our head.
Commercial, or sportsman, or entertainer, or whatever he may be,
whistles or sings loudly as he dresses. Altercation with Boots
about trains in passage. Bells, bells! "Hot water, hot water.
Bath ready, sir." Train leaves at 8.15. I'm up. Something
attempted--sleep--something not done,--I have earned but not got a
night's repose. So in the cold, wet, misty morning off again with a
heart for any amount of work; still achieving, still pursuing, learning
to labour--and not to wait!

Mr. E.J. Milliken, of _Punch_, frequently wrote to me in 'Arry verse.
When I was confined to my bed with fever in the summer of 1893, I was
terribly busy. I had my _Punch_ work, my syndicated "London Letter" (a
column-and-a-half of a newspaper, with four or five illustrations), and
much other work to do every week, and I, much against my doctor's and
nurse's wish, worked all the time. _A propos_ of this I received the
following:

"'ARRY TO HARRY.

"DEAR 'ARRY,

"'Ow are yer, old 'ermit? I 'opes you're gittin' on prime For a sick
man you put in good work, mate, and make the best use o' your time.
You're like no one else, that's a moral. When _I'm_ ill I go flabby
as suet, But you keep the pot at full bile! 'Ow the doose do yer
manage to do it?

"I'm glad to believe you're a-mendin', though kep' on the strictest
Q.T. The confinement must fret you, I'm sure, 'ow I wish I could
drop in to see, And give you a regular rouser. But that is a
pleasure to come; When we _do_ meet again, we will split a fizz
magnum, and make the thing hum.

"I drop yer these lines just to show yer you ain't gone slap out o'
my 'ed, Because I'm cavortin' round pooty permiskus, while you're
nailed to bed! 'Taint a prison I'm nuts on, old pal, and I'll swear
as it doesn't suit _you,_ So 'ere's wishin' you out of it, 'Arry,
and well on Life's war-path, Hurroo!!!

"I sent over my pasteboard this mornin' to do the perlite _cummy
fo,_ But this 'ere is _entry noo_ barney, a bit of a lark like, yer
know. I picter you jest rampin' round like a big arktic bear in a
cage! Well, keep up yer pecker, my pippin, and keep down yer
natural rage. I'm yours to command, when you want me, to gossip or
work, fetch or carry;

"And that Harry may soon be O.K. and a 'arf, is the wish of

"Yours,