understand him; "old-fashioned" is exactly the epithet. And I was born and brought up here, so perhaps I should know.

[A footman enters, and comes up to Spurrell mysteriously.

Footman. Will you let me have your keys, if you please, Sir?

Spurr. (in some alarm). My keys! (Suspiciously.) Why, what do you want them for?

Lady Cant. (in a whisper). Isn't he deliciously unsophisticated? Quite a child of nature! (Aloud.) My dear Mr. Spurrell, he wants your keys to unlock your portmanteau and put out your things; you'll be able to dress for dinner all the quicker.

Spurr. Do you mean—am I to have the honour of sitting down with all of you?

Lady Culv. (to herself). Oh, my goodness, what will Rupert say? (Aloud.) Why, of course, Mr. Spurrell; how can you ask?

Spurr. (feebly). I—I didn't know, that was all. (To Footman). Here you are, then. (To himself.) Put out my things? he'll find nothing to put out except a nightgown, sponge bag, and a couple of brushes! If I'd only known I should be let in for this, I'd have brought dress-clothes. But how could I? I—I wonder if it would be any good telling 'em quietly how it is. I shouldn't like 'em to think I hadn't got any. (He looks at Lady Cantire and her sister-in-law, who are talking in an undertone.) No, perhaps I'd better let it alone. I—I can allude to it in a joky sort of way when I come down!

TO MY BEEF TEA.

(By Our Dyspeptic Poet.)

When the doctor's stern decree
Rings the knell of libertee,
And dismisses from my sight
All the dishes that delight;
When my temperature is high—
When to pastry and to pie
Duty bids me say farewell,
Then I hail thy fragrant smell!

When the doctor shakes his head,
Banning wine or white or red,
And at all my well-loved joints
Disapproving finger points;
When my poultry too he stops,
Then, reduced to taking "slops,"
I, for solace and relief,
Fly to thee, O Tea of Beef!

But—if simple truth I tell—
I can brook thee none too well;
Thy delights, O Bovine Tea,
Have no special charm for me!
Though thou comest piping hot,
Oh, believe I love thee not!
Weary of thy gentle reign—
Give me oysters and champagne!

"CLUBS! CLUBS!"

["Fry of Wadham," illustrious all-round athlete of Oxford, holds that Golf is no better than "glorified Croquet."]

Oh, Fry of Wadham, you've opened your mouth,
And "put your foot in it!" Here in the South,
Talked to death by wild golfers, we're likely to cry
Hooray, to see Link-lovers roasted by Fry.
Golf-glorification's a terrible tax on
The muscular Cricketing, Footballing Saxon,
To whom the game seems just a little bit pokey.
But Fry of Wadham, Sir, "glorified Croquet"!
Champion of Champions, you're going to catch it!
Each man loves his sport, swears no other can match it
Chacun à son goût! And he's rather to blame
Who's prompt to make game of another man's Game!

"TO BE TAKEN AS READ."

Dear Mr. Punch,—Thanks to the action of the Circulating Libraries, it seems that the old-fashioned three-volume novel is doomed to become a work of the past. Most of the popular writers have abandoned it, and now the publishers are beginning to fight shy of it. The principal argument, I believe, in favour of its retention is that it gives a chance to "the little read." The Circulating Libraries are called upon to fill boxes intended for the edification of subscribers in the country, and in these receptacles of light literature I believe the unpopular authors have their greatest chance. But as a matter of fact, although a romance may be sent to a peruser, it is not within the scope of civilisation to cause that romance to be read. According to statistics I believe about sixty per cent of the second and third rate is only sampled by the recipients of the aforesaid boxes. The last couple of pages of the third volume are largely read, whilst the remainder of the work is saved from the labours of the paper-knife. As this is so, would it not be as well to give a "common form" finale to serve as a model for novels in extremis? To make my meaning plainer I will give an example.

Let me suppose that the country subscriber has received a novel per parcels post called The Deed in Drab. Instead of having to cut some nine hundred pages, he finds gummed to the inside of the cover what I may call

The Last Chapter.

And so amidst the joy bells of the old church and the songs of the nightingales, and the pleasant laughter of the little children, Edwin and Angelina were married. As they passed under the oaken porch the Duke gave them his blessing. Need it be said they lived happily—like a prince and a princess in fairy tale—for ever after?

Captain Montmorency Guilt, kicked out of his club and warned off the Turf at Newmarket, left England with his ill-gotten gains for Cairo. Arrived in Egypt, he disappeared into the Soudan. Those of the Arabs who came from the desert declare that there is a white ruler in Khartoum. Whether it be he, who knows? Still, the stories of cruelty brought back by the swarthy traders are not unsuggestive of the man who brought poor Pauline to her grave and broke the Bank at Monte Carlo.

Edward Watts did marry Mary Beetles, and they are now doing well at Little Pannington. The village all-sorts shop has grown into a "Stores," and those who are in the know say that at a near date it will be converted into a "Company, Limited." Be this as it may, Edward and Mary drive to chapel in their own gig.

And what became of Paul Peterson? Overwhelmed with the secret sorrow that could never be shared by another, he went his way to the wilds of Australia. And there, under the starlight influence of the Southern Cross, and amidst the glorious glaciers of the Boomerang Mountains, he tries to forget the terrible and half-forgiven details of the "Deed in Drab."

The End.

There, Sir, you have the ending of ninety-nine novels out of a possible hundred. In the hands of an experienced writer the sentences might be so adapted as to meet the requirements of the book completing the century. Surely the suggestion is worthy of the attention of a Mudie, and the consideration of a W. H. Smith.

Yours faithfully,Multum in Parvo.