ROTS.

Canards Portuguais. 
Entrecote d’Afrique a l’Allemande.

RELEVES.

Terrine de Fermes Vendues a la Parnell. 
Pate de Loi a l’Ordre Publique.

LEGUMES.

Petits Soupcons Francais, Sauce Egyptienne. 
Vepres Ceciliennes.

ENTREMETS.

Absorbe de Birmingham. 
Succes de Whitehall aux Affaires Etrangeres.

DESSERT.

Amendes Parlementaires. 
Raisons de Plus en Defaites.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  “SHORT ’ANDED.”

MRS. H-LSB-RY.  “I TELL YOU WHAT IT IS, MRS. COLEY, MUM,—­IF ALL THIS
’ERE DIRTY LINEN’S TO BE GOT THROUGH, WE MUST ’AVE ’ELP, MUM!!”]

* * * * *

“THE MUSIC IN OUR STREET.”

(A WORD FROM A GIRL WHO LIVES IN IT.)

[Illustration]

Did you ever ’ear our music?  What, never? There’s a shame; I tell yer it’s golopshus, we do ’ave such a game.  When the sun’s a-shinin’ brightly, when the fog’s upon the town, When the frost ‘as bust the water-pipes, when rain comes pourin’ down; In the mornin’ when the costers come a-shoutin’ with their mokes, In the evenin’ when the gals walk out a-spoonin’ with their blokes, When Mother’s slappin’ BILLY, or when Father wants ’is tea, When the boys are in the “Spotted Dog” a ‘avin’ of a spree, No matter what the weather is, or what the time o’ day, Our music allus visits us, and never goes away.  And when they’ve tooned theirselves to-rights, I tell yer it’s a treat Just to listen to the lot of ’em a-playin’ in our street.

  There’s a chap as turns the orgin—­the best I ever ’eard—­
  Oh lor’ he does just jabber, but you can’t make out a word. 
  I can’t abear Italians, as allus uses knives,
  And talks a furrin lingo all their miserable lives. 
  But this one calls me BELLA—­which my Christian name is SUE—­
  And ’e smiles and turns ’is orgin very proper, that he do. 
  Sometimes ’e plays a polker and sometimes it’s a march,
  And I see ‘is teeth all shinin’ through ’is lovely black mustarch. 
  And the little uns dance round him, you’d laugh until you cried
  If you saw my little brothers do their ’ornpipes side by side,
  And the gals they spin about as well, and don’t they move their feet,
  When they ’ear that pianner-orgin man, as plays about our street.

  There’s a feller plays a cornet too, and wears a ulster coat,
  My eye, ’e does puff out ‘is cheeks a-tryin’ for ’is note. 
  It seems to go right through yer, and, oh, it’s right-down rare
  When ’e gives us “Annie Laurie” or “Sweet Spirit, ’ear my Prayer”;
  ’E’s so stout that when ‘e’s blowin’ ’ard you think ’e must go pop;
  And ’is nose is like the lamp (what’s red) outside a chemist’s shop. 
  And another blows the penny-pipe,—­I allus thinks it’s thin,