relics are priceless. One case contains the
identical cloak worn by the great Duke at Waterloo, and another the
celebrated panorama of his funeral. The latter, I fancy, was drawn by
that well-known artist, who signs himself, when he drops into
literature, "G. A. S." If I am right in my conjecture, I may add that I
believe all the numberless figures in the admirable composition are
wearing Wellington boots. For the rest, the room contains comfortable
chairs, but who cares for chairs when such relics are on view!

Then the remainder of the Exhibition! It would take pages to catalogue
its hundreds of interesting exhibits. Arms, figures, manufactures,
musical instruments. What not? And the grounds! At night a perfect
fairy-land, beautifully illuminated with hundreds of gleaming lanterns,
and the electric light. Finally the best military music in the world,
for those who like it, and who does not?

The arrangements for the comfort of the Press at the opening ceremony
(when I was present) were satisfactory to the last degree. But this is a
detail.

* * * * *

[Illustration: THINGS ONE WOULD RATHER HAVE EXPRESSED DIFFERENTLY.

"_PLEASE_ LOOK A LITTLE PLEASANT, MISS. I _KNOW_ IT'S HARD; BUT IT'S
_ONLY_ FOR A MOMENT!"]

* * * * *

"BABY BUNG."

_Nurse R-tch-e loquitur_:--

WHICH no doubt at the best it's a bothersome babe; though my bounden
duty it were to make much of it;
I'm free to say, if I had my way, it's the dickens a bit I should come
within touch of it.
'Tis a greedy child, and a noisy too, of a colicky turn, and pertikler
windy;
And, wherever the blessed infant's found, you may bet your boots
there'll be stir and shindy.

The family is a rucktious one from their cradles up, and the plague of
nusses.
You may cosset and cordial 'em up as you will; though you calls 'em
"blessings", you finds 'em cusses.
Many a monthly they've worritted out of her life, almost, with their
fractious snarlings,
Though it's most as much as your place is worth to aggerawate 'em--the
little darlings!

And this one--well, it would raise a yell you might fancy came from a
fog-horn's throttle,
If it wasn't for that there soothing-syrup I've artfully smuggled into
its bottle.
It's strongish stuff, and I've dropped enough in the Babby's gruel to
prove a fixer;
For this kid's riot you cannot quiet with