“A delegation of young children,” Ah! 
    And they were not the only ones. 
  “Men are but children of a larger—­” Bah! 
    Wise and strong men are—­lonely ones. 
  Most men—­French-men—­have touches of the child,
    Fondness for show, fine phrases—­
  Pst!  Here my role’s not cynical, but mild,
    And open as dawn-daisies.

  “J’embrasse la Russie!” That was rather neat
    For “Faute-de-Mieux,” at any rate. 
  Wondrous the magic power of blague, and “bleat”
    On Man—­mouton degenerate! 
  That “Bete Humaine,” as ZOLA dubs him.  Gr—­r—­r! 
    The real brutes are braver;
  The tiger, when in chase of prey, won’t purr,
    Nor will the Bear, then, slaver.

  The Bear!  Reminds me of a horrid dream
    I had that night.  A funny one,
  But startling!  I awoke with such a scream! 
    I dreamt some link (a money one?)
  Bound me to a big Bruin, rampant, tall,
    A regular Russian Shagbag,
  In whose close hug I felt extremely small,
    And squeezable as a rag-bag.

  I, CARNOT, squeezable!  ’Tis too absurd! 
    A President, and pliant! 
  But—­in my dream—­the raucous voice I heard
    Of that grim ursine giant. 
  “Come to my arms!  You’ll find them strong and snug. 
    The North’s so true—­and tender!”—­
  And then that monster huge put on the hug! 
    I thought my soul I’d render.

  A bear’s embrace, like a prize-fighter’s grip,
    Is close as passion’s clasping. 
  “Welcome!” he grunted. “I’ll not let you slip!”
    “Thanks! thanks!” I answered, gasping.
  “J’em—­brasse—­la—­Rus—­sie!” Here my breath quite failed
    In that prodigious cuddle. 
  ’Twas but a dream—­How was it sleep prevailed
    My meaning so to muddle?

  “J’embrasse la Russie!” It was neatly phrased
    As MOHRENHEIM admitted,
  A President, in doggerel stanzas praised,
    Must be so ready-witted,
  Yet mild Republican and Autocrat,
    Hugging in friendly seeming,
  Suggest that Someone may be cuddled flat—­
    At least in restless dreaming.

[Footnote 2:  See Cut so named, p. 279, Vol. 93, Dec. 17, 1887.]

* * * * *

FROM THE VALE OF LLANGOLFLYN.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,—­I have just seen your Number with the Song of “The Golf Enthusiast.”  It occurs to me that no one has ever mentioned the fact that the Romans knew the game, for does not VIRGIL sing, “Tee veniente die—­Tee decedente canebat?” I have not the book, and therefore can’t give you the reference—­but I know I am right, as I am

A WELSH GOLFER.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  “PUTTING ON THE HUG!”

M. LE PRESIDENT (breathlessly).  “J’EM—­BRASSE—­LA RUSSIE!!”