e days when we all lived in clover,
With whitebait, can never revive,
I assure you," said LAWLESS, "they're over,
But, oh, keep the licence alive."

But the Bench, when they heard him, grew bolder--
"Make it out to George Hamilton--he
Is the man who should figure as holder,"
Said ROBERTSON-SHERSBY, J.P.
Just to think of the head of the Navy,
The proudest and strongest afloat,
Cutting joints or distributing gravy,
First Lord of his own _table d'hote!_

Will their Charity be a beginner
At home? Will they dine there each day,
These Lords, on a succulent dinner,
Free, gratis, and nothing to pay?
Well, well, though we'd rather prefer ships
That burst not, we'll take what they give.
So we offer our thanks to their Worships
For permitting the licence to live.

* * * * *

[Illustration: AMUSEMENTS FOR THE GALLERY--AND THE MOB!]

* * * * *

[Illustration: "BEG PARDON, SIR! BUT IF YOU WAS TO AIM _AT_ HIS
LORDSHIP THE NEXT TIME, I THINK HE'D FEEL MORE COMFORBLER, SIR!"]

* * * * *

MR. PUNCH'S PRIZE NOVELS.

NO. III.--JOANNA OF THE CROSS WAYS.

(_BY_ GEORGE VERIMYTH, _AUTHOR OF "RICHARD'S SEVERAL EDITIONS," "THE
APHORIST," "SHAMPOO'S SHAVING-POT."_)

[With this story came a long, explanatory letter. The story,
however, is itself so clear and easy to understand (as is all
the work of this master), that the accompanying commentary is
unnecessary.]

CHAPTER I.

In the earlier portion of the lives of all of us there is a time,
heaven-given without doubt, for all things, as we know, draw their
origin thence, if only in our blundering, ill-conditioned way we trace
them back far enough with the finger of fate pointing to us as in
mockery of all striving of ours on this rough bosom of our mother
earth, a time there comes when the senses rebel, first faintly, and
then with ever-increasing vehemence, panting, beating, buffeting and
breasting the torrent of necessity, against the parental decree that
would drench our inmost being in the remedial powder of a Gregorian
doctor, famous, I doubt not, in his day, and much bepraised by them
that walked delicately in the light of pure reason and the healthful
flow of an untainted soul, but now cast out and abhorred of childhood
soaring on uplifted wing through the vast blue of the modern
pharmacopoeia. Yet to th