How we ever recovered our belongings I don’t know.  All I remember is, being taken to the station in an old green wherry, and coming back to town seventeen in a second-class carriage.  My last view of the wreck embraced KITTY, propped up against the railing of the roof, and making tea on a table, which looked more like tipping over than standing straight.  KITTY’S husband was muttering to himself as he handed round the cups; and, as I moved off through the crush of boats, I fancied I caught the word “JONAH.”  Of course I may have been mistaken, as my name is not that, but

THE ODD GIRL OUT.

* * * * *

ODE TO MONEY.

(BY A POPTIMIST.)

  Hair that is golden grows olden,
    Hopes that are golden decay;
  Suns that are bright, and embolden
    The tourist to go on his way,
  Leaving his gingham tight folden,
    Turn to a drizzling grey. 
  But gold of the Mint is all-golden,
    Safe in the strictest assay.

  Cynics may rail against money,
    Spurn its beneficent power;
  Bears spurn impossible honey,
    Foxes the grapes that are sour. 
  Men, who can never be funny,
    Scoff at the funny man’s dower;
  Lands where it seldom is sunny
    Find little praise for a flower.

  When a man’s safe at his bankers,
    What does it mean, let us think—­
  Freedom from care and its cankers,
    Plenty of victuals and drink? 
  Nay, but it opens the garden
    Of tender illusion and joy,
  Where faults find immediate pardon,
    And worrying ways don’t annoy. 
  In the light of futurity’s favours
    Fair gratitude burgeons amain,
  And the flittermouse Love never wavers
    In truth to the Psyche of gain. 
  Bountiful Money!  ’Twill make you
    Worthy in manners and birth;
  Beauty for better will take you
    (Little as that may be worth),
  Hosts by the hand kindly shake you,
  Crowds, when you wish to be funny,
  Mind doing homage to Money,
    Laugh with inordinate mirth. 
    Sages and moralists blame thee,
    Stoics stand gloomy above thee,
    Preachers with obloquy name thee,
    Hermits and anchorites shame thee,
  But symbol of all that is sunny,
  Coy, courteous, flattering Money,
  I love thee, I love thee, I love thee!

* * * * *

“BETTER LATE THAN NEVER!”

(AN OPEN LETTER TO SOMEBODY.)

DEAR NOBLE CORRESPONDENT TO THE TIMES,—­We see that you are doing your best to defend the proposed destruction of the Lincoln’s Inn Gateway in Chancery Lane.  In the course of your exertions, you have been not too civil to several worthy persons, and inaccurate in your description of the Society of Antiquaries.  Now, do take our advice.  We know you were a clever “Silk” when you practised at the Bar, and we have heard that your forefathers (for a generation or so) were excellent hands at Banking; but, in the name of Lombard Street, do let Archaeology alone!