Sibthorp, meeting Peel in the House of Commons, after congratulating him on his present enviable position, finished the confab with the following unrivalled conundrum:—­“By the bye, which of your vegetables does your Tamworth speech resemble!”—­“Spinach,” replied Peel, who, no doubt, associated it with gammon.—­“Pshaw,” said the gallant Colonel, “your rope inions (your opinions), to be sure!” Peel opened his mouth, and never closed it till he took his seat at the table.

* * * * *

BEAUTIFUL COINCIDENCE!—­A PAIR OF TOOLS.

Sir Francis Burdett, the superannuated Tory tool, proposed the Conservative healths; and Toole the second, as toast-master, announced them to the assemblage.

* * * * *

THE CURRAH CUT;

OR, HOW WE ALL GOT A FI’PENNY BIT A-PIECE.

“Are the two ponies ready?”

“Yes!”

“And the ass?”

“All right!”

“And you’ve, all five of you, got your fi’pennies for Tony Dolan, the barber, at Kells?”

“Every one of us.”

“Then be off; there’s good boys!  Ride and tie like Christians, and don’t be going double on the brute beasts; for a bit of a walk now and then will just stretch your legs.  Be back at five to dinner; and let us see what bucks you’ll look with your new-trimmed curls.  Stay, there’s another fi’penny; spend that among you, and take care of yourselves, my little jewels!”

Such were the parting queries and instructions of my kind old uncle to five as roaring, mischievous urchins as ever stole whisky to soak the shamrock on St. Patrick’s day.  The chief director, schemer, and perpetrator of all our fun and devilry, was, strange to say, “my cousin Bob:”  the smallest, and, with one exception, the youngest of the party.  But Bob was his grandmother’s “ashey pet”—­his mother’s “jewel”—­his father’s “mannikin”—­his nurse’s “honey”—­and the whole world’s “darlin’ little devil of a rogue!” The expression of a face naturally arch, beaming with good humour, and radiant with happy laughter, was singularly heightened by a strange peculiarity of vision, which I am at a loss to describe.  It was, if the reader can idealise the thing, an absolute “beauty,” which, unfortunately, can only be written about by the appliances of some term conveying the notion of a blemish.  The glances from his bright eyes seemed to steal out from under their long fringe, the most reckless truants of exulting mirth.  No matter what he said, he looked a joke.  Now for his orders:—­