And that is all?  Well, and a fair amount, too!—­All!  What nonsense!  Why, that will take me less than no time.  Then I think I shall ascend Mont Blanc, so as to be able to see how the summit looks in winter.  Then I shall translate the Waverley Novels into Swedish.

Well, you might be worse employed, but you must not overdo it.—­Overdo it!  Certainly not!  Why, I am strong as a horse.  And that reminds me, I think I shall attempt a long-distance ride on my own account.  I feel sure that I can do better than those German and Austrian fellows.

Where do you propose to ride?—­From John o’ Groat’s to the Land’s End, I fancy, will be the course.  I ought to do it in three days.

Of course you will use more than one horse?—­Oh, certainly.  No cruelty.  And I think I shall try the walk myself on foot, just to see if a horse will be able to keep up with me.

And is there any other exploit that you contemplate?—­I thought I might perhaps dine with the new Lord Mayor.

What! dine with the new Lord Mayor!  Why, you would never be able to bear the strain; the great exertion!—­I was half afraid you might say this, so I have written and respectfully declined the invitation!

* * * * *

[Illustration:  FELINE AMENITIES.

“HOW KIND OF YOU TO CALL—­I’M SO SORRY TO HAVE KEPT YOU WAITING!”

“OH, DON’T MENTION IT—­I’VE NOT BEEN AT ALL BORED!  I’VE BEEN TRYING TO IMAGINE WHAT I SHOULD DO TO MAKE THIS ROOM LOOK COMFORTABLE IF IT WERE MINE!”]

* * * * *

“ICHABOD!”

GOG, loquitur:—­

  Here’s a pretty fine business, my MAGOG!!!  Where are we a-drifting
          to now? 
  These here tears in my eyes you must twig; I detect the glum gloom
          on your brow. 
  Most natural, MAGOG, most natural!  Loyal old giants, like us,
  Must be cut to the heart by these times, which they get every year
          wus and wus! 
  It’s Ikybod, MAGOG; I see it a-written all over the shop. 
  Our glory’s departed, old partner.  And where is it going for to
          stop? 
  That Feast of BELSHAZZER weren’t in it for worritting warnings of
          woe;
  Which our beautiful Annual Banquet will soon not be worth half a
          blow. 
  It’s not half a blow-out as it is, not compared with old glorious
          gorges. 
  I wish, oh I wish, MAGOG mine, we was back in the times of the
          GEORGES,
  Or even DICK WHITTINGTON’s days, which for Giants was quite good
          enough;
  But they’ve spoilt all the good things of life with their Science,
          and Progress, and stuff. 
  I see how it’s drifting, dear MAGOG.  The Munching House and the
          Gildhall. 
  Did use to be London’s fust pride.  Is it so in these days?  Not at
          all! 
  Whippersnappers cock snooks at us, MAGOG;