If I were a missionary
    On the plains of Uganda,
  I’d leave that position airy
    Ere, at dawn, anew ’gan day.

* * * * *

QUESTION FOR A DICKENSIAN EXAMINATION PAPER.—­“Here’s Pip—­Ask Pip.  Pip’s our mutual friend.”  In which of DICKENS’s Novels does this occur?

* * * * *

[Illustration:  “SQUARED!”

FIRST CITIZEN.  “WOT!  ‘ALLOWED’ TO MEET IN TRAFALGAR SQUARE ON
SATURDAYS, SUNDAYS, AND BANK ’OLIDAYS, ARE WE!!”

SECOND CITIZEN.  “THEN WE JUST WON’T GO!!  HE-HEH!!”]

* * * * *

THE BATTLE OF THE BARDS;

OR, THE LISTS FOR THE LAURELS.

FYTTE THE SECOND.

  “Wire in, my warblers!” PUNCHIUS cried.  “To ‘wire,’
  Though slangy, sounds appropriate to the Lyre.” 
  Then forth there toddled with the mincing gait
  Of some fair “Tottering Lily,” him, the great
  New Bard of Buddha!  Grave, and grey of crest. 
  ’Tis he illumes the nubibustic West
  With the true “Light of Asia”—­or, at least,
  Such simulacrum of the effulgent East
  As shineth from a homemade Chinese lantern. 
  No HAFIZ he, or SAADI, yet he can turn
  Authentic Sanscrit to—­Telegraphese,
  And make the Muse a moon-faced Japanese. 
  Leaderesque love of gentle gush and “Caps.,”
  Is blent in him with fondness for the Japs. 
  “Wah! wah! futtee!—­wah! wah, gooroo!” he cried,
  And twanged his tinkling orient lyre with pride.

THE MOANING OF THE BARDS.

  No moaning of the bards!  A pleasant quip! 
    No manufactured gloom to dim that far light! 
  Of dirge’s luxury deprive my lip? 
    So suns might say there shall be no more starlight!

  Lamping is not required at day’s full noon,
    Lanterns are out of place in dawn’s fair flush-light;
  But when dark night sets in, and there’s no moon,
    There is a chance for stars, or even a rushlight.

  No moaning of the bards?  That were hard lines
    For minor line-spinners, imperial TENNYSON! 
  Owls only have their chance when day declines,
    That’s why the night-birds crown thee with prompt benison.

  LEWIS has wailed and warbled—­twiddlingly: 
    ALFRED has—­rootley-tootlely—­wailed and warbled;
  WILLIAM’s young Muse hath wept—­then why not Me,
    Whose brow, not less than theirs, with woe is marbled?

  ROBERT and AUSTIN (DOBSON) took their turns;
    There is some talk, too, of Sir THEODORE MARTIN. 
  Seeing my lips, too, thrill, my heart, too, burns,
    Why the great contest should I take no part in!

  May be I do not carry guns enough
    To epically glorify King ARTHUR,
  But I have penned some reams of rhythmic stuff
    Concerning (please admire the rhyme!) SIDDARTHA.