Miss Di (six feet in her stockings, to deeply-enamoured Curate, five feet three in his, whom she has inveigled out Otter-hunting). "Oh, do just Pick me up and Carry me across. It's rather Deep, don't you know!"
[The Rev. Spooner's sensations are somewhat mixed.
"THE APPLE OF DISCORD; OR, WHICH IS THE LAUREATE?"
Paris ... Lord R-s-b-ry. Venus (à la Japonaise) ... Sir Edw-n Arn-ld. Juno ... L-w-s M-rr-s. Minerva ... Alfr-d A-st-n.
THE APPLE OF DISCORD.
(Modern Parliamentary Version.)
[Replying to questions concerning the delay in filling up the post of Poet Laureate, Sir W. Harcourt said, "This is a delicate question, and, amidst conflicting claims, I must shelter myself in the decency of the learned language, and I would reply, 'Poeta nascitur, non fit.' ... My hon. friend must remember what happened to the shepherd Paris when he had to award the apple, and the misfortunes which befel him and his partners—spretæque injuria formæ.">[