ow; I might be in the
Twopenny Bin myself someday; might be picked up, just glanced at and
shifted back into the corner out of sight.

Yesterday _Greatheart_ again found himself in my hands, and I looked
to see the date of his entry upon the world. I reflected on his sixty
years of life, on the many happy fireside hours that had been spent in
his company, on the gentle solace he had furnished to lesser hearts.

I had decided what to do. There were few people about; the bookseller
was not looking, and, if offence it was, well, I could fall back on
the mercy of those who would judge.

I leaned forward and tenderly deposited him in the Fourpenny Bin.

* * * * *

[Illustration: _The Visitor_. "BY JOVE, PERSEUS, I NEVER KNEW YOU WENT
IN FOR SCULPTURE. GOOD STUFF, TOO, BUT A TRIFLE REALISTIC."

_Perseus_. "OH, JUST A HOBBY. BUT, BETWEEN OURSELVES, IT'S THE
MEDUSA'S HEAD THAT DOES IT. TURNS PEOPLE INTO STONE, AND THERE YOU
ARE."]

* * * * *

TO A DEAR DEPARTED.

["Georgina," the largest of the giant tortoises at the Zoo,
has died. She was believed to be about two hundred and fifty
years old.]

Winds blow cold and the rain, Georgina,
Beats and gurgles on roof and pane;
Over the Gardens that once were green a
Shadow stoops and is gone again;
Only a sob in the wild swine's squeal,
Only the bark of the plunging seal,
Only the laugh of the striped hyaena
Muffled with poignant pain.

Long ago, in the mad glad May days,
Woo'd I one who was with us still;
Bade him wake to the world's blithe heydays,
Leap in joyance and eat his fill;
Sang I, sweet as the bright-billed ousel, a
Paean of praise for thy pal, Methuselah.
Ah! he too in the Winter's grey days
Died of the usual chill.

He was old when the Reaper beckoned,
Ripe for the paying of Nature's debt;
Forty score--if he'd lived a second--
Years had flown, but he lingered yet;
But you had gladdened this vale of tears
For a bare two hundred and fifty years;
You, Georgina, we always reckoned
One of the younger set.

Winter's cold and the influenza
Wreaked and ravaged the ranks among;
Bills that babbled a gay cadenza,
Snouts that snuffled and claws that clung--
Now they whistle and root and run
In Happy Valleys beyond the sun;
Never back to the ponds and pens a
Sigh of