ancetterer. 
  Snow?  Is it me brings the snow, and the hice, and the
          peasoupy slushiness,
  Making the subbubs one slough?  No!  The Age is give over to
          gushiness. 
  Parties as writes to the Papers is snivellers, yus, every one of ’em,
  Barring the few as cracks jokes, though I own as I can’t see the
          fun of ’em. 
  Look at “UCALEGON,” now, him as writes to a cheap daily journal,
  Along o’ the ’"Orrors of ’Ampstead,” as he calls hy—­wot’s
          it?—­“hybernal,”
  (Wotever that crackjaw may mean) or that fellow, “INFELIX THE”—­
          blow it. 
  Sech names you can’t write nor yet spell, if you’re not a School
          Board or a Poet. 
  Talks of our “hard hide,” does, “INFELIX,” I’d like to lay hands
          upon hisn! 
  All becos Upper ’Ampstead, it seems, is a sort of a dark ice-bound
          prison. 
  No ’busses, no trams, and no cabs, no grub, and no gas, and no water! 
  Ha! ha!  Pooty picter it is, and thanks be I don’t dwell in that
          quarter! 
  But wot’s it to do with poor Me?  If he wants it himproved he had
          best try
  Them proud County-Councillor coves, not come wallopping into the
          Westry. 
  Wot use, too, to talk of Wienna?  Don’t know where that is, and
          don’t wanter,
  But, ’cording to “SNOWBOUND,” their style of snow-clearing beats
          ourn in a canter. 
  Ratepayers’ Defencers may rave, and the scribblers may scold or
          talk funny,
  But clean streets in Winter mean this,—­you must plank down a
          dollup more money!

  Me up and be doing meanwhile?  No, not if I jolly well knows it. 
  I likes my own fireside too well to go snow-clearing, don’t you
          suppose it. 
  A choice between slither and slush may come ’ard on the Mighty
          Metrolopus,
  But Westrydom ain’t on the job, ’owsomever they worry and wallop us. 
  Bless yer, we’ve stood it before, and can stand it agen, all this
          fussing.
  My game’s a swig and a smoke; as for them—­they can go on
          “discussing.”

    [Shuts door, and retires to his snuggery for spirituous
    solace.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  BUMBLE AT HOME; OR, “THE WINTER OF OUR DISCONTENT.”

“CLEAR THE STREETS!—­AND IN SUCH BEASTLY WEATHER?—­UGH!  NOT IF I KNOW IT!!”

(December 31, 1890, and January, 1891.)]

* * * * *

THE COMPOSER COMING.

[Illustration:  “I’ve an hoe,” by Sir Arthur Sullivan.]

[Illustration:  Mus Doc.]