After all, there is something quite ’ome-like in Parry—­so leastways I
      think;
  It’s a place where you don’t seem afraid to larf ’arty, or tip gals the
      wink;
  Sort o’ san janey feeling about it, my pippin’—­you know wot I mean. 
  You don’t feel too fur from old Fleet Street, steaks, “bitter,” and
      “God Save the Queen!”

  When your Britisher travels, he travels, but likes to be Britisher still;
  With his Times and his “tub” he is ’appy; without ’em he’s apt to feel
      ill. 
  Wy, when I was last year in Parry, I went for a Bullyvard crawl
  One night arter supper, when who should I spot but my pal BOBBY BALL.

  He wos doin’ the gay at a Caffy, was BOB, petty vair, and all that,
  Togged up to the nines with his claw-hammer, cuff-shooters, gloves, and
      crush-hat. 
  “Wot cheer, BOBBY, old buster!” I bellered; and up from his paper he
      looks. 
  Ah! and didn’t we ’ave a rare night on it, CHARLIE!  We both know our
      books.

  But wot do you think BOB was reading? The Times!  I could twig it at
      once. 
  He might ’ave ’ung on to Gil Blars, or the Figgero,—­BOB ain’t a
      dunce—­
  But lor! not a bit on it, CHARLIE; the Britisher stuck out to rights;
  ’Twas JOHN BULL’s big, well-printed old broad-sheet!  Jest one of the
      pootiest sights!

  TORTONI’S is all very spiffing, the Bullyvard life is A 1,
  And the smart little journals of Parry, though tea-paper rags, is good
      fun;
  But a Briton abroad is a Briton; chic, spice, azure pictures, rum
      crimes,
  Is all very good biz in their way, but they do not make up for our
      Times!

  Well, I’m not on for Turmutshire, CHARLIE, not this time; and now you
      know why. 
  Carn’t yer jest turn the tables, old hoyster, and come for a bit of a
      fly? 
  Cut the chawbacons, run up to London, jine me, and we’ll pal off to
      Parry;
  And if yer don’t find it a ’Oliday Skylark, wy, never trust.

  ’ARRY.

* * * * *

VICE VERSA.—­The French Ministers are away from Paris for their vacation.  M. DEVELLE, it is said, has gone to La Bourboule.  This is better for the place than La Bourboule going to the Develle.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  HER FIRST WASP.

Poor Effie (who has been stung).  “FIRST IT WALKED ABOUT ALL OVER MY HAND, AND IT WAS SO NICE!  BUT OH!—­WHEN IT SAT DOWN!”]

* * * * *

THE GERMAN HINTERLAND.

(NEW SONG TO AN OLD TUNE.)