JACQUES BONHOMME loquitur:—­

  Someone should suffer—­yes, of course—­
    For the depletion of my stocking;
  But Le Grand Francais?  Bah!  Remorse
    Moves me to tears.  It seems too shocking. 
  Get back my money? Pas de chance! 
  And then he is the pride of France!

  I raged, I know, four years ago,
    Against those Panama projectors. 
  The law seemed slack, inquiry slow;
    How I denounced them, the Directors,
  Including him—­in some vague fashion;
  But then—­BONHOMME was in a passion!

  And now to see the gendarme’s hand—­
    Half-shrinkingly—­upon his shoulder,
  Our Grand Francais—­so old, so grand!
    Ma foi, it palsies the beholder. 
  And will it lessen my large loss
  To fix a stain on the Grand Cross?

  Too sanguine?  Too seductive?  Yes! 
    But was it not such hopeful charming
  That led him to his old success? 
    The thought is softening, and disarming;
  O’er Suez and the Red Sea glance,
  And see what he has done for France!

  Peste on this Panama affair! 
    Egyptian sands sucked not our savings
  As did those swamps.  Still I can’t bear
    To see him suffer.  ’Midst my cravings
  For la revanche, I’d fain not touch
  Our Greatest Frenchman—­’tis too much!

* * * * *

SHORT AND SWEET.

["The Young Ladies of Nottingham have formed a Short-skirt
League.”—­Daily Graphic.]

Ye pretty girls of England,
So famous for your looks,
Whose sense has braved a thousand fads
Of foolish fashion-books,
Your glorious standard launch again
To match another foe,
And refrain
From the train
While the stormy tempests blow,
While the sodden streets are thick with mud,
And the stormy tempests blow!

See how the girls of Nottingham
Inaugurate a League
For skirts five inches from the ground;
They’ll walk without fatigue,
No longer plagued with trains to lift
Above the slush or snow;
They’ll not sweep
Mud that’s deep
While the stormy tempests blow;
Long dresses do the Vestry’s work,
While stormy tempests blow.

O pretty girls of Nottingham,
If you could save us men
From our frightful clothing,
How we should love you then! 
We’d shorten turned-up trouser,
And widen pointed toe,
Leave off that
Vile silk hat,
When the stormy tempests blow—­
Wretched hat that stands not wind or rain
When the stormy tempests blow.

We’re fools.  Yet, girls of England,
We might inquire of you,
Why wear those capes and sleeves that seem
Quite wide enough for two? 
And why revive the chignons—­
Huge lumps pinned on?  You know
You would cry
Should they fly
Where the stormy tempests blow;
For they catch the wind just like balloons,
Where the stormy tempests blow.