Volume 103 — MINOR MISERIES.

My hat, my hat—away it flew— The Strand was damp, the wind blew strong— My tall silk hat, so bright and new; Ye Bishops, tell me was it wrong That, in that moment's agony, My language, like my hat, flew free? Away in swift pursuit I dashed, The hat went scudding fast before; By Busmen mocked, by Hansoms splashed, The more I ran, it flew the more. While boys screeched forth, in chorus vile, "I'll lay the toff don't catch 'is tile." On, on—at last it seemed to tire Of pavements and pursuing feet. It soared, then settled in the mire, Full in the middle of the street, A mud-stained, shattered relic—not The bright new hat I bought from SCOTT. Now was my time; I rushed—but no— Fate ever mocks an ardent man; Even as I rushed, unwieldy, slow, Bore down a ponderous Pickford-Van, And under two broad wheels crushed flat My loved but suicidal hat. Have hats got souls, and can they hate? Are street-boys higher than the brute? Avails it to discuss of fate, Free-will, fore-knowledge absolute? Nay, why of all created things Should new silk hats be made with wings? I know not. Wherefore, oh ye powers, Speed me to some deserted land, Where blow no winds and fall no showers, Far from the street-boys and the Strand. There all unfriended let me dwell, A hatless hermit in a cell.