lanets, while the chorus ran as follows:--

"Yes, we never stand a foreigner's dictation!
No matter if we're wrong or if we're right;
We're a breed of good old bulldogs as a nation,
And we never stop to bark before we bite!"

And then the singer, a fat-necked man, in a kind of military uniform,
drew a sword and struck an attitude, amidst red fire, which aroused
vociferous enthusiasm.

TIME seemed to be getting restless again, so they moved on once. more,
and presently entered a hall where they found a stout lady with a
powdered face and extremely short skirts, about to sing a pathetic
song, which had been expressly written to suit her talents.

She began in a quavering treble that was instinct with intense
feeling:--

"Under the dysies to rest I have lyed him;
My little cock-sparrer so fythful and tyme!
And the duckweed he loved so is blooming besoide him,
But I clean out his cyge every d'y just the syme!
For it brings him before me so sorcy and sproightly,
As with seed and fresh water his glorsis I fill:
Though the poor little tyle which he waggled so lytely
Loys under the dysies all stiffened and still!"

--And then, to a subdued _obbligato_ upon a bird-whistle, came the
touching refrain:

"Yes, I hear him singing 'Tweet,' so melodious and sweet!
Till his shadder comes and flits about the room. 'Tweet-tweet-tweet!'
All my sorrer I forget. For I have the forncy yet,
That he twitters while he's loyin' in his tomb--'Tweet-tweet!'
Yes, he twitters to me softly from his tomb!"

_Mr. Punch_ observed his elder attentively during this plaintive
ditty, but there was no discernible moisture in TIME's hard old eyes,
though among the rest of the audience noses were being freely blown.

"Well," he said, "it may be very touching and even elevating, for
anything I know--but it's not my notion of cheerful entertainment. I'm
off!"

"I should like," said TIME, rather wistfully, as they proceeded
to visit yet another establishment, "yes, I _should_ like to hear
something _comic_ before the evening is over."

"Now is your opportunity, then," said _Mr. Punch_, taking his seat and
inspecting the programme, "for I observe that the gentleman who is to
appear next is described as a 'Mastodon Mirth-moving Mome.'"

"And does that mean that he is funny?" inquired TIME, hopefully.

"If it doesn't, I don't know what it _does_ mean," replied _Mr.
Punch_, as the Mastodon entered.

His mere a