over,
  And you’re safely returned, say, from Folkestone or Dover,
      If you see your hub ailing,
      And painfully paling,
  And you wish to be off, and not linger about him,
  But enjoy to the full your new freedom without him,
      Remember, remember,
      From Jan. to December,
  You must tie yourselves down, and be constantly near
      With the pill-box and posset,
      And all that may cosset
  That bore of a husband, whenever he’s queer.

* * * * *

CELA VA SANS DIRE.—­In reply to the Salvationists’ Solicitors, an opinion was given, signed by Sir CHARLES RUSSELL, with WIT.  Why drag in WIT?  When CHARLES RUSSELL’s name appears, the wit is taken for granted.

* * * * *

THE TRAVELLING COMPANIONS.

NO.  XXIV.

SCENE—­The Piazza of St. Mark at night.  The roof and part of the facade gleam a greenish silver in the moonlight.  The shadow of the Campanile falls, black and broad, across the huge square, which is crowded with people listening to the Military Band, and taking coffee, &c., outside the caffes.  Miss TROTTER and CULCHARD are seated at one of the little tables in front of the Quadri.

Miss T. I’d like ever so much to know why it is you’re so anxious to see that Miss PRENDERGAST and me friendly again?  After she’s been treating you this long while like you were a toad—­and not a popular kind of toad at that!

Culch. (wincing).  Of course I am only too painfully aware of—­of a certain distance in her manner towards me, but I should not think of allowing myself to be influenced by any—­er—­merely personal considerations of that sort.

Miss T. That’s real noble!  And I presume, now, you cann’t imagine any reason why she’s been treading you so flat.

[Illustration:  “A mean cuss?  Me!  Really—­“]

Culch. (with a shrug).  I really haven’t troubled to speculate Who can tell how one may, quite unconsciously, give offence—­even to those who are—­er—­comparative strangers?

Miss T. Just so. (A pause.) Well, Mr. CULCHARD, if I wanted anything to confirm my opinion of you, I guess you’ve given it me!

Culch. (internally).  It’s very unfortunate that she will insist on idealising me like this!

Miss T. Maybe, now, you can form a pretty good idea already what that opinion is?

Culch. (in modest deprecation).  You give me some reason for inferring that it is far higher than I deserve.

Miss T. Well, I don’t know that you’ve missed your guess altogether.  Are you through your ice-cream yet?

Culch. Almost. (He finishes his ice.) It is really most refreshing!

Miss T. Then, now you’re refreshed, I’ll tell you what I think about you. (CULCHARD resigns himself to enthusiasm.) My opinion of you, Mr. CULCHARD, is that, taking you by and large, you amount to what we Amurrcans describe as “a pretty mean cuss.”