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milk deliberately, madly, wantonly poured into the gutter.'
Never in his life had Algernon Warriner seen his mother betray such symptoms of anger. He was the last man in the world to prolong, if he could help it, the pain of a wounded spirit, least of all his own mother's, and he spoke the soft word which he hoped would turn away her wrath.
'I mentioned how my suit had been received not to cause you anger or pain, but to show you how thoroughly in earnest I have been in my love; for I can assure you, my dear mother, I relish insult as little as you do. Come, mother,' he added, placing his hand on her shoulder with a gentle tenderness, 'it was to tell
(To be continued.)
Осн, уe Muses all ten,
Ye would still be but noine,
Oi am fain to write down,
To each township 'twixt Calais and Dover;
To descroibe that route try,
Though Oi'd much hoped to dip Me thumb dape down, and sip Draughts o' po'try in sthrames of Castalia; Bot Oi'll whisper to you
Whoy that plan wouldn't do—
They were droyed op, loike thim in Austhralia.
'Twas at Folkestone's broight bay
If there's no bay there, whoy are ye troblin'?
All dull facts far above?
And besoides, there's a foine bay at Doblin.
The say it was liquid,
And also was thick wid
What a mixthur of verdure and sheen looks;
Thim waves will lay tax on
For their trayson in wearin' the green' looks.
Bot that wasn't quoite all;
For some men I recall
(As quare bastes take tints loike things surroundin'), Who had dared to asshume
A thick veil of green gloom,
Loike the waves that benath thim were boundin'.
Now, whoilst one floys down-sthairs,
And one lays whoiter cheeks on whoite pillows,
Me mother-the darlin' !
Loike Britannia, deroided the billows.
At the last here's Bull loin-
Bot Bull lone, av ye plaze, take yer choice, sorr;
Be all manes say Bull long
Still, don't stare at me in such fierce voice, sorr !
Whatsoiver its name,
Oi'd be bigly to blame
Its douaniers were Oi to flatther;
For they proved our sore bane,
By long arguments on a small matther.
Well, at Par's that noight Oi
The big Shamming-a-Fairy due Nor, sorr;
Where sound slape we injoy,
And in bed who on airth would want more, sorr?
Oi couldn't help thinkin',
Ask Briton or Prussian or Bayrisch man,
One and all will agree
The ex-President is an Irishman.
In the owld sthreets of Cork
Oi spake facts now, 'tisn't me fancy stirs―
Games at marble and ball
My boys and girls played with his ancestors.
We next day reached Orleens
And ate-if my mem'ry errs, pardon her—
Some shoeflow'rs at the Quane,
And bafe at the woife of the gardener.
The cathedral we saw,
Jeanne Darc's statue on hor
seback, her house, and loikewoise Agnes Sorel's; Then to Poictiers went,
Where our thoughts backwards bent
Unto one not the laste of big quarrels.
In that charmin' ould town,
At th' Hotel de France put yerself op, sorr;
Will, with woine and good cheer
And good cheerfulness, fill op yer cop, sorr.
Wrote Oi Badekker in,
Oi would say Deck her inn
With three stars, and 'aufmerksame Wirthin.'
For these notes that Oi've made;
Bot Oi'd ne'er crack op koind hearts for mere tin.
At the Quatr' Soeurs, Bordeaux,
Sich another Oi know ;
Yis, indade, she moight pass for her brother,
If their father, Oi mean,
Had not both been the sex of no other.
If ye're passin' that way,
Churches, bridges, streets, make a foine city;
Childhren all thro' the day;
And, belave me, the colleens are pretty.
To the town of Bayonne
Thence droive here, and me brother outseek we;
And, as owld Horace siz,
Here's my Finis chaffæque viæque.'