["Last year I fed the tomtits with a cocoanut, suspended on a stick outside my window, and they came greedily.  This year I forgot all about it, but, hearing a clamour in a fuchsia-bush outside my study window ...  I found myself besieged by an army of tomtits ...  Was it memory, or association of ideas, or both?”—­Rev. F.G.  Montague Powell, in the “Spectator."]

  On a bush in a garden a little Tomtit
    Sang “Willow, Tit-willow, Tit-willow!”
  And I said to him, “Dicky-bird, why do you sit
    Singing ’Willow, Tit-willow, Tit-willow’?”
  “I’ve had nothing to eat for three days,” he replied,
  “Though in searching for berries I’ve gone far and wide,
  And I feel a pain here in my little inside,
        O Willow, Tit-willow, Tit-willow!”

  Now his poor little cheeks had grown haggard and thin,
    O Willow, Tit-willow, Tit-willow! 
  And his self was a shadow of what it had been,
    O Willow, Tit-willow, Tit-willow! 
  “By the kind Mr. Powell last year was I fed
  With a cocoanut stuck on a stick,” so he said,
  “And without this again I shall shortly be dead,
        O Willow, Tit-willow, Tit-willow!”

  So he gathered an army who twittered all day
    “O Willow, Tit-willow, Tit-willow!”
  But a cocoanut soon made them all cease to say
    “O Willow, Tit-willow, Tit-willow!”
  And the truth of my story you must not assail,
  For the dear old Spectator has published the tale. 
  Though those who will read it can scarcely well fail
        To say “Willow, Tit-willow, Tit-willow!”

* * * * *

“The Passing of Arthur.”—­After Ivanhoe, Sir Arthur Sullivan’s new Opera, has appeared at Mr. D’OYLY CARTE’s new theatre, the Knightly and Daily Composer will rest his musical brain for a year, and will place his Savoy throne at the disposal of Prince Edward Solomon, direct descendant of the wisest monarch ever known save for one amiable weakness.  The successor to King Arthur has plenty of “Savoy Faire,” and a good choice has been made.  The Carte will now be drawn along merrily enough, and, no doubt, it will be a brilliant time when Sol, in all his glory, comes out and shines at the Savoy.

* * * * *

NEW IRISH POLITICAL PARTY NAME.—­For the followers of Mr. PARNELL, the best name in future would be “The Faux-Par-nellites.”

* * * * *

[Illustration:  TRUE FEMININE DELICACY OF FEELING.

Emily (who has called to take Lizzie to the great Murder Trial).  “What deep Black, dearest!”

Lizzie.  “Yes.  I thought it would be only decent, as the poor Wretch is sure to be found Guilty.”

Emily.  “Ah!  Where I was Dining last night, it was even betting which way the Verdict would go, so I only put on Half Mourning!”]