"Have you taken Sary's portrait?"
"Yes," says the artist chap, "I took it."
"Where is it?" says the breastpin-chap with emotion.
"There it is," says the artist-chap, pointing to the oil-painting, with a pleasing expression of countenance.
As high art is not appreciated in this country, my boy, a policeman called at the Louvre that afternoon and removed the artist-chap to a place which is so musical that all the windows have bars, and each man carries a stave.
As my taste for music is not uncontrollable at present, my boy, and I can't write a full account of a battle, without referring in some degree to the struggle, which we are forbidden to mention, I shall not be particular as to details.
I am permitted to say that I went down to Paris with my gothic steed Pegasus on Monday last, and found the Mackerel Brigade coming back across Duck Lake with the frantic intention of changing its base of operations. The Conic Section, my boy, had been ordered to advance and force the Southern Confederacy to compel it to retreat, and the rapidity with which this was accomplished was a brilliant vindication of the consummate strategy of the general of the Mackerel Brigade. I found the general a few miles back of the scene of action issuing orders—for the same, with a little more sugar, and says I:
"Well, my indefatigable Napoleon, have you changed your base successfully?"
The general smiled like a complacent porpoise, and says he: