* * * * *

[Illustration:  TROP DE ZELE.

Clerical Customer.  “I WANT TO BUY A NICE DIAMOND BROOCH FOR MY BETTER HALF.”

Over-anxious Shopkeeper.  “CERTAINLY, SIR.  WE HAVE JUST THE VERY THING.  WE CAN ACCOMMODATE YOU ALSO FOR YOUR OTHER HALF, IF YOU WISH.” [They did not trade.]

* * * * *

THE WAIL OF A PESSIMIST POET.

  O lift me out of this weary world,
    And put me on a tree,
      For life is all noughts
      And crosses, or thoughts
    That are busy for brawl and spree!

  For where is the man would strike the lyre,
    Or spurn with his foot the thief,
      Or melt all day,
      In a Midsummer way,
    At the sight of repentant grief?

  No!  Lift me up to a leafy bough,
    Where my feet may play in the breeze,
      If my hot head there
      Still singe my hair,
    My heels may be ready to freeze!

* * * * *

MINOR MISERIES.

NO.  II.—­THE WINGED HAT.

  My hat, my hat—­away it flew—­
    The Strand was damp, the wind blew strong—­
  My tall silk hat, so bright and new;
    Ye Bishops, tell me was it wrong
  That, in that moment’s agony,
  My language, like my hat, flew free?

  Away in swift pursuit I dashed,
    The hat went scudding fast before;
  By Busmen mocked, by Hansoms splashed,
    The more I ran, it flew the more. 
  While boys screeched forth, in chorus vile,
  “I’ll lay the toff don’t catch ’is tile.”

  On, on—­at last it seemed to tire
    Of pavements and pursuing feet. 
  It soared, then settled in the mire,
    Full in the middle of the street,
  A mud-stained, shattered relic—­not
  The bright new hat I bought from SCOTT.

  Now was my time; I rushed—­but no—­
    Fate ever mocks an ardent man;
  Even as I rushed, unwieldy, slow,
    Bore down a ponderous Pickford-Van,
  And under two broad wheels crushed flat
  My loved but suicidal hat.

  Have hats got souls, and can they hate? 
    Are street-boys higher than the brute? 
  Avails it to discuss of fate,
    Free-will, fore-knowledge absolute? 
  Nay, why of all created things
  Should new silk hats be made with wings?

  I know not.  Wherefore, oh ye powers,
    Speed me to some deserted land,
  Where blow no winds and fall no showers,
    Far from the street-boys and the Strand. 
  There all unfriended let me dwell,
  A hatless hermit in a cell.

* * * * *

THE CYCLE-RIDING DUSTMAN.

A VERY NEW SONG TO A VERY OLD TUNE.

AIR—­“THE LITERARY DUSTMAN.”