I love ’em, each supple-shanked lad,
    ’Most as much as—­Statistics.  To trudge it
  For them makes my bosom as glad
    As—­Big Surplus, and Popular Budget;
  And so I should like to secure them a run,
  Combining snug safety with plenty of fun.

  I don’t wont to lessen their speed,
    I don’t want to hamper their daring;
  But rashness won’t always succeed—­
    Just ask that smart runner, young B-R-NG! 
  And that’s why I’m trying to strike a new line
  For our Paper-Chase—­catting the “Paper” up fine.

  I scatter it wide.  Will it float? 
    Of course for awhile there’s no knowing;
  But I shall be able to note,
    By the sequel, which way the wind’s blowing. 
  There!  Look like white-birds, or banknotes, in full flight. 
  Now, lads, double up!  There’s not one yet in sight!

  Of course I’m ahead of my field,
    As a Hare worth his salt ever should be. 
  My Hounds, though, are mostly spring-heeled. 
    Eh?  Funk it?  I don’t think that could be! 
  The L.S.D.  Harriers’ lick others hollow
  For pluck and for pace.  There’s the trail,—­will they follow?

* * * * *

“SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST.”—­You need not go to Holland to see the Hague.  You may find it—­him we mean—­at DOWDESWELL’s Gallery.  Here you can revel in a good fit of the Hague without shivering.  Indeed, Mr. ANDERSON HAGUE, judging from his pictures of North Cambria, seems to be very fit, and therefore, he may be called an HAGUE-fit.

* * * * *

A CAN(NES)DID CONFESSION.

(BY A SUFFERING ANGELINA.)

  You write to me, sweetest, with envy
    Of “zephyrs” and “summerlike stars;”
  You say women, horses, and men vie
    In chorus of croups and catarrhs;
  You picture me safe from the snarling
    Of Winter’s tyrannical sway. 
  This isn’t, believe me, my darling,
    The Mediterranean way.

  You rave of the “shimmering light on
    An ocean pellucidly fair.” 
  You get it, my darling, at Brighton,
    And coals that can warm you are there: 
  Of “boughs with hot oranges breaking”—­
    Cold comfort, while fortunes we pay
  For faggots that mock us in making
    Their Mediterranean way!

  You dream of me rapt by a casement
    Mimosa caresses and rose;
  This window was surely the place meant
    For mistral to buffet my nose. 
  Of tennis and dances and drums in
    “That Eden for Eves”—­did you say? 
  Apt phrase!  Nothing masculine comes in
    Our Mediterranean way.

  And “Esterel’s amethyst ranges
    Of gossamer shapes”—­and the rest. 
  Good gracious, how scenery changes! 
    They too have a cold on their chest. 
  At “delicate lungs,” dear, and so on
    No more for this climate I’ll play,
  But homeward in ecstasy go on
    My Mediterranean way.