Shrinking from high-strung duty, the brave way
  Of an imperial spirit.  So to-day
    Your People bow—­in pride. 
  The sympathy of millions is your own. 
  May Glory long be guardian of your Throne,
    Love ever at its side!

* * * * *

Entirely unsolicited testimonial.—­Dartmoor.—­Gentlemen,—­Two years ago I wrote somebody else’s name with one of your pens.  Since then I have used no other.

Yours faithfully, A.F.  ORGER.  “To Messrs. Steal, KNIBBS & co.”

* * * * *

“La Grippe.”

[Illustration]

    ("I’m a devil!  I’m a devil!” croaked Barnaby Rudge’s Raven
    ‘Grip’:  And this is a raven-mad sort of Edgar-Allan-Poem by Un
    qui est Grippe.)

  Once upon a midnight dreary
  Coming home I felt so weary,
  Felt, oh! many a pain; so curious,
    Which I’d never felt before. 
  Then to bed,—­no chance of napping,
  Blankets, rugs about me wrapping,
    Feverish burning pains galore. 
  “Oh!  I’ve got it! oh!” I muttered,
    “Influenza!! what a bore!!”
    Only this!!—­Oh!!—­Nothing more!!

  Oh! my head and legs are aching! 
  Now I’m freezing!  Now I’m baking! 
  Clockwork in my cerebellum! 
    Oh! all over me I’m sore! 
  In my bed I’m writhing, tossing,
  Yet I’m in a steamer, crossing. 
  While KIRALFY’s Venice bossing,
    I’m “against” and Russell “for”
  In a case about the Echo,
    Somewhere out at Singapore! 
    It’s delirium!!!  Nothing more.

  Then a Doctor comes in tapping
  Me all over, tapping, rapping. 
  And with ear so close and curious
    Pressed to stethoscope, “Once more,”
  Says he, “sing out ninety-ninely,
  Now again!  You do it finely! 
  Yes!  Not bigger than a wine lee,
    There’s the mischief, there’s the corps
  Of the insect that will kill us,
  Hiding there is the Bacillus;
    Only that, and nothing more!”

  “Why’s he here with fear to fill us? 
  Will he leave me, this Bacillus? 
  Not one bone do I feel whole in,
    And of strength I’ve lost my store.” 
  Thus I to the Doctor talking,
  Ask “When shall I go out walking”? 
  He, my earnest queries baulking,
    Says, “When all this trouble’s o’er,”
  “Monday?  Tuesday?  Wednesday?  Thursday
    Friday?  Saturday?  Sunday? or
    In a week?” “Um!—­not before.”

  “Doctor!” cried I, “catch this evil
  Fiend!  Bacillus!!  Microbe!! devil!! 
  Second syllable in Tem-pest! 
    Send him to Plutonian Shore. 
  Send him back to where he came from,
  To the place he gets his fame from,
  To the place he takes his name from;
    Kick him out of my front door!”
  So the Doctor feels my pulse, and,
    As I drop upon the floor,
    Quoth the Doctor, “Some days more.”