However, it can’t be helped.  Make up my mind to go to bed, and get fast asleep, thoroughly tired out with the labours of a day spent in doing absolutely nothing!  Hope (in my dreams) that Dr. MORTIMER GRANVILLE will be satisfied!

* * * * *

“OUR CHILDREN’S EARS.”

  Whether they’ll be as long as those of Midas,
  Or stand out salient from either side as
  A close-cropped ARRY’s, at right angles set
  To his flat jowl, we cannot settle, yet;
  But in one thing, at least, a score they’ll chalk—­
  They will not hear the stuff their fathers talk!

* * * * *

DEFINITION.—­“La haute Cuisine”—­the kitchen on the top flat of a ten-storey’d mansion.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  AN INSINUATING WHISPER.

’JUST LOOK, LAURA!  WHAT A LOVELY LITTLE DOG THAT OLD GENTLEMAN’S GOT!  HOW I WISH HE WAS MINE!” ’SHALL OI GIT ’IM FOR YER, LYDY?”]

* * * * *

“HAVE WE FORGOTTEN GORDON?”

[Lord TENNYSON, under this heading, writes appealing to Englishmen for subscriptions to the funds of the “Gordon Boys’ Home” at Woking, which is in want of L40,000.  Contributions should be sent to the Treasurer, General Sir DIGHTON PROBYN, V.C., Marlborough House, Pall Mall.]

  Are we sleeping? “Have we forgotten?” Like the thrust of an Arab spear
  Comes that conscience-piercing-question from the Singer of Haslemere. 
  Have we indeed forgotten the hero we so be-sang,
  When across the far south sand-wastes the news of his murder rang?

  Forgotten?  So it had seemed to him, as alone afar he lay,
  With the Nile to watch for laggard friends, fierce foes to hold at bay;
  Though the tired red lines toiled onward up the Cataracts, and we
  Dreamed of the shout of the rescuing host his eyes should never see.

  When chivalrous BURNABY lay slain, with a smile in the face of death,
  And for happy news from the hungry wastes men yearned with bated breath;
  When WILSON pushed his eager way past torrent-swirl and crag,
  Till they saw o’er GORDON’s citadel wave high—­the MAHDI’s flag.

  That shame was surely enough, enough, that sorrow had a sting
  Our England should not court again.  The Laureate’s accents ring
  With scorn suppressed, a scorn deserved indeed, if still our part
  Is to forget a purpose high that was dear to GORDON’s heart.

  “This earth has borne no simpler, nobler man.”  So then sang he
  Who sounds a keen reveille now.  “Can you help us?” What say we? 
  Oh, out on words, that come like WOLSELEY’s host too late—­too late! 
  Do—­do, in the simple silent way that made lost GORDON great.

  Surely these Boys that GORDON loved in the Home with GORDON’s name
  Should speak to every English heart that cares for our England’s fame;
  And what be forty thousand pounds as an offering made to him
  Who held so high that same bright fame some do their worst to dim!