“So this is one of the habits of the English,” cried the foreigner, bitterly.

“Not only the habits, Monsieur,” observed a bystander, who trembling with apprehension, was waiting his turn; “but the customs.  Customs that are out of date with the age.  Customs that are contrary to the spirit of the century.  Customs that cost more than they yield, and deserve to be cussed!”

“They do,” cried the foreigner, excitedly.  “May the Customs be—­”

“You must not utter that word,” interrupted the Revenue Officer, in a tone of peremptory command.

“It is British; why not?”

But although the foreigner was baffled in his desire to use the appropriate imprecation—­he thought it!

* * * * *

MOTH-EATEN.

[Illustration]

  It is a stifling night; I sit
    With windows open wide;
  And the fragrance of the rose is blown
    And also the musk outside,
  There’s plenty of room for the moths out there
    In the cool and pleasant gloom;
  And yet these mad insectual beasts
    Will swarm into my room.

  I’ve thrown so many things at him,
    And thrown them all so hard;
  There goes the sofa-cushion; that
    Missed him by half a yard. 
  My hot tears rain; my young heart breaks
    To see him dodging thus;
  It is not right for him to be
    So coy—­so devious.

  As I sit by my duplex lamp,
    And write, and write, and write;
  They come and drown in the blue-black ink,
    Or fry themselves in the light. 
  They pop, and drop, and flop, and hop,
    Like catherine-wheels at play;
  And die in pain down the back of my neck
    In a most repulsive way.

  There’s a brown moth on the ceiling.  He
    Makes slow and bumpy rounds;
  Then stops and sucks the whitewash off—­
    He must have eaten pounds. 
  He’s only waiting for his chance
    To take me unaware,
  And then the brute will drop, and make
    His death-bed in my hair.

  Why do they do it?  Why—­ah! why? 
    The dews of night are damp,
  But the place to dry one’s self is not
    The chimney of a lamp. 
  And sultriness engenders thirst,
    But the best, the blue-black ink,
  Cannot be satisfactory
    Regarded as a drink.

  They are so very many, and
    I am so very few—­
  They are so hard to hit, and so
    Elusive to pursue—­
  That in the garden I will wait
    Until the dawning light,
  Until the moths all go by day
    Where I wish they’d go by night.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  SPEECHES TO BE LIVED DOWN—­IF POSSIBLE!

Sympathetic Lady Guest.  “DON’T BE UNHAPPY ABOUT THE RAIN, DEAR MRS. BOUNDERSON—­IT WILL SOON BE OVER, AND YOUR GARDEN WILL BE LOVELIER THAN EVER!”

Little Mrs. Goldmore Bounderson (who is giving her first Garden Party).  “YES; BUT I’M AFRAID IT WILL KEEP MY MOST DESIRABLE GUESTS FROM COMING!”]