t it is
disgraceful--especially the locking up of the larder.

However, it can't be helped. Make up my mind to go to bed, and get
fast asleep, thoroughly tired out with the labours of a day spent
in doing absolutely nothing! Hope (in my dreams) that Dr. MORTIMER
GRANVILLE will be satisfied!

* * * * *

"OUR CHILDREN'S EARS."

Whether they'll be as long as those of Midas,
Or stand out salient from either side as
A close-cropped ARRY's, at right angles set
To his flat jowl, we cannot settle, yet;
But in one thing, at least, a score they'll chalk--
They will not hear the stuff their fathers talk!

* * * * *

DEFINITION.--"_La haute Cuisine_"--the kitchen on the top flat of a
ten-storey'd mansion.

* * * * *

[Illustration: AN INSINUATING WHISPER.

'JUST LOOK, LAURA! WHAT A LOVELY LITTLE DOG THAT OLD GENTLEMAN'S GOT!
HOW I WISH HE WAS MINE!" 'SHALL OI _GIT_ 'IM FOR YER, LYDY?"]

* * * * *

"HAVE WE FORGOTTEN GORDON?"

[Lord TENNYSON, under this heading, writes appealing to
Englishmen for subscriptions to the funds of the "Gordon Boys'
Home" at Woking, which is in want of L40,000. Contributions
should be sent to the Treasurer, General Sir DIGHTON PROBYN,
V.C., Marlborough House, Pall Mall.]

Are we sleeping? "_Have_ we forgotten?" Like the thrust of an Arab spear
Comes that conscience-piercing-question from the Singer of Haslemere.
Have we indeed forgotten the hero we so be-sang,
When across the far south sand-wastes the news of his murder rang?

Forgotten? So it had seemed to him, as alone afar he lay,
With the Nile to watch for laggard friends, fierce foes to hold at bay;
Though the tired red lines toiled onward up the Cataracts, and we
Dreamed of the shout of the rescuing host _his_ eyes should never see.

When chivalrous BURNABY lay slain, with a smile in the face of death,
And for happy news from the hungry wastes men yearned with bated breath;
When WILSON pushed his eager way past torrent-swirl and crag,
Till they saw o'er GORDON's citadel wave high--the MAHDI's flag.

That shame was surely enough, enough, that sorrow had a sting
Our England should not court again. The Laureate's accents ring
With scorn suppressed, a scorn deserved indeed, if still our part
Is to forget a purpose high that was dear to GORDON's he