Fourth Extract.—­This is really too bad!  A perambulating Circus has pitched its tent on the Village Green!  When I say tent, I make a mistake; it is a beastly ugly iron thing, that looks simply hideous, and from the durable stoutness of its construction, it evidently is going to be a fixture for some time.  My tenants support the Circus people, and my Agent tells me, that if I interfere, my life will be made a burden to me.  It appears my tenants are “a very unruly lot when they are irritated.”  Pleasant!

Fifth Extract.—­The Circus won’t go.  And now I find I can’t get any of my rents.  My agent tells me, that my tenants never would settle with their last landlord.  Besides, they expect me to pay for the damage done to their dwellings by the floods.  They say it was my fault, because I would put up a bank and plantation in my back garden.  Only light in the general gloom is, the prospect my Agent holds out to me of getting rid of the property for me to another lover of the picturesque.  Scarcely fair; but after all, or rather before all, must take care of Number One.

Last Extract.—­Hurray!  Sold my estate to another fellow.  However, on looking over my accounts, I fancy I should have found it cheaper if, in the first instance, I had bought a chromo lithograph!

* * * * *

EPITAPH.—­An Alpining Traveller sends us, on the “Baer” Hotel lately destroyed at Grindelwald, the following adapted and reversified quotation:—­

  “Good-bye to the Baer—­
  And it’s moaning” we are!

* * * * *

[Illustration:  “SUMMER VOLUPTAS.”

Toby (sings).  “MY BARQUE IS ON THE SEA!”]

* * * * *

SONGS OUT OF SEASON.

NO.  I.—­DISORGANISED.

  Still in London now you’ll find me,
    Still detained against my will;
  And I wish, distinctly, mind me,
    To accentuate the “still;”
  It’s a sort of consolation,
    As I sit, and fume, and frown,
  That the greatest botheration
    Of my life is out of town.

  He who used to grind “She Wore a
    Wreath of Roses” every day,
  And “Selections from Dinorah,”
    And—­“Ta-ra-ra-Boom-de-ay.” 
  With his execrable smiling,
    And exasperating din,
  Must, I needs infer, be riling
    Some one else with grind and grin.

  He who seemed, in fact, delighted,
    And a kiss—­the fiend!—­would blow,
  When I got a bit excited,
    And exclaimed “Al Diavolo!”
  Who, with unabashed assurance,
    Only beamed the more, and kissed,
  If, incensed beyond endurance,
    In his face I shook my fist.

  He has earned his little outing,
    This excruciating cove,
  And his instrument is flouting
    Bath, or Scarborough, or Hove. 
  For the moment I can get a
    Peaceful interim, and free—­
  But he cherishes vendetta,
    This Italian count, to me.