Volume 107 — LINES TO A LADY.
Reading edition
(A Misappropriator's Apology.)
My dear Miss B., I cannot rest by day, At night I never sleep,—or not for long. The reason is, it grieves me much to say, I've done what I'm afraid you'll think is wrong. I've stolen something—don't, I beg you, laugh, For I'm a thief—I trust I do not look it. You missed when I went off a photograph? Prepare for a surprise, 'twas I who took it! How did I do it? Well, the day I left I got down early—half an hour or more Before you knew it. That's why you're bereft Of that one photograph from out your store. Yes—I have sinned, and suffered on the rack Of agonised remorse, although I trust I May be forgiven. I'll send the portrait back If that's the only way. But tell me—must I?
"Quite A Little 'Oliday. "—Last Saturday the Times notified one "Henry Holiday" officially in "editorial" type that, as regards the "calumny refuted," everything having been explained, apologised for, and generally settled all round, they meant to give the subject a complete holiday, but that as regarded the gentleman of that name who wrote to say "he wasn't satisfied," the Times must treat him as a "Dies non."
Mr. G. "I may find this eminently serviceable for examining the Liberal Majority."
["Mr. Gladstone has become an honorary member of the Guildford Microscopic Natural History Society."—Daily Papers.]
A MATTER FOR CONSIDERATION.
SCENE—Jones doing Honeymoon Driving Tour in Ireland. His Leader has just got one of the reins under his tail, and is lashing out vigorously.
Jones. "Here! Hi there! Catch hold of him! Hang it all, catch hold of him!"
Pat. "Begorra thin, was it this Ind ye'd be afther wantin' me to hould?"