e you a toast--Here's--THE
PROFESSIONAL SINGER!"

FUSBOS.

* * * * *

AN AN-TEA ANACREONTIC.

[Greek: EIS TO LEIN PINEIN.]

Bards of old have sung the vine
Such a theme shall ne'er be mine;
Weaker strains to me belong,
Paeans sung to thee, Souchong!
What though I may never sip
Rubies from my tea-cup's lip;
Do not milky pearls combine
In this steaming cup of mine?
What though round my youthful brow
I ne'er twine the myrtle's bough?
For such wreaths my soul ne'er grieves.
Whilst I own my Twankay's leaves.
Though for me no altar burns,
Kettles boil and bubble--urns
In each fane, where I adore--
What should mortal ask for more!
I for Pidding, Bacchus fly,
Howqua shall my cup supply;
I'll ne'er ask for amphorae,
Whilst my tea-pot yields me tea.
Then, perchance, above my grave,
Blooming Hyson sprigs may wave;
And some stately sugar-cane,
There may spring to life again:
Bright-eyed maidens then may meet,
To quaff the herb and suck the sweet.

* * * * *

A CONVERSATION BETWEEN TWO HACKNEY-COACH HORSES.

KINDLY COMMUNICATED BY OUR DOG "TOBY."

DEAR SIR,--I was a-sitting the other evening at the door of my kennel,
thinking of the dog-days and smoking my pipe (blessings on you, master,
for teaching me that art!), when one of your prospectuses was put into my
paw by a spaniel that lives as pet-dog in a nobleman's family. Lawk, sir!
what misfortunes can have befallen you, that you are obleeged to turn
author?

I remember the poor devil as used to supply us with _dialect_--what a
face he had! It was like a mouth-organ turned edgeways; and he looked as
hollow as the big drum, but warn't half so round and noisy. You can't have
dwindled down to that, sure_ly_! I couldn't bear to see your hump and
_pars pendula_ (that's dog Latin) shrunk up like dried almonds, and
titivated out in msty-fusty toggery--I'm sure I couldn't! The very thought
of it is like a pound weight at the end of my tail.

I whined like any thing, calling to my missus--for you must know that I've
married as handsome a Scotch terrier as you ever see. "Vixen," says I,
"here's the poor old governor up at last--I knew that Police Act would
drive him to something desperate."

"Why he hasn't hung himself in earnest, and summoned you on his inquest!"
exclaimed Mrs. T.

"Worse nor that," says I; "he's turned author, and in course i