't get out a line.'

'How will you have it?' says I. 'Hot, with sugar?'

'Don't, don't! You trample on the most sacred feelings, Snob. I want
something wild and tender,--like Byron. I want to tell her that amongst
the festive balls, and that sort of thing, you know--I only think about
her, you know--that I scorn the world, and am weary of it, you know,
and--something about a gazelle, and a bulbul, you know.'

'And a yataghan to finish off with,' the present writer observed, and we
began:--

'TO MARY

'I seem, in the midst of the crowd, The lightest of all; My laughter
rings cheery and loud, In banquet and ball. My lip hath its smiles and
its sneers, For all men to see; But my soul, and my truth, and my tears,
Are for thee, are for thee!'

'Do you call THAT neat, Wiggle?' says I. 'I declare it almost makes me
cry myself.'

'Now suppose,' says Wiggle, 'we say that all the world is at my
feet--make her jealous, you know, and that sort of thing--and that--that
I'm going to TRAVEL, you know? That perhaps may work upon her feelings.'

So WE (as this wretched prig said) began again:--

'Around me they flatter and fawn--The young and the old, The fairest are
ready to pawn Their hearts for my gold. They sue me--I laugh as I spurn
The slaves at my knee, But in faith and in fondness I turn Unto thee,
unto thee!'

'Now for the travelling, Wiggle my boy!' And I began, in a voice choked
with emotion--

'Away! for my heart knows no rest Since you taught it to feel; The
secret must die in my breast I burn to reveal; The passion I may
not. . . .'

'I say, Snob!' Wiggle here interrupted the excited bard (just as I was
about to break out into four lines so pathetic that they would drive you
into hysterics). 'I say--ahem--couldn't you say that I was--a--military
man, and that there was some danger of my life?'

'You a military man?--danger of your life? What the deuce do you mean?'

'Why,' said Wiggle, blushing a great deal, 'I told her I was going
out--on--the--Ecuador--expedition.'

'You abominable young impostor,' I exclaimed. 'Finish the poem for
yourself!' And so he did, and entirely out of all metre, and bragged
about the work at the Club as his own performance.

Poor Waggle fully believed in his friend's genius, until one day last
week he came with a grin on his countenance to the Club, and said, 'Oh,
Snob, I've made SUCH a discovery! Going down to the skating to-day, whom
should I see but Wiggle walking with th