Young GRANDOLPH hat a Barty,
    But he scooted ’cross der sea,
  Und he tidn’t say to dem, “Come, my poys,
    Und drafel along mit me!”

[Footnote 1:  Saus und Braus—­Ger., Riot and Bustle.]

* * * * *

“Correct card, gents!”—­“Wanted a Map of London” was the heading of a letter in the Times last Thursday.  No, Sir! that’s not what is wanted.  There are hundreds of ’em, specially seductive pocket ones, with just the very streets that one wants to discover as short cuts to great centres carefully omitted.  What is wanted is a correct map of London, divided into pocketable sections, portable, foldable, durable, on canvas,—­but if imperfect, as so many of these small pocket catch-shilling ones are just now, although professedly brought up to date ’91, they are worse than useless, and to purchase one is a waste of time, temper and money.  We could mention an attractive-looking little map—­which, but no—­ Publishers and public are hereby cautioned!  N.B.—­Test well your pocket map through a magnifying glass before buying. Experto crede!

* * * * *

OYSTERLESS.

(BY AN IMPECUNIOUS GOURMET.)

    [Oysters are very dear, and are likely, as the season
    advances, to be still higher in price.]

[Illustration]

  Oh, Oyster mine!  Oh, Oyster mine! 
    You’re still as exquisitely nice;
  With perfect pearly tints you shine,
    But you are such an awful price. 
  The lemon and the fresh cayenne,
    Brown bread and butter and the stout
  Are here, and just the same, but then
    What if I have to leave you out?

  What wonder that my spirits droop,
    That life can bring me no delight,
  When I must give up oyster soup,
    So softly delicately white. 
  The curry powder stands anear,
    The scallop shells, but what care I—­
  You’re so abominably dear,
    O Oyster! that I cannot buy.

  With sad imaginative flights,
    I think upon the days of yore;
  Like TICKLER, on Ambrosian nights,
    I have consumed them by the score. 
  And still, whenever you appeared,
    My pride it was to use you well;
  I let the juice play round your beard,
    And always on the hollow shell.

  I placed you in the fair lark-pie. 
    With steak and kidneys too, of course;
  Your ancestors were glad to die,
    So well I made the oyster sauce. 
  I had you stewed and featly fried,
    And dipped in batter—­think of that;
  And, as a pleasant change, I’ve tried
    You, skewered in rows, with bacon-fat.

  “Where art thou, ALICE?” cried the bard. 
    “Where art thou, Oyster?” I exclaim. 
  It really is extremely hard,
    To know thee nothing but a name. 
  For this is surely torment worse
    Than DANTE heaped upon his dead;—­
  To find thee quite beyond my purse,
    And so go oysterless to bed.