hip close and your high place,
The keener, mourning him in youth's glad grace
Who loved you as a son.

We mourn him too. Our wreaths of votive flowers
Speak, mutely, for us. The deep gloom that lowers
To-day across the land
Is no mere pall of ceremonial grief.
'Tis hard in truth, though reverent belief
Bows to the chastening hand.

Hard--for his parents, that young bride, and you,
Bearer of much bereavement, woman true,
And patriotic QUEEN!
We hear the courage striking through the pain,
As always in your long, illustrious reign,
Which shrinking ne'er hath seen,--

Shrinking from high-strung duty, the brave way
Of an imperial spirit. So to-day
Your People bow--in pride.
The sympathy of millions is your own.
May Glory long be guardian of your Throne,
Love ever at its side!

* * * * *

ENTIRELY UNSOLICITED TESTIMONIAL.--_Dartmoor_.--Gentlemen,--Two years
ago I wrote somebody else's name with one of your pens. Since then I
have used no other.

Yours faithfully, A.F. ORGER. "To Messrs. STEAL, KNIBBS & CO."

* * * * *

"LA GRIPPE."

[Illustration]

("_I'm a devil! I'm a devil!" croaked Barnaby Rudge's Raven
'Grip': And this is a raven-mad sort of Edgar-Allan-Poem by Un
qui est Grippe._)

Once upon a midnight dreary
Coming home I felt so weary,
Felt, oh! many a pain; so curious,
Which I'd never felt before.
Then to bed,--no chance of napping,
Blankets, rugs about me wrapping,
Feverish burning pains galore.
"Oh! I've got it! oh!" I muttered,
"Influenza!! what a bore!!"
_Only_ this!!--Oh!!--Nothing more!!

Oh! my head and legs are aching!
Now I'm freezing! Now I'm baking!
Clockwork in my cerebellum!
Oh! all over me I'm sore!
In my bed I'm writhing, tossing,
Yet I'm in a steamer, crossing.
While KIRALFY's Venice bossing,
I'm "against" and RUSSELL "for"
In a case about the _Echo_,
Somewhere out at Singapore!
It's delirium!!! Nothing more.

Then a Doctor comes in tapping
Me all over, tapping, rapping.
And with ear so close and curious
Pressed to stethoscope, "Once more,"
Says he, "sing out ninety-ninely,
Now again! You do it finely!
Yes! Not bigger than a wine lee,
There's the mischief, there's the _corps_
Of the insect that will kill us,
Hiding there is the Bacillus;
Only _that_, an