O GENEROUS gents, who have the “cure of souls,”
  Learn hence that justice wins far more than doles. 
  Blankets and soup Dames Bountiful may give,
  But what HODGE craves is a fair chance to live
  On labour fairly paid, not casual boons. 
  SALISBURY’s “Circuses,” and smart buffoons,
  Won’t move him, by “amusement,” from that wish. 
  Parties may mutually denounce or “dish;”
  But what will win the Labourer for a friend
  Is Home and Work, without the Workhouse end! 
  Listen!  Those who heed not will bide the loss,
  For Bos locutus est,—­against the “Boss”!

* * * * *

LAYS OF MODERN HOME.

NO.  I.—­“MY HOUSEMAID!”

[Illustration]

  Who, as our Dresden’s wreck we scanned,
  Protested, with assurance bland,
  “It come to pieces in my ’and”? 
      My Housemaid.

  Who “tidies” things each Monday morn,
  And hides—­until, with search outworn,
  I wish I never had been born? 
      My Housemaid.

  Who “turns” my study “out” that day,
  And then contrives to pitch away
  As “rubbish” (which it is) my Play? 
      My Housemaid.

  Who guards within her jealous care,
  Mending or marking, till I swear,
  The underclothes I long to wear? 
      My Housemaid.

  Who cultivates a habit most
  Perverse, of running to “The Post”
  To meet her brothers (such a host!)? 
      My Housemaid.

  Who, if she spends her “Sundays out”
  At Chapel, as she does, no doubt,
  Must be protractedly devout? 
      My Housemaid.

  Who takes my novels down (it must
  Be, as she vows, of course, “to dust"),
  And thumbs them, much to my disgust? 
      My Housemaid.

  Who “can’t abide” a play or ball,
  But dearly loves a Funeral,
  Or Exeter’s reproachless Hall? 
      My Housemaid.

  Who late returning thence, in fits
  Of what she terms “Histories,” sits,—­
  And this day month my service quits? 
      My Housemaid.

* * * * *

QUITE CLEAR.—­“Aha! mon ami,” exclaimed our friend JULES, during the recent murky weather in Town, “you ask me the difference between our Paris and your London. Tenez, I will tell you.  Paris is always tres gai, veritablement gai; but London is toujours faux gai—­you see it is always fo-gay.”  And he meant “fog-gy.”  Well, he wasn’t far wrong, just now.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  “COMING EVENTS CAST THEIR SHADOWS BEFORE.”]

* * * * *

THE TRAVELLING COMPANIONS.

NO.  XXI.

    SCENE—­The Steps of the Hotel Dandolo, about 11 A.M.  PODBURY
    is looking expectantly down the Grand Canal, CULCHARD is
    leaning upon the balustrade.