Miss T. Now I call that real kind, you’re consoling me in advance!

The Steward (coming up).  De dickets dat I haf nod yed seen! (examining CULCHARD’s coupons).  For Bingen—­so?

Culch.  I am.  This gentleman gets off—­is it Bacharach or Maintz, PODBURY?

Podb. (sulkily).  Neither, as it happens.  I’m for Bingen, too, as you won’t go anywhere else.  Though you did say when we started, that the advantage of travelling like this was that we could go on or stop just as the fancy took us!

Culch. (calmly).  I did, my dear PODBURY.  But it never occurred to me that the fancy would take you to get tired of a place before you got there!

Podb. (as he walks forwards).  Hang that fellow!  I know I shall punch his head some day.  And She didn’t seem to care whether I stayed or not. (Hopefully.) But you never can tell with women!

    [He returns to his camp-stool and the letter-reading Old
    Ladies.

* * * * *

A SONG IN SEASON.

    ’Twas the autumn time, dear love,
    The English autumn weather;
  And, oh, it was sweet, it was hard to beat
    As we sailed that day together! 
    It was cold when we started out,
    As we noted with sad surprise;
  And the tip of your nose was as blue, I suppose,
    As the blue of your dear, dear eyes.

    We sailed to Hampton Court,
    And the sun had burnt us black;
  Then we dodged a shower for the half of an hour,
    And then we skated back;
    Till the weather grew depressed
    At the shifting state of its luck,
  And the glass, set fair, gave it up in despair,
    And much of the lightning struck.

    We sat on the bank in the storm,
    In the steady fall of the snow,
  In the stinging hail and the howling gale,
    And the scorching sun, you know;
    We sat in it all—­yes, all! 
    We cared for no kind of weather—­
  What made us so mad was the fact that we had
    The whole of the kinds together.

* * * * *

ROBERT’S FUTURE.

My kind Amerrycain aquaintance—­I musn’t call him frend tho’ he is so werry free and social with me, for I hopes I knos my propper place—­has giwen me a long acount of his week at Brighton.  It seems as he was in grate luck, for it was Brighton Race Week, and he is good enuff to say that, whatever diffrent opinyons the men of other countries may find in regard to the warious customs and manners of our grate but rayther rum nashun, they all agrees, with one acord, that a English race-course is the prettyest and nicest thing of the sort that the hole world can show.  I rayther thinks as he dropt his money there, but it couldn’t have bin werry much, for it didn’t have the least effeck on his good temper.  It