How they muster, how they “tell,”
    Ha! ha! the humour o’t! 
  Woes of the Division Bell,
    He! he! the humour o’t!
  All—­from Prayers to “Who goes Home?”
  O’er St. Stephens you may roam;
  LIKA JOKO bids you.  Come! 
    Humph! humph! the humour o’t!

  LIKA JOKO is a wag,
    Ha! ha! the humour o’t! 
  All the tricks are in his bag,
    He! he! the humour o’t! 
  He can mimic, he can mime,
  Draw, and act, and—­what is prime—­
  Keep you laughing all the time.
    Humph! humph! the humour o’t!

* * * * *

Why doesn’t some Musical Photographic Artist of Scotch Nationality compose a March for his fellow Professors and Practisers, and call it “The March of the Camera Men”?  Sure to be popular.

* * * * *

AN UN-"COMMON” GOOD HORSE.—­The Winner of this Year’s Two Thousand.

* * * * *

MR. PUNCH’S POCKET IBSEN.

(Condensed and Revised Version by Mr. P.’s Own Harmless Ibsenite.)

No.  III.—­HEDDA GABLER.

ACT.  III.

SCENE.—­The same Room, but—­it being evening—­darker than ever—­The crape curtains are drawn.  A Servant, with black ribbons in her cap, and red eyes, comes in and lights the gas quietly and carefully.  Chords are heard on the piano in the back Drawing-room.  Presently HEDDA comes in and looks out into the darkness.  A short pause.  Enter GEORGE TESMAN.

George.  I am so uneasy about poor LOeVBORG.  Fancy! he is not at home.  Mrs. ELVSTED told me he had been here early this morning, so I suppose you gave him back his manuscript, eh?

Hedda (cold and immovable, supported by arm-chair).  No, I put it on the fire instead.

George.  On the fire!  LOeVBORG’S wonderful new book that he read to me at BRACK’S party, when we had that wild revelry last night!  Fancy that! But, I say, HEDDA—­isn’t that rather—­eh? Too bad, you know—­really.  A great work like that.  How on earth did you come to think of it?

Hedda (suppressing an almost imperceptible smile).  Well, dear GEORGE, you gave me a tolerably strong hint.

George.  Me?  Well, to be sure—­that is a joke!  Why, I only said that I envied him for writing such a book, and it would put me entirely in the shade if it came out, and if anything was to happen to it, I should never forgive myself, as poor LOeVBORG couldn’t write it all over again, and so we must take the greatest care of it!  And then I left it on a chair and went away—­that was all!  And you went and burnt the book all up!  Bless me, who would have expected it?

Hedda.  Nobody, you dear simple old soul!  But I did it for your sake—­it was love, GEORGE!

George (in an outburst between doubt and joy).  HEDDA, you don’t mean that!  Your love takes such queer forms sometimes, Yes, but yes—­(laughing in excess of joy), why, you must be fond of me!  Just think of that now!  Well, you are fun, HEDDA!  Look here, I must just run and tell the housemaid that—­she will enjoy the joke so, eh?