Little we value prosaic truth,

If it must scatter these shadowy hosts;

Spare us a single belief of youth,

Leave us, ah, leave us at least our Ghosts!

"ROUGE GAGNE"?

[M. Henri Rochefort at Monte Carlo.]

GOING TO THE DOGS.

Candid Vet (who has been called in to look at Mr. Noodle's new purchase, which is somehow amiss). "Ah, yer want to know what to do with 'im? Well now, he's been goin' pretty 'ard to Hounds for a Dozen Seasons or more, to my knowledge, has that 'Oss. Now, take my advice, don't keep 'em waitin' for 'im any longer,—you send 'im to 'em!"

"ROUGE GAGNE"?

The Long Frost.—Sportsmen are coming up to town in despair. Their hunters are"eating their heads off," and very soon there will be nothing left to tell the tail!

In the Lords.—Lord Battersea "the Flower of the Flock."

THE SEVERE WEATHER.

(From Mr. Punch's Very Special Correspondents.)

Reports from all parts of the country are eloquent of the phenomenal nature of the weather experienced everywhere. By an extraordinary coincidence, of which it is hardly possible to make too much, the intense cold has been accompanied by a lowness of temperature—on the (Fahren) height.

The Oldest Inhabitant has had a high old time, and been in immense form. To prevent the extinction in future years of this interesting individual, oxen have been roasted freely, and, wherever at all practicable, carriages have been driven over frozen rivers. Occasionally irreverent descendants have roasted the Oldest Inhabitant.

It is reported, on the authority of Lord Salisbury, that the Liberal Party intend at once to engage in snowballing the House of Lords. As the ex-Prime Minister has promised to play the game with no lack of mutuality, interesting developments are expected.

A very remarkable occurrence comes from abroad—considerations of an international character make it advisable not to particularise further. A bishop went out in the middle of a raging blizzard. Although the bishop was suitably attired in episcopal dress, so that no mistake as to his identity was possible, it went on blizzarding, and the spiritual dignitary was put to extreme temporal temporary inconvenience.

Ice floes have penetrated to London Bridge. Mr. Seymour Hicks's topical song in the Shop Girl—"Oh, floe! ice and snow, you know"—is received every night with even greater enthusiasm than formerly.

The following letter will NOT appear in an early number of The Spectator:—

ANIMAL SAGACITY.

Dear Sir,—I desire to draw your attention to what I think I may fairly describe as a wonderful instance of animal sagacity. During the recent severe frost a large number of birds and rabbits were fed every day in my garden. On Friday, for the first time, I noticed a fine hare, which, from its appearance, evidently felt the cold bitterly. I fed it, but shivering set in, and pained by its suffering (for I have a kind heart) I took it into the kitchen. Half-an-hour afterwards the cook came to tell me that the kitchen-maid was in hysterics. I went down and found out the reason—the girl had been frightened, when taking up a large jug which stood on the ground, to find the hare in it! The hare, poor thing, preferred a warm death to a cold existence, but, denied the possibility of human speech, had taken this graphic way of indicating its wishes. I have only to add that they were respected at dinner yesterday.

Yours faithfully,

Peil Iton.

Stickiton Rectory.

Mem.—It would not be logical to conclude that Sir Arthur Sullivan is a good cricketer because of his capital scores.

An Expensive Call to Pay.—A Call to the Bar.

LITTLE MOPSËMAN.

THE THIRD ACT.

An elevation and rockery in Früyseck's back-garden, from which—but for the houses in between—an extensive view over the steamer-pier and fiord could be obtained. In front, a summer-house, covered with creepers and wild earwigs. On a bench outside, Mopsa is sitting. She has the inevitable little travelling-bag on a strap over her shoulder. Blochdrähn comes up in the dusk. He, too, has a travelling-bag, made of straw, containing professional implements, over his shoulder. He is carrying a rolled-up handbill and a small paste-pot.

Sanitary Engineer Blochdrähn (catching sight of Mopsa's handbag). So you really are off at last? So am I. I'm going by train.

Mopsa (with a faint smile). Are you? Then I take the steamer. Have you seen Alfred anywhere about—or Spreta?

San. Eng. Bloch. I have been seeing a good deal of Mrs. Früyseck. She asked me to come up here and paste one of these handbills on the summer-house. To offer a reward for Little Mopsëman, you know. I've been sticking them up everywhere. (Busied with the paste-pot.) But you'll see—he'll never turn up.