* * * * *

“LATINE DOCTUS.”—­A Cantab, neither a first-rate sailor nor a first-class classic, arrived at Calais after a rough passage, looking, as his friend, who met him on the quai, observed, “so changed he would hardly have known him.”  “That’s it,” replied the staggering graduate, “quantum mutatus ab billow!” Oh! he must have been bad!

* * * * *

THE SONG THAT BROKE MY HEART.

    I paused in a crowded street,
    I only desired to ride—­
  Only to wait for a Hammersmith ’bus
    With room for myself outside;
    When I caught the nastiest tune
    My ear had ever heard,
  And asked the Police to take it away,
    But never a man of them stirred.

    So the singer still sang on;
    She would not, would not go;
  She sang a song of the year before last
    That struck me as rather low. 
    She followed with one that was high,
    That made the tear-drops start,
  That was “Hi-tiddly-i-ti!  Hi!-ti!-hi!”
    The song that broke my heart!

* * * * *

WHAT is A “DEMOGRAPHER"?—­Those Londoners who ask this question will have already obtained a practical answer, as, this week, London is full of Demographers, to whom Mr. Punch, Grand Master of all Demographers (or “writers for the people"), gives a hearty welcome.  All hail to “The New Demogracy!”

* * * * *

’ARRY ON A ’OUSE-BOAT.

[Illustration]

  Dear CHARLIE,—­It’s ’ot, and no error!  Summer on us, at last, with a
      bust;
  Ninety odd in the shade as I write, I’ve a ‘ed, and a thunderin’
      thust. 
  Can’t go on the trot at this tempryture, though I’m on ’oliday
      still;
  So I’ll pull out my eskrytor, CHARLIE, and give you a touch of my
      quill.

  If you find as my fist runs to size, set it down to that quill, dear
      old pal;
  Correspondents is on to me lately, complains as I write like a gal. 
  Sixteen words to the page, and slopscrawly, all dashes and blobs. 
      Well, it’s true;
  But a quill and big sprawl is the fashion, so wot is a feller to do?

  Didn’t spot you at ’Enley, old oyster—­I did ’ope you’d shove in
      your oar. 
  We ’ad a rare barney, I tell you, although a bit spiled by the pour. 
  ’Ad a invite to ’OPKINS’s ’Ouse-boat, prime pitch, and swell party,
      yer know,
  Pooty girls, first-class lotion, and music.  I tell yer we did let
      things go.

  Who sez ’Enley ain’t up to old form, that Society gives it the slip? 
  Wish you could ’ave seen us—­and heard us—­old boy, when aboard of
      our ship. 
  Peonies and poppies ain’t in it for colour with our little lot,
  And with larfter and banjos permiskus we managed to mix it up ’ot.