The Haymarket has re-opened with the odd mixture of the excellent French Abbe Constantin and the weak, muddle-headed, Tree-and-Grundy-ised “village Priest,” known as the Abbe Dubois, or “Abbe Do Bore,” as ’ARRY might call him.  Changes are in contemplation, and may have been already announced.  Whatever they may be, it is some consolation to learn that this Tree-and-Grundy-ised French Abbe is not likely to be a “perpetual Curate.”

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MR. PUNCH’S PRIZE NOVELS.

NO.  II.—­BURRA MURRA BOKO.

(BY KIPPIERD HERRING, AUTHOR OF “SOLDIERS’ TEA,” “OVER THE DARODEES,” “HANDSOME HEADS ON THE VALETS,” “MORE BLACK THAN WHITE,” “EXPERIMENTAL DITTOS,” &C., &C.)

[NOTE.—­The MS. of this story arrived from India by pneumatic despatch, a few puffs having been apparently sufficient.  In a letter which was enclosed with it the author modestly apologises for its innumerable merits.  “But,” he adds, “I have several hundred of the same sort in stock, and can supply them at a moment’s notice.  Kindly send L1000 in Bank of England notes, by registered letter, to K. HERRING.  No farther address will be required.”]

Polla dan anta cat anta. What will you have, Sahib?  My heart is made fat, and my eyes run with the water of joy. Kni vestog rind.  Scis sorstog rind, the Sahib is as a brother to the needy, and the afflicted at the sound of his voice become as a warming-pan in a for postah.  Ahoo!  Ahoo!  I have lied unto the Sahib. Mi ais an dlims, I am a servant of sin. Burra Murra Boko!  Burra Murra Boko!

There came a sound in the night as of an elephant-herd trumpeting in anger, and my liver was dissolved, and the heart within me became as a Patoph But’ah under the noon-day sun.  I made haste, for there was fear in the air, Sahib, and the Pleez Mahn that walketh by night was upon me.  But, oh, Sahib, the cunning of the serpent was with me, and as he passed I tripped him up, and the raging river received him.  Twice he rose, and the gleam of his eyes spake in vain for help.  And at last there came a bubble where the man had been, and he was seen no more. Burra Murra Boko!  Burra Murra Boko!

That night I spake unto her as she stood in the moonlight.  “Oh, sister of an oil-jar, and daughter of pig-troughs, what is it thou hast done?” And she, laughing, spake naught in reply, but gave me the Tcheke Slahp of her tribe, and her fingers fell upon my face, and my teeth rattled within my mouth.  But I, for my blood was made hot within me, sped swiftly from her, making no halt, and the noise of fifty thousand devils was in my ears, and the rage of the Smak duns burnt fierce within the breast of me, and my tongue was as a fresh fig that grows upon a southern wall. Auggrh! pass me the peg, for my mouth is dry. Burra Murra Boko!  Burra Murra Boko!