heterodoxies.

My blue tobacco-jar she'll hoard
For party-nights, and on the basket
Whereon my manuscripts are stored
Will throne--a casket!

"Ingenious" CHLOE, sure, opines
Is Genius' proper derivation;
"Appropriate" with her defines
Appropriation.

Poor STREPHON, fond, bewildered wight!
He doubts, amazed by changes showy,
If CHLOE's own be STREPHON quite,
Or STREPHON's, CHLOE!

* * * * *

BIRDS OF A FEATHER.

["He (Mr. GLADSTONE) has not as yet even secured the spoil,
but the Vultures are already gathered together."--_Mr.
Chamberlain at Birmingham._]

The Vultures, dear JOE? Nay, it needs no apology
To say you are out in your new ornithology.
The Vultures are carrion-birds, be it said;
And the Man and the Cause you detest are _not_ dead!
Much as his decease was desired, he's alive,
And the Cause is no carcase. So, JOE, you must strive
To get nearer the truth. Shall we help you? All fowls
Are not Vultures. For instance, dear JOE, there are Owls,
(Like JESSE) and Ravens much given to croaking,
(in Ulster they're noisy, though some think they're joking),
Then Parrots are plentiful everywhere, JOE,
(They keep on repeating your chatter, you know,
As they did in the days when you railed about ransom;
But Parrots are never wise birds, JOE, though handsome);
Then Geese, Jays, and Daws; yet they're birds of a feather,
And they, my dear JOSEPH, _are_ gathered together,
To hiss, squeal and peck at the Party they'd foil,
But who're like to secure--as you phrase it--"the spoil."
Yes, these be the birds most _en evidence_ now;
And by Jingo, my JOE, they _are_ raising a row.
They're full of cacophonous fuss, and loud spite;
And they don't take their licking as well as they might.
In fact, they're a rather contemptible crew;
And--well, of which species, dear JOSEPH, are _you_?

* * * * *

[Illustration: THE BEWILDERED TOURIST AND THE RIVAL SIRENS.

(_A LONG WAY AFTER TENNYSON'S "THE DESERTED HOUSE_.")

"_June and July have passed away,_
_Like a tide._
_Doors are open, windows wide._
_Why in stuffy London stay?_"
Sing the Sirens (slyboots they!)
With a Tennysonian twang,
To the Tourist,
(Not the poorest
You may bet your bottom dollar,
Which those Sirens aim to "collar."
_Demoiselles_, excuse