Culch. (politely).  Mr. TROTTER is the only relation of yours I have had the pleasure of meeting, as yet.

Miss T. Why, I reckoned Uncle Remus was pretty most everybody’s relation by now.  He’s a book.  But likely you’ve no use for our national humorous literature?

Culch. I—­er—­must confess I seldom waste time over the humorous literature of any nation.

Miss T. I guess that accounts for your gaiety!  There, don’t you mind me, Mr. CULCHARD.  But suppose we hurry along and inspect this panorama they talk so much of; it isn’t going to be any sideshow.  It’s just a real representative mass-meeting of Swiss mountains, with every prominent peak in the country on the platform, and a deputation down below from the leading Italian lakes.  It’s ever so elegant,—­and there’s Poppa around on the top too.

ON THE TOP.  TOURISTS DISCOVERED MAKING MORE OR LESS APPROPRIATE REMARKS.

First Tourist (struggling with a long printed panorama, which flaps like a sail).  Grand view, Sir, get ’em all from here, you see!  Monte Rosa, Matterhorn, Breithorn—­

    [Works through them all conscientiously, until, much to
    everybody’s relief, his panorama escapes into space.

Second T. (a lady, with the air of a person making a discovery).  How wonderfully small everything looks down below!

Third T. (a British Matron, with a talent for incongruity).  Yes, dear, very—­quite worth coming all this way for, but as I was telling you, we’ve always been accustomed to such an evangelical service, so that our new Rector is really rather—­but we’re quite friendly of course; go there for tennis, and he dines with us, and all that.  Still, I do think, when it comes to having lighted candles in broad daylight—­(&c., &c.)

Fourth T. (an equally incongruous American).  Wa’al, yes, they show up well, cert’nly, those peaks do.  But I was about to remark.  Sir, I went to that particular establishment on Fleet Street.  I called for a chop.  And when it came, I don’t deny I felt disappointed, for the plate all around was just as dry—!  But the moment I struck a fork into that chop, Sir,—­well, the way the gravy just came gushing out was—­there, it ain’t no use me trying to put it in words!  But from that instant, Sir, I kinder realised the peculiar charm of your British chop.

Fifth T. (a discontented Teuton).  I exbected more as zis.  It is nod glear enough—­nod at all.  Zey dolt me from ze dop you see Milan.  I look all aroundt.  Novere I see Milan!  And I lief my obera-glass behint me in ze drain, and I slib on ze grass and sbrain my mittle finger, and altogedder I do not vish I had com.

Miss T. (presenting CULCHARD to Mr. CYRUS K.T.).  I guess you’ve met this gentleman before!