoman, who is remarkably like the bust of the poet in Stratford Church, looks on with every appearance of interest. Underneath is the legend, "Lyttel Francis teaching his Crypto-gra'mother." I am firmly convinced that Piccoviccius was written by both of them. The style is not the least like that of either, which proves that they didn't want everyone to know. I subjoin a specimen. The scene is the palace of the usurping Duke Jingulus, who is about to wed the Lady Rachel.

Yours,
Roderick Tweddle.

Jingulus, Rachel, Philostrate, and others.

Jing. Say, Philostrate, what abridgment have you for

This dull, three-volumed day?

Phil. There is, my lord,

A show of cats and tame canary birds.

The cats, sleek sleepy creatures, well content,

Doze fur in fur, the while the nimble birds

Climb ladders, carry baskets, beg for pence:

Which given, they in bills receive, and take

With hops, well-satisfied unto their keepers,

Then the sleek cats sit up and 'gin to spar,

And get sleek heads in furry chancery.

Jing. That will we not see at our wedding-time,

No sparring, nor no caging. Well, what next?

Phil. A hunch-back'd man, long-nosed, there is, my lord,

Who in a curtained tabernacle dwells,

Himself, his wife, his child, a helpless babe,

His dog, of rare sagacity, though small,

Is full as large as all the family.

The man a cudgel bears, and carries it

As though he lov'd it. Spurning household cares,

To pity dead, he through the window flings

His wailing, helpless babe, nor spares the pæan

Of nasal triumph and the drumming foot.

The mother thus bereav'd, such comfort gets

As in the cudgel lies, and joins too soon

Her infant sped. Again the nasal song

Shrills, and the blood-stained tabernacle shakes

With heels triumphant tapping. All who come—

Many there are who come—learn soon or late

The flavour of the cudgel. At the end

All human powers defied, the hangman trick'd

By childlike wile, and hois'd with his own halter,

A day of reckoning comes. The unseen world

A minister sends forth who terrifies

The heart that knew no terror; turns the song

Of triumph to a long wail of despair;

And this most wicked puppet goes below

The curtain of his booth.

Jing. A moral play!

This we will see. Command it. Lords, away!

[Exit in State.

Hydropathic Art.—"O give me the sweet shady side of Pall-Mall," sang Captain Morris, the Laureate of the Old Beef-steak Club. At the present period of the year we have a greater liking for the sunny side. And the sunniest spot on the sunny side we have discovered during the last week is undoubtedly in the rooms of the Sanatorium presided over by Sir John Gilbert. The Royal Society of Painters in Water Colours is a capital hydropathic establishment at this season of the year.

A Necessary Explanation.—Considerable remark has been excited by the sudden departure from London of Count Corti, the Italian Ambassador. The fact is, Count Corti was compelled to appear at Rome, in person, as an answer to the imperious order of recall which (to translate the legal process exactly) is of the nature of a "County Corti Summons."

"M. LE PRÉSIDENT FAUTE-DE-MIEUX."

SOCIETY SIBYLS.

[Palmistry is now a fashionable amusement at bazaars and at evening parties.]

The Sibyl in the times of old,

Who dealt in charms unlawful,

Had hair unkempt and eyes that rolled

'Mid conjurations awful.

The prophetess of modern days,

Who dabbles in divining,

A pair of pleasant eyes will raise,

'Neath hair that's soft and shining.

The latest "fad" appears to be

Commingled fact and fancy,

What led of old Leuconöe

To trust to chiromancy.

Which is, the victim understands,

That each vice or perfection

Can be discovered in his hands

By Sibylline inspection.

She'll tell us all the Mounts and Lines

Of Saturn and of Venus;

With man and wife her skill divines

What shadows come between us.

She sees in hands a taste for Art,

For Music, or for Letters,

And knows how often each poor heart

Has yielded to Love's fetters.

It's rather hard to stand and hear

Your character decided,

And imperfections that appear,

By captious friends derided.

Yet if you'll listen to advice,

You'll smile, and looking pleasant,

Trust only prophecies when nice,

Of either past or present.

'ARRY ON HIS CRITICS.

Dear Charlie,

I'm much obligated for that there St. James's Gazette

As you sent me larst Satterday's post. I 'ave read it with hintrest, you bet;

Leastways, more pertikler the harticle writ on "yours truly," dear boy;

Wich the paper is one as a gent who is reelly a gent can enjoy.

I shall paternize it with much pleasure; it's steep, but it's puffect good form.

Seems smart at the "ground" and the "lofty," and makes it tremenjusly warm

For Willyum the Woodchopper. Scissors! His name's never orf of their lips.

Wy, it's worth a fair six d a week jest to see 'em a slating Old Chips!

Proves as 'Arry is well to the front wen sech higperlite pens pop on him,

Does me proud and no herror, dear pal; shows we're both in the same bloomin' swim.

Still, they don't cop my phiz quite ker-rect; they know Gladstone right down to the ground;

But I ain't quite so easy 'it off, don'tcher see, if you take me all round.

Old Collars is simple as lyin', becos he's all bad, poor old 'ack,

And you can't be fur out in his portrait as long as you slop on the black.

But I'm quite another guess sort; penny plain, tuppence coloured, yer see,

May do all very well for the ruck; but they'll find it won't arnser for me!

I'm a daisy, dear boy, and no 'eeltaps! I wish the St. James's young man

Could drop into my diggings permiskus; he's welcome whenever he can;

For he isn't no J., that's a moral; I don't bear no malice; no fear!

But I'd open 'is hoptics a mossel concernin' my style and my spere.

The essence of 'Arry, he sez, is high sperrits. That ain't so fur out.

I'm "Fiz," not four 'arf, my dear feller. Flare-up is my motter, no doubt.

Carn't set in a corner canoodling, and do the Q. T. day and night.

My mug, mate, was made for a larf, and you don't ketch it pulling a kite.

So fur all serene; but this joker, I tell yer, runs slap orf the track

Wen he says that my togs and my talk are "the fashion of sev'ral years back."

The slang of the past is my patter—mine, Charlie, he sez! Poor young man!

If I carn't keep upsides with the cackle of snide 'uns, dear Charlie, who can?

Wot is slang, my dear boy, that's the question. The mugs and the jugs never joke,

Never gag, never work in a wheeze; no, their talk is all skilly and toke,

'Cos they ain't got no bloomin' hinvention; they keeps to the old line of rails,

With about as much "go" as a Blue Point, about as much rattle as snails.

Mavor's Spellin' and Copybook motters is all they can run to. But slang?

Wy, it's simply smart patter, of wich ony me and my sort 'as the 'ang.

Snappy snideness put pithy, my pippin, the pick of the chick and the hodd,

And it fettles up talk, my dear Charlie, like 'ot hoyster sauce with biled cod.

"Swell vernacular"? Swells don't invent it; they nick it from hus, and no kid.

Did a swell ever start a new wheeze? Would it 'ave any run if he did?

Let the ink-slingers trot out their kibosh, and jest see 'ow flabby it falls.

Bet it won't raise a grin at the bar, bet it won't git a 'and at the 'Alls.

And fancy my slang being stale, Charlie! Gives me the needle, that do.

In course I've been in it for years, mate, and mix up the old and the new;

But if the St. James's young gentleman fancies hisself on this lay,

I'll "slang" him for glasses all round, him whose patter fust fails 'im to pay.

Then he sez, "'Arry's always a Londoner." Shows 'Arry ain't no bad judge.

"Wot the crockerdile is to the Nile 'Arry is to the Thames." Well, that's fudge.

That's a ink-slinger's try-on at patter. Might jest as well call me a moke.

Try another, young man; this is kibosh purtending to pass for a joke.

Wen he sez my god's "go,"—well he's 'it it. Great Scott! wot is life without "go"?

But "loud, slangy, vulgar"? No, 'ang it, young man, this is—well, there, it's low.

Me vulgar! a Primroser, Charlie, a true "Anti-Radical" pot!

No, excuse me, St. J., I admire you; but this is all dashed tommy-rot.

Stale, too, orful stale, my young josser. It's wot all the soap-crawlers say,

If a party 'as "go" and "high sperrits"—percise wot you praise me for, hay?—

If he "can laugh aloud," as you say I can, better than much finer folk,

Will you ticket 'im "vulgar," for doin' it? Oh, you go 'ome and eat coke!

Leastways I don't mean that exackly; I like you too well; you're my sort;

But you ain't took my measure kerrect, I'm a Tory, a patriot, a "sport."

So wy should you round on me thusly? I call it a little mite mean.

If I took and turned Radical now; but oh! no, 'Arry isn't so green.

'Owsomever in one thing you've nicked me. No marriage

for 'Arry, sez you.

O, right you are, chummie! I'm single, you bet, though I'm turned twenty-two,

And I've 'ad lots o' chances, I tell yer; fair 'ot 'uns, old man, and no kid.

But I'll 'ave a free run for my money, as long as I'm good for a quid.

Yah! Marriage is orful queer paper; it's fatal, dear boy, as you say,

It damps down the rortiest dasher, it spiles yer for every prime lay.

No; gals is good fun, wives wet blankets, that's wot my egsperience tells,

And the swells foller me on that track, though you say as I follers the swells.

Wot odds arter all? We're jest dittos! I'm not bad at bottom, sez you.

Well, thankye for nothink, my joker. As long as I've bullion to blue,

I mean to romp round a rare buster, lark, lap, take the pick of the fun,

And, bottom or top, good or bad, keep my heye on one mark—Number One!

There, Charlie, that's 'ow I should answer my criticks. They ain't nicked me yet,

Not even the pick o' the basket, 'im of the St. James's Gazette.

He's not a bad sort though, I reckon. Laugh, lark, cut a dash, never marry!

Yus, it only want's my fillin' in to make that a fair photo, of

'Arry.

WELL PROTECTED;

OR, WHAT IT WILL COME TO.

A Demonstration was held yesterday afternoon at St. Giles's Hall, in connection with the Imperial Association, for the raising of Agricultural and other Prices, "to protest still further against the late unrestricted ability to live on their means enjoyed by the British Middle Classes," and "to take ulterior measures for rendering it more impossible." A large number of members of the Association were assembled, among whom were the Duke of Glutland, the Right Hon. James Mowther, Mr. Gruntz, Mr. C. W. Bray, M.P., and others.

Mr. Flowerd Mispent, M.P., said he was proud to take the chair on such an occasion, and to congratulate the assembly on the immense progress made in the country of the principles they were met to advocate. ("Hear, hear!") Their great object had been, by forcing the Government to put a prohibitive tax on all foreign imports whatever, to so stimulate home industries, that while the producer flourished at the expense of the consumer, the latter, representing four-fifths of the nation, was driven to the verge of desperation by a general rise of prices, that he was powerless either to stave off or meet. (Loud cheers.) He thought that the great bulk of the Middle Classes of the country must, if not already hopelessly ruined, at least have got it pretty hot. (Laughter.) Take his own case. Owing to the new import duties levied on foreign wool and silk, the tweed suit in which he stood up before them on that platform had been charged to him by his tailor at £37 15s. (laughter), while his hat, for the appearance of which he could not say much, had cost him £5 18s. 6d. (Renewed laughter.) Such prices as these must tell in the long run on the pocket of that great enemy of national industry, the "Consumer." (Cheers.)

The Chairman then read letters of apology from the Duke of Twickenham, Lord Starch, and Baron Dimock, M.P., who declared their readiness to favour any motion calculated to stimulate a still further rise of prices. Mr. Jollis, M.P., wrote in a similar sense, and in a letter expressing regret that he was unable to be present, Lord Hapence said:—The brilliant future that is now dawning on the prospects of the British Agricultural Interests must be patent to all. Only yesterday I was charged 18s. 6d. in a local hotel bill for a small omelette, and, on asking for some explanation, was informed by the waiter that since the importation of French eggs had ceased, the market price of those procurable from English poultry had risen to 4s. 6d. (cheers), and they were not to be relied on at that. This is as it should be. Need I say I paid my bill, not only without a murmur, but with positive satisfaction. (Loud cheers.)

Sir Edward Mulligan, M.P., wrote:—"Your meeting is a very important one, and has my cordial support. But with British-made ladies' gloves at £1 3s. 6d. a pair, British-made chocolate at 17s. 6d. a pound, and British-made silver watches at £38 a piece, it cannot be denied that the absence of foreign competition has favourably affected home prices. May this encouraging catalogue be continued. I hear, too, that since prohibitive duty has been imposed on the importation of petroleum the coarsest kinds of composite candles have been selling at 9s. 6d. a pound. Living for the Middle Classes must be getting unendurable. I hail the prospect as a hopeful sign of the times." (Cheers.)

Mr. Joynter, the Chairman of the Association, then rose to move the first Resolution:—"That in consideration of the fact that, though the threepenny halfpenny loaf was now at 3s. 9d., and that though the agricultural labourer was paying 4s. 7d. a pound for bacon, £3 17s. for a smock, and £1 15s. 6d. for a second-hand spade, and that yet, notwithstanding these fiscal advantages, he did not seem entirely satisfied with his improved condition, the meeting should urge upon the State, the necessity of imposing still further prohibitive duties on foreign imports in the hope of introducing even greater complications into the vexed question of how to make the British Consumer entirely support the British Producer."

Mr. Waitland seconded the motion. He added, however, that notwithstanding the undeniably flourishing condition of British trade at home, he could not regard its prospects as equally satisfactory abroad. Owing to the retaliatory action of Foreign Governments, our Exports appeared somehow entirely to have disappeared. (Laughter.)

Mr. Gruntz, said that was so. Still there could be no doubt as to its healthy progress in our midst, and that reflection ought to quiet the misgivings and comfort the heart of the ardent Imperial Associationist. He had in his pocket at that moment a British-made cigar. (Cheers.) It hadn't a nice flavour, it wouldn't draw, and it cost him 12s. 6d.—(laughter)—still, it was made of British-grown tobacco, and that was everything. (Hear, hear!) Perhaps it was in their wine that people of his class suffered most. In the old days he used to drink Dry Monopole; but since a Government duty of £20 a dozen was imposed on all imported Champagne, he had had to have his from the "British Home-manufactured Wine Company;" and, though they charged him eleven guineas a dozen for it, and he believed it frequently made his guests seriously ill, still he felt he was supporting a "home industry," and did not scruple to put it freely before them. (Roars of laughter.)

After the enthusiastic singing of "Rule Britannia" by the whole meeting, a vote of thanks to the Chairman brought the proceedings, which were of a very animated character, to a conclusion.

To the Modern Men of Gotham.

"Fiscal Reform"? A pretty phrase

To mark the old exploded craze;

But, Gothamites, you're surely blind!

Think you to reach "Protection's" goal

By squatting in that leaky bowl,

And whistling for a (Fair Trade) Wind?

New Work by Mr. O'Brien.—Under the general heading of Tullamore Tales, we are to expect a good story, entitled, Reverses on the other side of the Tweed.

OUR CHRISTMAS BOOKING-OFFICE.

Wrapped Up in a Book.

"King Diddle," by H. Davidson, deals with the wondrous sight,

Seen by two little children in a lumber-room one night.

And "Rider's Leap," by Langbridge,—no, not by Rider Haggard,

Shows how a brave and noble youth, can never be a blaggard.

(Air—"Zurich's Fair Waters.")

The Christmas Number of London Society—Society!

With Strange Winter, Griffith, and Fenn,

Gives us all a most pleasing variety—Variety!

There's a tale from the Cameron pen.

If sly Francis Bacon was Shakspeare incog.

His publisher nowadays ought to be Hogg,

Whose books for the Season, the "Stories and Yarns,"

Must prove to us all that "one lives and one larns."

But "Cocky and Clucky and Cackle," I fear,

Which is from the German, is not very clear.

Griffiths and Farren, farren-aceous food

For children's taste provide—all very good.

In his story of the "Willoughby" two "Captains," T. B. Reed

Shows how a public school-boy's life both pride and courage need.

In your "Walks in the Ardennes," which some may prefer to Surrey—

Percy Lindley's is a Guide-book—to be re-named "Lindley-Murray."

Here's "Bo-Peep" and also "Little Folks," with prose and verse combined,

Wherein the smallest readers may find something to their mind.

The charming "Rosebud Annual,", with pictures, we confess

Is a book all little gardeners should certainly possess.

The Sporting Cards of Harding, funny.

Hazelberg's "Diadem" worth the money.

(Air—"The Flowers that bloom.")

For toys that pop up with a spring,

Tra la!

Or toys not at all in that line,

To Cremer's you'll go, and you'll sing