understand," said his friend, "how you produce that effect of distance in so small a picture." "O—um—easy enough," replied KEENE. "Look here,"—and—he did it. But when and how he gave the touch which made the effect, his friend, following his work closely, was unable to discover. F.C.B.

PARS ABOUT PICTURES.—There is always something fresh coming out at Messrs. DOWDESWELL's Articultural Garden in Bond Street. Their latest novelty is the result of a caravan tour from Dieppe to Nice ("Dieppend upon it, he found it very nice!" said Young PAR, regardless of propriety and pronunciation) by Mr. C.P. SAINTON. CHARLES COLLINS utilised such an expedition from a literary point of view in his inimitable "Cruise upon Wheels," and this young artist has turned similar wanderings to good artistic account. His cartes de visite—no, I beg pardon, his caravans de visite—are numerous and varied. Verily, my brethren, all is caravanity! Not altogether, for Mr. SAINTON, in addition to returning with his caravan and himself, has brought back an interesting collection of original and delicate works in oil and silver-point—in short, taken every caravantage of his special opportunities. Yours parlously, OLD PAR.

"MAY IT PLEASE YOUR 'WARSHIPS.'"—Twenty-three American ships, 118 guns, and 3,000 men; six British ships, 52 guns, 1,229 men; and seven German ships, 42 guns, and 1,500 men—all in "Pacific" waters! Looks like Pacific, doesn't it?

MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS.

No. XI.—THE BOOK OF KOOKARIE.

By READER FAGHARD, Author of "Queen Bathsheba's Ewers," "Yawn," "Guess," "Me," "My Ma's at Penge," "Smallun Halfboy," "General Porridge, D.T.," "Me a Kiss," "The Hemisphere's Wish," &c., &c.

[In a long communication which accompanied the MS. of this novel, the Author gives a description of his literary method. We have only room for a few extracts. "I have been accused of plagiarism. I reply that the accusation is ridiculous. Nature is the great plagiarist, the sucker of the brains of authors. There is no situation, however romantic or grotesque, which Nature does not sooner or later appropriate. Therefore the more natural an author is, the more liable is he to envious accusations of plagiarism.... Humour may often be detected in an absence of leg-coverings. A naval officer is an essentially humorous object.... As to literary style, it can be varied at pleasure, but the romantic Egyptian and the plain South African are perhaps best. In future my motto will be, 'Ars Langa Rider brevis,' and a very good motto too. I like writing in couples. Personally I could never have bothered myself to learn up all these quaint myths and literary fairy tales, but LANG likes it."]

CHAPTER I.

"Then a strange thing happened."

My name is SMALLUN HALFBOY, a curious name for an old fellow like me, who have been battered and knocked about all over the world from Yorkshire to South Africa. I'm not much of a hand at writing, but, bless your heart, I know the Bab Ballads by heart, and I can tell you it's no end of a joke quoting them everywhere, especially when you quote out of an entirely different book. I am not a brave man, but nobody ever was a surer shot with an Express longbow, and no one ever killed more Africans, men and elephants, than I have in my time. But I do love blood. I love it in regular rivers all over the place, with gashes and slashes and lopped heads and arms and legs rolling about everywhere. Black blood is the best variety; I mean the blood of black men, because nobody really cares twopence about them, and you can massacre several thousands of them in half-a-dozen lines and offend no single soul. And, after all, I am not certain that black men have any souls, so that makes things safe all round, as someone says in the Bab Ballads.

CHAPTER II.

I was staying with my old friend Sir HENRY HURTUS last winter at his ancestral home in Yorkshire. We had been shooting all day with indifferent results, and were returning home fagged and weary with our rifles over our shoulders. I ought to have mentioned that COODENT—of course, you remember Captain COODENT, R.N.—was of the party. Ever since he had found his legs so much admired by an appreciative public, he had worn a kilt without stockings, in order to show them. This, however, was not done from vanity, I think, but rather from a high sense of duty, for he felt that those who happened to be born with personal advantages ought not to be deterred by any sense of false modesty from gratifying the reading public by their display. Lord, how we had laughed to see him struggling through the clinging brambles in Sir HENRY's coverts with his eye-glass in his eye and his Express at the trail. At every step his unfortunate legs had been more and more torn, until there was literally not a scrap of sound skin upon them anywhere. Even the beaters, a stolid lot, had roared when old VELVETEENS the second keeper had brought up to poor COODENT a lump of flesh from his right leg, which he had found sticking on a thorn-bush in the centre of the high covert. Suddenly Sir HENRY stopped and shaded his eyes with his hand anxiously. We all imitated him, though for my part, not being a sportsman, I had no notion what was up. "What's the time of day, Sir HENRY?" I ventured to whisper. Sir HENRY never looked at me, but took out his massive gold Winchester repeater and consulted it in a low voice. "Four thirty," I heard him say, "they are about due." Suddenly there was a whirring noise in the distance. "Duck, duck!" shouted Sir HENRY, now thoroughly aroused. I immediately did so, ducked right down in fact, for I did not know what might be coming, and I am a very timid man. At that moment I heard a joint report from Sir HENRY and COODENT. It gave on the whole a very favourable view of the situation, and by its light I saw six fine mallard, four teal and three widgeon come hurtling down, as dead as so many door-nails, and much heavier on the top of my prostrate body.

When I recovered Sir HENRY was bending over me and pouring brandy down my throat. COODENT was sitting on the ground binding up his legs. "My dear old friend," said Sir HENRY, in his kindest tone, "this Yorkshire is too dangerous. My mind is made up. This very night we all start for Mariannakookaland. There at least our lives will be safe."

CHAPTER III.

We were in Mariannakookaland. We had been there a month travelling on, ever on, over the parching wastes, under the scorching African sun which all but burnt us in our treks. Our Veldt slippers were worn out, and our pace was consequently reduced to the merest Kraal. At rare intervals during our adventurous march, we had seen Stars and heard of Echoes, but now not a single Kopje was left, and we were trudging along mournfully with our blistered tongas protruding from our mouths.

Suddenly Sir HENRY spoke—"SMALLUN, my old friend," he said, "do you see anything in the distance?"

I looked intently in the direction indicated, but could see nothing but the horizon. "Look again," said Sir HENRY. I swept the distance with my glance. It was a sandy, arid distance, and, naturally enough, a small cloud of dust appeared. Then a strange thing happened. The cloud grew and grew. It came rolling towards us with an unearthly noise. Then it seemed to be cleft in two, as by lightning, and from its centre came marching towards us a mighty army of Amazonian warriors, in battle-array, chanting the war-song of the Mariannakookas. I must confess that my first instinct was to