A happy thought strikes him as he slowly meanders homeward.  He would have revenge.  He would punish these wretches by handing down—­to posterity their peculiarities.  He would put it in verse and have it printed in his book, and then they’d see that even the gentle worm could turn and sting.

Ah! blessed thought.  He flies to his garret bedroom, seizes his goose-quill and paper, and sits down.  What shall he write about?  He nibbles the feather end of his pen, plunges the point into the ink, looks at it intently to see if he has hooked up an idea, sees none, and falls to nibbling again.  Ah! now he has it.  There is TOM, the dunderhead, who is always sleepy and he will put that down about him.  Squaring his shoulders, he writes: 

    “Let’s go to bed,” says Sleepy Head.

Gleefully he rubs his hands.  Won’t that cut TOM.  Ah!  Ha!  I guess TOM won’t say much more about staring at the moon.  Now for DICK, the old stupid.  What shall he say about him?  The end of the pen diminishes slowly but surely, and then he writes: 

    “Tarry awhile,” says Slow.

That will answer for DICK.  Now let him give HARRY something scorching, withering, and cutting—­so that he’ll never open his mouth again unless it is to put something in it.  Oh, that is it, he is always hungry—­rub him on that.  He thinks intently.  Determination shows in every line of his face; the pen is almost gone only an inch remains, and then the Poet masters his subject.  He has got the last two lines.

    “Put on the pot,” says Greedy Gut,
    “We’ll sup before we go.”

He throws down the stump of the pen and bounces up.  His object in life is accomplished; he is master of the situation, now, and holds the trump card.  See the quiet smile’ and knowing look as he folds the paper up, and thrusts it into his pocket.  He is going down-stairs to read it to the family.  Now is the time for sweet revenge and for the overthrow of those Philistines, his brothers.  He descends slowly, like an avenging angel, enters the room, and—­gentle reader, imagine the rest.

* * * * *

Masculine or Feminine?

It now seems that the new and terrible fagot-gun used in the French army is to be spoken of in the feminine gender—­mitrailleuse instead of mitrailleur, as hitherto spelt by correspondents.  That a virago is sometimes termed a “spit-fire” we all know, but that is hardly reason enough to excuse the French for such a lapse of gallantry as calling a thunderous and fatal implement of war by a soft feminine name.  Let them stick to mitrailleur.  Yet we would not rashly throw the other word away. Mitrailleuse would be a capital acquisition to the English language, and very handy for any man having a vixen of a wife, with no nice pet name convenient with which to conciliate her.

* * * * *

A Ridiculous Rub-a-dub.