"I've half a hundred sonnets here to Mabel, Madge, and Maud.
I'll read them first, and then I'll read"—the other three grew pale—
"My last new book, The Musings of a Town-bred Nightingale."
* * * * * *
And so they sat, and talked and talked, the argument waxed hot,
For each one was a Genius born, and none would budge a jot.
And till they settle who begins, and which of them shall yield,
I fear the "dearth of Geniuses"—see speech—must hold the field.
Rather a Long Shot.—How to "attempt the life of the Premier." Discharge a revolver in the neighbourhood of Downing Street, and listen to the report in the evening papers.