charm of his own inimitable incomprehensibility.

BLIND ALLEY-GORY THE FIRST.

THE LOST BACKBONE.

One summer evening, when the moon was at the full, and cloud-shadows glided imperceptibly over the chimney-pots, as curses that have found no utterance and come dejectedly home to roost, I wandered into my back-garden, and caught the God of the Period napping in the moonshine on one of my celery-beds.

He rose up suddenly and reposed awhile in space, with his head resting on the back of the Great Bear, and one foot on the arm of Cassiopeia's Chair, while with the other he skimmed the cream off the Milky Way. And he seemed to be everywhere and yet nowhere in particular, and he said nothing, and I was afraid to make a remark—and there was no sound, save that of the boundless, inconceivable silence which was rumbling round the corner.

Presently he came down to the celery-bed once more.

"What are you seeking for so late?" asked he; "your face looks so long and solemn, and your eyes are hollow and full of woe. Have you been having anything indigestible for supper?"

"I am in trouble about Humanity," I replied; "for, though I loathe and despise them individually, collectively I love them dearly."

"What's the matter with Humanity?" asked the God, as he squatted amid the celery.

"They are growing so deadly dull," I answered. "I am Young Garnaway, the Pessimistic Prose Poet, and it pains me to see how utterly they have lost their perception of the ridiculous, which is the backbone of real enjoyment. So I came out to see if by any chance the backbone was hidden under one of the flower-pots."

"I saw many myriads of spectral kitten forms and unsubstantial egg-shapes."

The Period-God once more pervaded the endless space that glittered in darkling infinitude round about and right ahead of him. It seemed to me, when he returned, that he had been laughing; but suddenly I saw him pull himself together, and frown.

And from afar a gurgling rose through the gloom, and darkness fell upon my back-garden, knocking a basilisk off the waterbutt, and above the garden-walls there appeared a crowd of rude persons, in pot hats, with red lolling tongues and wide grinning mouths, holding their sides with inextinguishable mirth. All at once the giggles turned into the booing of Philistines, and there was a fantastic shadowy horseplay, which rolled nearer and nearer.

I saw many myriads of spectral kitten forms, and unsubstantial egg shapes rushing towards me through the air. Instinctively I ran indoors and gripped the umbrella from its corner, and stood on guard.

Then I heard someone chuckling quite close to me, chuckling softly, but unmistakably. And the booing hushed, and the gloom lightened, and the garden-roller glimmered faintly in the moonlit summer night, and inside the lawn-mower lay the God of the Period crying with uncontrollable laughter.

"When the time comes," he said, "when mankind gets weary of Paraded Pessimism, and the Big Scandinavian Boom has burst, then I will conjure forth the Great Guffaw; and then it will be time for all Dyspeptic Decadents to get under their umbrellas—just as you did awhile ago, for mankind will have recovered its sense of humour, and will decline to take them seriously. But you had much better leave off bothering your head about that lost backbone, for you won't be happy when they get it!"

And while I was taking off my goloshes indoors, I heard again the sound of snapping celery sticks, as the Period-God rolled on the bed in ecstasies of stifled merriment, and I wondered at intervals what it was all about.

For Outward Application.—"'A man may change his skies,' as the Roman poet puts it," quoth the Daily Telegraph, "but he does not so easily change his habits." The Academy is about to open. The pictures will soon be hung. Varnishing day comes, with last chance for alteration. Then comes in Latin poetic proverb, "A man may change his skies, but, do what he will, he cannot alter that peculiar style that marks the work as his, and nobody else's."

New Proverb.—All "problem" and no "play" makes drama a dull joy.

SHOCKING HEATHENISM.

Rector. "So you go up to Town next month, Miss Mary. How I envy you! And of course you'll attend the May Meetings."

Miss Mary. "May Meetings? Oh dear no! Though I adore Horses, I quite disapprove of Racing, don't you know!"

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

"Fridoline."

The Baron heartily welcomes the appearance of Happy Thoughts in French, under the very attractive style and title of Fridoline. No fear now of the entente cordiale between England and France being disturbed; and that is indeed une "pensée" la plus "heureuse" ou "ingénieuse." The dialogue with the patient angler who remains in the middle of the stream day after day, and, probably, night after night, is quite a little lesson in French.

"'Pris quelque chose?' 'Rien.' 'Pas mordu du tout?' 'Une fois, je crois.' Le pêcheur n'a pas perdu son calme, mais son air n'a rien de triomphant."

And the world goes on and the mouvement continues, and ever and anon the Happy Thoughter, returning to the river, finds the same man in the same boat in almost the same position. Then, before retiring for the night, the H. T. takes one turn on the lawn, "pour m'assurer," he says, "que je ne laisse rien derrière moi. Ah si! je laisse l'homme au bachot, toujours sa ligne en main. Il avait, paraît-il, un pen redescendu le courant. 'Bonne pêche?' 'Non.' 'Pris quelque chose?' 'Rien.'" Those who read "entre les lignes" may see in this figure of unrewarded patience and perseverance more than meets the eye. M. Aurelien de Courson has done his work excellently well, "avec l'autorisation de l'auteur."

I found a book on my table lying among a number of others put aside to be read at "a more convenient season." The title attracted me—Clove Pink. Its leaves are of last autumn, but the story they tell is for ever. It is admirably written; its word-painting is the work of a true artist: but beginning brightly and gladly, as do the lives of the young hero and heroine, it ends sadly but sweetly. If you are not averse to a simple, well-told tale, with stirring incidents of modern warfare, graphically narrated, that stand out in startling contrast to the scenes of quiet English rural life, a story whose pathos and simple truth will touch you deeply, read Clove Pink, says

The Baron de Book-Worms.

VERY CATCHING.