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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

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(To be continued.)


Осн, уe Muses all ten,
Come, inspoire now me pen-
It's meself Oi'm countin' as one of ye;
For elsewoise Oi opoine

Ye would still be but noine,
Ev'ry swate mother's faymale son of ye.

Oi am fain to write down,
And to thus give renown,

To each township 'twixt Calais and Dover;
Yit, bedad, whoy should Oi

To descroibe that route try,
As it wasn't that way we crossed over?

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
That we put out to say—

If there's no bay there, whoy are ye troblin'?
Are not rhoyme, war, and love

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;
And sez Oi, The Saxon

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 at the say glares,

And one lays whoiter cheeks on whoite pillows,
On deck, 'nathe tarparlin',

Me mother-the darlin' !

Loike Britannia, deroided the billows.

At the last here's Bull loin-
Well, yis, that accent's moine;

Bot Bull lone, av ye plaze, take yer choice, sorr;
If ye think both ways wrong,

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,
And they lost us our train

By long arguments on a small matther.

Well, at Par's that noight Oi
Found two soft beds hard by

The big Shamming-a-Fairy due Nor, sorr;
Both clane, toidy, and dhroy,

Where sound slape we injoy,

And in bed who on airth would want more, sorr?

Oi couldn't help thinkin',
Before to slape sinkin',

Ask Briton or Prussian or Bayrisch man,
That on one point with me

One and all will agree

The ex-President is an Irishman.

In the owld sthreets of Cork
Brave MacMahon larnt to walk-

Oi spake facts now, 'tisn't me fancy stirs―
And full well I recall

Games at marble and ball

My boys and girls played with his ancestors.

We next day reached Orleens
By the vapour-machines;

And ate-if my mem'ry errs, pardon her—
An owld hen, moighty lane,

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.

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In that charmin' ould town,
If they e'er put ye down,

At th' Hotel de France put yerself op, sorr;
Where the landlady dear

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.'
P'raps ye're thinkin' Oi'm paid

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 his mother had been-

If their father, Oi mean,

Had not both been the sex of no other.

If ye're passin' that way,
Stop, as we did. The quay,

Churches, bridges, streets, make a foine city;
And the Quinconces, where play

Childhren all thro' the day;

And, belave me, the colleens are pretty.

To the town of Bayonne
We the morrow push on ;

Thence droive here, and me brother outseek we;
Hip hurrah! here he is,

And, as owld Horace siz,

Here's my Finis chaffæque viæque.'


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