We are told how to give and receive invitations,
  And eke how a table may need decorations. 
  We agree with the author who says when you dine,
  It is very much better to stick to one wine,
  Be it ruddy Bordeaux or the driest Champagne,
  Let the latter be cool but your ice is no gain. 
  While on coffee and tea he is sound as a bell,
  With all dexterous dodges for making them well.

  No man ever escaped—­to a cook who did wrong,
  For his art ranks so high, said MENANDER’s old song. 
  And the ancients we know loved both oysters and pullets,
  When the [Greek:  oinos kekramenos] slipped down their gullets. 
  While here is a man to have joined them when roses,
  In classical fashion, were cocked o’er their noses. 
  So we’ll take leave of CHILD and his capital book,
  With a “Bon appetit” to the gourmet and cook.

* * * * *

A CHRISTMAS CAROL.—­(BY A DISAPPOINTED CHURCH-DECORATOR.)

[Illustration]

  When rustic woman stoops to folly,
    And finds too late that Curates flirt;
  It pains, ah! sharper than the holly
    Whose spikes her pretty fingers hurt.

  Pleasant is pulpit-decoration,
    And altar-ornamenting’s sweet,
  When girls get lost in contemplation
    Of parson-whiskers, trim and neat.

  Most pleasant too the cheery chatter
    Of woodland parties, in the snow,
  When gathering—­well, well, no matter! 
    No more I’ll hunt for mistletoe.

  No more I’ll stand and hold the ladder
    For reverend gentlemen to mount. 
  Ah me!  Few memories make me madder,
    Though merrier ones I may not count.

  Goose!  How about those steps I’d linger! 
    Muff!  How I bound my handkerchief
  Last Christmas Eve, about his finger,
    Pierced by that cruel holly-leaf!

  And now he’s going to marry MINNIE,
    The wealthy farmer’s freckled frump,
  A little narrow-chested ninny! 
    Into Pound’s pond I’ll go and jump!

  Yet no, Miss MIGGS and he might chuckle,
    I know a trick worth two of that;
  I’ll up and take that fool, BOB BUCKLE,
    I hate him, but his farm is fat.

  When rustic woman stoops to folly,
    And finds e’en Curates can betray,
  What act can aggravate the “dolly”
    Whose wealth has won his heart away?

  The only art her grief to cover,
    Enable her to lift her head,
  And show her false white-chokered lover
    She won’t sing “Willow,” is—­to wed!

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

There is one line in our Mr. DU MAURIER’s fascinating and fantastic novel, Peter Ibbetson, which every author should frame and hang up before his eyes in his study.  ’Tis this, and ’tis to be found at page 217, Vol. ii.:—­