Emi. A sick wife and eight sick children.

Cust.-H.  Off. Do any of you know a trade?

Emi. None of us.

Cust.-H.  Off. Are you well enough to work?

Emi. No.

Cust.-H.  Off. Have you any friends in England?

Emi. Don’t know a soul.

Cust.-H.  Off. Have you any luggage?

Emi. Only the Cholera!

* * * * *

A COMPENDIOUSLY GRAMMATICAL TREE.—­A Yew Tree.  First it may be a ’Igh Tree, but it is a Yew Tree.  It is either a He Tree or a She Tree.  If small, it represents the first person plural by being a “Wee Tree:”  the second person plural is the Manager and Manageress of the Haymarket, “Ye Trees;” and the third person plural would be expressed by a Devonshire Gardener indicating this talented couple as “They Trees.”

* * * * *

TEE, TEE, ONLY TEE!

(SONG OF THE GOLF ENTHUSIAST. AFTER THOMAS MOORE.)

AIR—­“Thee, thee, only thee.”

[Illustration]

  The dawn of morn, the daylight’s sinking,
  Shall find me on the Links, and thinking
      Of Tee, Tee, only Tee! 
  When rivals meet upon the ground,
    The Putting-green’s a realm enchanted,
  Nay, in Society’s giddy round
    My soul, (like Tooting’s thralls) is haunted
      By Tee, Tee, only Tee!’

  For that at early morn I waken,
  And swiftly bolt my eggs and bacon,
      For Tee, Tee, only Tee! 
  I’m game to start all in the dark
    To the Links hurrying—­resting never. 
  The Caddie yawns, but, like a lark,
    I halt not, heed not, hastening ever
      To Tee, Tee, only Tee!

  Of chilly fog I am no funker,
  I’ll brave the very biggest bunker
      For Tee, Tee, only Tee! 
  A spell that nought on earth can break
    Holds me.  Golf’s charms can ne’er be spoken;
  But late I’ll sleep, and early wake,
    Of loyalty be this my token,
      To Tee, Tee, only Tee!

* * * * *

INNS AND OUTS.

NO.  II.—­THE HEAD-WETTER.

I entitle him as self-pronounced.  If “Mr.” is the Grand-Hotel Jupiter, the Head-Waiter is its Mercury.  Nothing modern is so versatile as the Head-Waiter.  The first thing about the Head-Waiter is his cigars.  These are covered with tinsel and colours:  very gay—­almost as gay as the Head-Waiter.  They are of unpronounceable and unknown brands.  They vary in price and size, but agree in flavour—­liquorice, tempered by ink.  Like the fabled fruit, they crumble to ashes in your mouth.  If you are only a bird of passage, you will often find a box or so in your room.  “Great opportunity—­veritable Pestarenas of Nockudaun—­one whole box for a sovereign English,” the Head-Waiter assures you.  The memory of that man is astounding; he remembers all the numbers, all the wines, all the names, and all the Lady’s-maids.  For he is a bit of a Leporello, is the Head-Waiter.