determination, Master Tommy," replied his young friend, "reminds me of the story of Darius and the Corrugated Butcher; but, as I am too fatigued to-night to remember its main features, I will defer the recital of it till to-morrow morning."

Tommy evinced a great curiosity to know whether there were in this tale any puns, upon which he might at once exercise his intelligence, but on Harry's repeating his promise, he allowed him to go to bed without further question.

Being thus left to his own resources, Tommy Merton, in pursuance of his new resolution, went to the book-shelves and commenced a search which was not destined to be altogether fruitless.

Mr. Barlow had scarcely been in bed two hours, when he was aroused from a most peaceful and refreshing slumber by a loud hammering and knocking at the door of his chamber. Unable to imagine what had happened, and, indeed, fearing lest the premises should have unfortunately caught fire, he was on the point of gathering together such articles of clothing as he considered strictly necessary, when Tommy burst into the room half-undressed, and bawling out, "I've seen it! I've seen it!"

"What have you seen?" asked Mr. Barlow.

"Why, Sir," answered Tommy, "I had a mind to discover, before I went to bed, what you meant by your two jokes at Astley's. So, Sir, I got down your book of Joseph Miller's Jests, a dictionary, and a grammar; and I find that the fun you had intended lies in the similarity of pronunciation in the case of the substantive horse and of the adjective hoarse, and also in feat and feet possessing a like sound."

"Well," said Mr. Barlow, pausing, with a boot-jack in hand, "you are indeed right. And if you will approach a little nearer——"

But Tommy, anticipating the purport of his revered tutor's invitation, had speedily withdrawn himself from the apartment, being careful at the same time to lock Mr. Barlow's door on the outside.

"To-morrow," said Mr. Barlow quietly to himself as he returned to his bed—"To-morrow we will talk over these things."

He now perceived that he was in a condition of unwonted restlessness; and it was not until he had twice repeated to himself the story of The Laplander and the Agreeable Peacock, that he fell asleep.

Doctors in Court.

Medical men, experts and others, in the witness-box, are unfortunately apt to use technical terms for which there are no equivalents in plain English. For this pedantry the Judge usually snubs them. Quite right. There are no hard words or phrases, of which the use, by Judges or Counsel, is sometimes unavoidable, in Law.

AFTER THE PARTY.

Mater (aroused by the Horse pulling up). "Whit's the Matter, Guidman?—Onything Wrang?"

Pater (bringing his Faculties to a Focus). "Let us just Consuder the recent Circumstances. Was oor John in the Gig when we Startet frae Ardrishaig?"

"Oor John" was in the Gig—when they Started!

OWLS THAT IS NOT HORGANS.

Mr. Punch has—need he say it?—the profoundest admiration for the skill and zeal of the great Healers who have conducted H.R.H. the Prince of Wales out of the region of bulletins. But he hopes that should any member of the Royal Family again need medical advice (which good fortune forefend for many a long day), no name belonging to a member of the illustrious trio may be signed to the affiches. It was not for Mr. Punch to complain while bulletins issued, but now all else is happiness, he makes his moan, or rather (as Mr. Roebuck says Birmingham is always doing) makes his howl. How many thousand idiots have sent Mr. Punch jests on the names of the Doctors, he cannot say, but the changes have been rung, ad nauseam, on a "Jennerous diet," a "Lowe fever," a "bird of good omen—a Gull," until——But not one goose was gratified; ha! ha! Fire, not vanity, was fed. Still, Mr. Punch has suffered; and therefore he begs leave to suggest that all the three Doctors be raised to the Peerage. They have richly deserved it, and so has Sir James Paget (whose name happily does not help the small wits); but Mr. Punch's comfort is the thing to be considered. N.B. He likes to give those who are "blest in not being simple men" an occasional peep—as thus—at the circumjacent world of donkeyism.

Mrs. Malaprop has lately been studying Latin, with success. But, as a good Church-woman, she cannot hold with the rule Festina lentè. She disapproves of feasting in Lent.

GUILDED LADIES.

Ladies, look at this proposal to promote what some of you may call the millineryennium:—

"A Guild of Ladies is proposed to be formed to promote modesty of dress to do away with extravagance, and substitute the neatness and sobriety suitable to Christian women."

A guild formed to promote the sobriety of women ought to have Sir Wilfrid Lawson for a patron, and should be supported by every Teetotaller now living in the land. But the sobriety here mentioned is that of dress, not drink; and total abstinence from finery and flummery of fashion is doubtless the chief aim of the promoters of the guild. Well, if they succeed in reducing even chignons to reasonable dimensions, they will deserve the thanks of every one afflicted with good taste; and if they further are successful in reducing the enormous bills which ladies owe their milliners, they will earn the heartfelt gratitude of many a poor husband, who can ill afford to pay them. All is not gold that glitters, but we may guess there is true metal, and not merely specious glitter, in these Guilded Ladies.

French and British Budgets.

M. Thiers has been censured by some of our contemporaries for his fiscal policy of seeking to impose heavy duties on raw materials. At any rate, however, France will not be saddled (like an ass) with an Income-tax; so the taxation to which that country will be subjected, will be comparatively light, even if it should have the effect of making butchers' meat as frightfully dear there as it is in England.

A TEMPERANCE HOSPITAL.