bove the trees,
But never was kestrel yet that saw
The half that Mrs. Hawksbee sees.

Rosy and smiling mid her furs
Along the Mall her way she trips
With subalterns whose worship stirs
The cynic swiftness of her lips.

When Jakko-wards her rickshaw sweeps,
The monkeys scamper o'er the grass,
And breathlessly each rascal peeps
To see the Queen of mischief pass.

Our Viceroys know the call of Fate;
Our Generals pass nor question why;
Councils dissolve and Staffs migrate,
But Mrs. Hawksbee shall not die.

J.M.S.

* * * * *

"So far from the wage-earning classes being shown the necessity for
a revival in our industry, the Prime Minister talks nonsense about
'removing the sceptre of unemployment.'"--_Morning Paper_.

This will comfort those who were afraid that it was permanently
enthroned.

* * * * *

[Illustration: THE FINISHING TOUCH.]

* * * * *

[Illustration: _Small Brother (to rejected lover)._ "BUT JOHN, DIDN'T
YOU TELL HER YOU'D PLAYED FOR ESSEX?"]

* * * * *

THE POET.

In a distant country, at a remote epoch, was born of humble parents a
poet. "Born" advisedly, since the poet is always born, not made. Even
before he could write he composed little poems, which he would
recite aloud. The simple pleasures of the poor, among whom he grew
up--intoxication, pugilism, funeral merry-makings--furnished the themes
of his verse.

Upon reaching man's estate he adopted the calling of night-watchman,
an occupation which provided him at once with a livelihood and ample
opportunities for meditation. It is to this period that the "Nocturnes"
belong.

Now it happened that the poet's work reached the eye of the Prince, who,
anxious to encourage genius, appointed him to some minor place about
Court and endowed it with a pension. Moreover, to complete his happiness
he gave him in marriage a beautiful and accomplished maiden, for whom
the poet had long cherished an ardent but hopeless passion. So, as by
enchantment, the course of the poet's existence was changed. He no
longer waked while others slept. On the contrary he seldom left his
couch until a late hour in the morning, and when at last he rose it was
often to pass the rest of the day in a Turkish bath.

Yet in spite of altered circumstances he still remained a poet, for the