Celia's flocks and Celia's herds
(Only she can teach 'em)
All produce their cream and curds,
Helped by Mr. B-ch-m.
A loud cheer greeted the recital of this charming pastoral, and one editor, who is not often a victim to mere sentiment, said it reminded him of his happy childhood, when he used to take Dr. Gregory's powders after a day spent in the neighbouring farmer's orchard.
The next speaker was G-orge Eg-rt-n. All women, she said, must be Georges. George Sand and George Eliot were women she believed. George Meredith was an exception, but that only proved her rule. Women were a miserable lot: it was their own fault. Why marry? ("Hear, hear," from Mrs. Mona Caird.) Why be born at all? She paused for a reply.
At this point Mr. W. T. St-ad entered the room and offered to talk about "Julia in Chicago," but the meeting broke up in confusion, without the customary vote of thanks to the Chair.
HOW IT WILL BE DONE HEREAFTER.
(A Serene Ducal Romance of the Future.)
His Highness was smoking a pipe at the close of the day in the fair realm of Utopia. He had finished dinner, and was discussing his lager beer, which had quite taken the place of coffee.
"Dear me," said the Duke, rather anxiously, as he noticed the Premier was seating himself in a chair in his near neighbourhood; "I am afraid I am in disgrace."
"Not at all, Sir," replied the Minister, graciously. "On the contrary, in the name of the people of Utopia, I beg to offer you my sincere thanks."