Still singe my hair,
My heels may be ready to freeze!

* * * * *

MINOR MISERIES.

NO. II.--THE WINGED HAT.

My hat, my hat--away it flew--
The Strand was damp, the wind blew strong--
My tall silk hat, so bright and new;
Ye Bishops, tell me was it wrong
That, in that moment's agony,
My language, like my hat, flew free?

Away in swift pursuit I dashed,
The hat went scudding fast before;
By Busmen mocked, by Hansoms splashed,
The more I ran, it flew the more.
While boys screeched forth, in chorus vile,
"I'll lay the toff don't catch 'is tile."

On, on--at last it seemed to tire
Of pavements and pursuing feet.
It soared, then settled in the mire,
Full in the middle of the street,
A mud-stained, shattered relic--not
The bright new hat I bought from SCOTT.

Now was my time; I rushed--but no--
Fate ever mocks an ardent man;
Even as I rushed, unwieldy, slow,
Bore down a ponderous Pickford-Van,
And under two broad wheels crushed flat
My loved but suicidal hat.

Have hats got souls, and can they hate?
Are street-boys higher than the brute?
Avails it to discuss of fate,
Free-will, fore-knowledge absolute?
Nay, why of all created things
Should new silk hats be made with wings?

I know not. Wherefore, oh ye powers,
Speed me to some deserted land,
Where blow no winds and fall no showers,
Far from the street-boys and the Strand.
There all unfriended let me dwell,
A hatless hermit in a cell.

* * * * *

THE CYCLE-RIDING DUSTMAN.

A VERY NEW SONG TO A VERY OLD TUNE.

AIR--"_THE LITERARY DUSTMAN_."

["A resolution on the Agenda of the Greenwich Board of Works
runs as follows:--'That, in order to enable the foreman of the
dustmen in the Parish of St. Paul, Deptford, to get about that
parish with more expedition, and so superintend the work of
the men under his control to greater advantage than is now
possible, a tricycle be obtained for his use, at a cost not
exceeding L21 1s. 6d.'" _Daily Chronicle_.]

BUMBLE will ope his eyes, egad,
In hutter consternation.
He'd think as soon of a park-prad
For covies in my station.
Our Board o' Works knows wot is wot,
And has a feller-feeling.
About the parish must I trot?
No, hang it! I'll go Wheeling!

_CHORUS_.

Out o' the road! The highway c