THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

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TIT FOR TAT!

(FROM A HISTORY OF ENGLAND, TO BE WRITTEN IN THE TWENTIETH CENTURY.)

The Intelligent Foreigner carefully picked his way amongst the ruins to Downing Street, and was soon in consultation with the Premier.

“This merely is a call of courtesy,” he observed; “of course I am not in the least bound to give you notice, but think it civil to do so.”

The British Premier bowed, as if inviting farther particulars.

“Well, O-HANG-HIT and I have settled everything,” continued the Visitor; “he takes the Isle of Wight, while I assume the Protectorate of Scotland, India, and the Channel Islands.”

“What!” exclaimed the British Premier, aghast at the information.  “And what if we resist?”

“Resist!” laughed the New Zealander, “Why that would cost a halfpenny in the pound more Income Tax, and your rate-payers would never submit to that!  Besides, our disease-spreading torpedoes (to which our own people are acclimatised) would soon silence opposition!”

“Very true,” returned the British Premier, sorrowfully, “very true, indeed.  Well, and what next?”

“Then O-HANG-HIT has a monopoly of English Beer, and we consent to the cession of Gibraltar to DUNT-KAR-ACUSSER.  The simplest thing in the world!”

“But where do I come in?” asked the Briton.

“Oh, you don’t come in at all.  But don’t be alarmed, we are only contributing our quota to the glorious cause of Peace!” And the Intelligent Foreigner showed the British Premier a report of a speech made by Lord SALISBURY, at the Mansion House, on August 6, 1890.

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TRANSCENDENTAL NEOPHYTE.—­Mr. JOHN BURNS has joined the Kabbylists.

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OUR YOTTING YORICK.

DEAR EDITOR,

How can I send you “a sketch of anything I see,” when I haven’t seen anything for the last twenty-four hours.  Impossible! utterly impossible!  You simply want me to do impossibilities, and I am only mortal. Voila!  I don’t complain; I only say I can’t draw what I don’t see; and as to sending funny sketches when it’s raining in torrents, and been doing so for the last forty-eight hours three minutes and twenty-one and a-half seconds, I’m—­well, I can’t—­simplement.  Torrents of rain.  Anyone can draw water—­but draw rain!  Yes, when on horseback, I can draw rein.  Good that, “when you come to think of it,”—­considering that I’m 1900 miles from an English joke, so that this you may say is far-fetched, only ’tisn’t fetched at all, as I send it.  Think I’ve left out an “0,” and it’s 19,000. It seems like it.  Here we are in Petersburg.  Mist’s cleared off.  We’re anchored close to Winter Palace, and I’ve just seen a droschki-driver, whom I sketch.  Not unlike old toy Noah’s-Ark man, eh?  Something humorous at last, thank Heaven!  But did I come 1900 miles to see this?  Well, “Neva no more!”