Pegasus re-saddled £* 1 ^ \ I/OLMONDELEY P EN NELL * PEGASUS RE-SADDLED. Made to be Painted." (/V*9-) Frontispiece ■ PEGASUS RE-SADDLED. r.\ H. CHOLMONDELEY PENNELL, U i HOF "i •' PI ik OH ii .. \m WITH TEN ILLUSTRATIONS BY DU MAURIER. PHILADELPHIA: I. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. i 8 7 8. DEDICATED TO T 1 1 O M ASH E N R Y F A R R E R, E S < }., OF ABINGER HALL, SURREY . SECRETARY TO THE BOARD OF TRADE. A TRIBUTE OF ADMIRATION TO HIS PERSONAL Ql V.LITIES WD PI BLIC I IAREER. 759W2 CD XT E NTS, o ,, " TE Illustrated I 11 us I • M A Pi ■ i \ i I 1 1 i ! i Bo-Peep. The Si crei of S vi 1.1 v A Casi of Spoons To \n Anonymous Correspond! Pretty Puss. Illustrated i.i \m - for Wives . Forty-Five Rinking Reminisi ences Echoi s i rom che Sami A LlTTLi Beauty. Illustrated A I !. i Yi \ks' Char icter . Painting hie Lily N U'.ii i v l \\. i Shot s "I'll I- SQl I K l AND i III Ni W PARS' iN*S ( Some One's i i irgi r-ME-NoTs . R] PL'S ro A \ ai ENTINE. Illustrated \ i V irdi \\ Knot . Wanted, an Idea . Ami Am iqi \kian . For s m i , Pensive Selima A Curl in a Letter Oi rsiDE. Illustrated I in Bloated Bigg \u<» in UNG SONGS. Parfait Amour Bitter Vermuth . •• ( >h. if Life were .1 Bumper" IKI pai;e 9 10 13 '4 '5 16 19 20 ■23 24 26 29 $4 36 ; s 41 43 44 45 4" 5« >4 8 CONTENTS. Hunting a " Slipper" . The Butterfly Chained Quack ! Quack ! ! Quack ! ! ! A Fine Old Buster. Illustrated " Drei Bitte" An Uninvited Guest At Brindisi . "The World's Mine Oyster' A Brace of Valentines. To a Lady, with a Ring With a Butterfly's Wing . " Conter Fleurette." Illustrated With the Horse "White Mist" Musical Undertones A Daisy Chain .... On Ghosts Postscript to Ghosts . A Reply to Birthday Stanzas . Lady 'Bell's Catechism. Illustrated Mayfair on Skates The "Matrimonial News" . Pincher Next Morning .... Daisy's Dn.n London's •• Suez < !anal" A Pocket Venus. Illustrated The Coming R vct Two Letters ..... Veni, Vidi, Via .... A Fable with \ Moral Twenty-one to-morrow A I \i am si Puzzle PAGE 56 58 60 62 65 66 67 70 7i 72 75 76 78 79 81 84 86 89 90 94 96 98 99 101 104 107 1 1 1 "3 1 [6 1 t8 119 FAITE A PEINDRE:' 'ADE to be painted" — a Millais might give A fortune to study that exquisite face — The face is a fortune — a Lawrence might live Anew in each line of that figure's still grace. The pose is perfection, a model each limb, From the delicate foot to the classical head ; Hut the almond blue eyes with their smiling look dim, And lips to be loved want a trifle more reel. Statuesque? no, a Psyche, let's say, in repose, — A Psyche whose Cupid beseeches in vain, — We sigh as the nightingale sighs to the rose, But the goddess declines to give sighs back again. . If the wind shook the rose? — then a shower would fall Of sweet-scented petals to gather who list, — If a sigh shook my Psyche? — she'd yawn, that is all, She's " made to be painted" — and not to be kist. LITTLE BO-PEEP. ITTLE Bo-peep has lost her sheep, And someone or other's lost little Bo-peep — Or she'd never be wandering at twelve o'clock With a golden crook, and a velvet frock, In a diamond necklace, in such a rout, — In diamond buckles, and my ! how shocking, A beautiful leg in a red silk stocking ! And an ankle a sculptor might rave about. But I think she's a little witch, you know, With her broomstick-crook and her high-heel'd >hoe And the mischievous fun that flashes thro' The wreaths of her amber hair — don't you ? No wonder the flock follows little Bo-peep, Such a shepherd would turn all the world tnto sheep, To trot at her heels and look up in the face Of their pastor for — goodness knows what, not for grace ?- Her face that recalls in its reds and its blues, (Blue eyes, and red lips full of pearls if you choose) And its setting of gold, " Esmeralda" by Greuze. . . . There's " Little Bo-peep," dress, diamonds, and all, As I met her last night at the Fancy Ball. IO Little Bo Pb i p THE SECRET OF SAFETY. I >l' ask me to declare the spell By which I sleep unhaunted slumb " Still fancy free ! — the secret tell ?" The secret is, tail - Isabel, That "Safety lies in numbers." It is not that ni)- heart is tough, I dare not make such false confession, Or th.it it's made of such soft stuff It is not durable enough To take a firm impression : Hut Beauty's like the bloom that flies, And Love's a butterfly that hasteth, From lip to lip the trifler hies And sweet by sweet the garden tries, Hut each one only tasteth. . . . If I looked long in your beaux-yeux I might not sleep unhaunted slumbers, — At least 'twere rash to try, you know, — So now I'm going to the Row, Where "safety lies in numbers!" A CASE OF SPOONS. {He) WONDER why to sit I find it sweet, As if you were Gamaliel, at your feet ? They're quite too small to be of any use ?- {She) Because you are a goose. {He) I wonder, when your glances downward stray, Why mine look up until yours turn away — You hate the sight of me, I dare assert ! {She) Because I hate a flirt. {He) Then tell me why, when you attempt to speak, I find my ear gets closer to your cheek, Until it almost touches someone's locks ? {She) Because it wants a box! M TO AN ANONYMOUS CORRESPONDENT O name — unknown the " hand" — and yet I think your fingers must be taper Who wrote "non ti scordar" and set Tin's tiny seal on pink-ting'd paper? The page is fair, and deftly traced, Folded across and neatly dated; The p's and q's display much taste. The h's look well aspirated. The i's are — well, like sweet sixteen's — When laughter's light and smiles are plenty ; — My taste's like David's as to queens — I'm sine you can't be more than twenty? You still are in the bloom of youth With faultless face and figure fair}-, They call you " Blanche" or " Maud" — in sooth The odds are two to one on " Mary !" If e'er we meet in after-life Speak, dear, I'll answer circumspectly ; And tho' you're some one else's wife, You still might spell my name correctly? IS PRETTY PUSS. HE slightest of pouts on the softest of lips Of a little red mouth with its smiles in eclipse- The least little flash under eyelids half shut, The least little beat of the least little foot, Like the thrill of the tigress preparing to spring, — Seem to hint that my Mabel is not quite the thing ? . . . I wish I was back in the hansom for choice ! — Shall I fight? or, like Niobe, lift up my voice? Own my conduct was vile (but I've done that before), Pray forgiveness and never offend any more ? Or brazen it out ? — " Yes, I trifled with Jane, " And I flirted with Fan — and I mean to again !" Tableau ! — But I'll keep on this side of the table, There's certainly something that's cat-like in Mabel, — If stroked the right way you get plenty of purr, But claws, I've a fancy, lie hid in the fur, And she looks at this moment as prompt to assail As the Celt who begged someone to tread on his tail. . . It's perplexing — I wish I was back in the cab . . There's something infernally cat-like in Mab. 16 , \ after lunch ! ECHOES FROM THE SAME. First Echo. Con expressionc. OU see me just now on my knees And my elbows, and that's because I arose in my might To immediate light On the spot where I previously was. Second Echo. Agitato. If I don't rise to take off my hat, I beg you won't think me a clown, — On occasions like these One stands at one's ease More easily lying down. Third Echo. Suffocate. It's pleasant to tumble at times — (The times when one's ready to drop,) — He felt this as well, The elderly swell Who's floored me and sits on the top. 24 /.- HOES FROM THE SAME. I like to sec folks at their ease, Especially fourteen stone — If I asked him to sit < )ff in)' head for a bit, I H> you think it would spoil his fun ? Fourth Echo. Con triumphato. I am stooping my balance to gain ; Anon I shall backward descend ; And that's what I call My Roman fall And alternate Grecian bend. Sundry Echoes. Diminuendo. What Splice-bone says is true — The " exercise" is good — But he might have added Get your legs padded, And elbows made of wood. ><^ 25 A LITTLE BEAUTY. AUD'S a naughty little girl, Maudie's locks decline to curl, Spite all sense of duty, But they' re f rise' d up instead Round her saucy little head, Round her cheeks of white and red- Maud's a little beauty ! Maud has got a roguish eye, Maud has got a tender sigh, Laughters soft and flutey- " Cherries ripe" her lips, I swear, Did you ever know a pair Say so plainly " If you dare !" — Maud the little beauty ! Yet her lip you cannot reach Nor her cheek that's like a peach, Round and ripe and fruity ; You can only look and sigh, — I can only love, and try To discern the reason why Maud's my little beauty? 2') A l.l M I i BKAU i V.' =7 [VE YEARS' CHARACTER. IYK years amic ! five years ago, It seems like yesterday, You whispered that mysterious vow — Love — honor — and obey. And, darling, you have done your part, And kept your promise, sweet, — You have full-filled an empty heart And made a life complete. . . . I testily that you have been The household sunshine, fair}', queen. — A cool oasis ever green Along life's desert sand}', — As good as gold, And as true as steel, And as sweet as sugar candy ! We've shared some pleasure and some pain, We've met some ups and downs : And would you tie the knot again Tho' all the smiles were frowns? . . . 1 ho' all the joys were griefs, 1 say, And dimmed each brighter spot, 30 A FIVE YEARS' CHARACTER. This girl would face them all with me, — You would, love, would you not ? And still would be what you have been, My household fairy, sunshine, queen — A cool oasis ever green Amidst life's deserts sandy, — As good as gold, And as true as steel, And as sweet as sugar candy. PAINTING THE LILY." AINT my Lily? you'd be clever' She is " beautiful for ever" — Beauteous with a stick of cork, Lovely with a coat of chalk ! From the calyx to the stalk — Neck, I mean — and all the rest. To the snow upon her breast, — To the glittering of her hair, Shaking gold-dust out, I swear; — Every charm in which you revelled Powdered plaistered or bedevilled. . . . All the Flow'r-show dyed ? — Who knows ? Frank declares his blooming Rose Wears a blush that never goes, Never lessens, never grows — And sweet Violet's fiance Ascertained tin- other day That her petals washed away ! (Petals! — Hye-brows, I should say Leaving only something gray. . . . These effects make m\ adorer 4 3" 32 "PAINTING THE LILY." Rather dubious of his Flora, With the blushes of Aurora, With the reds and snow-whites o'er her Lead him to be shy of Lily — Roses picked in Piccadilly — Make his views of Violet hazy — Predisposed to like a Daisy ? naughty two-shoes. RETTY naughty Two-shoes Bought a pair of blue shoes, Bought a pair of silken hose all striped with white and red ; Bought a skipping rope for skipping — When they threatened her with whipping Skipt them straightway into kissing her instead. Skipt them into such ecstatics That they thronged from base to attics Peeping out from garret-window, pane, and door ; Skipt the bumpkins out of wits, Skipt their sweethearts into fits, Skipt them higher than was ever seen before. Basta! cried the lame schoolmaster — But she only skipt the faster With her beautiful kaleidoscopic feet, From the squire to the clown Skipt the village upside- down, — And I doubt if it has ever lighted yet ! THE SQUIRE AND THE NEW PARSON'S GIRL IT II wild locks streaming from the braid That fillets them in vain, Who is this hatless demoisel Comes flying down the lane ? It must be our new parson's girl — I think they call her Jane ? They really shouldn't let her out In such prepost'rous guise — Sixteen ? and in a pinafore, Suggestive of dirt pies ! Frock'd to the knee! . . . and what a pair Of great blue saucer eyes ! The fair Miss Jenny's future lord Will need to have a care ! — Despite the piquant little nose " Tip-tilted" in the air — They glitter like two corn-flow'rs thro' That hayfield of her hair. And then her mouth ! a mile too wide — But arched like Cupid's bow, 34 THE SQUIRE AND THE NEW PARSONS GIRL And strung with pearls — I never saw Such a surprising row: All womankind might "show their teeth" If they'd such teeth to show. Twould almost be worth while to make The little vixen scold, If but to see the scornful smile Flash out so bright and bold. . . . There isn't such a face for miles, Though half the shire were poll'd. And face and figure ought to match, Or nature's made a slip ; She seems as flexible and straight As my new riding-whip — Upon my word if she'd a chance I think she'd like to skip. . . . And I should like to hold the rope ! Tho' skipping's not my way. . . . She leads them all a pretty life Up at the Grange, they say. . . . It's really rude not to have called . . . I think I'll go to-day. SOME ONE'S FORGET-ME-NOTS. lOME one's Forget-me-nots! " Laid up in lavender !" Gew-gaws and trash and stuff- Billets-doux — rhymes enough — Love's ritornellas ; — Here's an odd shoe in pink Once in fate's chain a link, So small one fain would think 'Tvvas Cinderella's. Two lace-trimmed handkerchiefs, Six rosettes ! — fie for shame ! Clearly the youthful flame Went in for slippers ; Three gloves — some locks of hair. I wonder whose they were ? But at least one may swear They were all " clippers." What's this perfume that comes Faint as I close the lid ? Have I lock'd up instead Somebody's posy ? 36 SOME ONES FORGET-ME-NOTS. Stay, I believe that it's These crumpled violets, Heartsease and mignonettes — Rosebuds once rosy : Ready-made pot-pourri — (Sweet-scented none the less) Isn't it time all this Rubbish were rotten ? Ribbons and gloves and locks? — Never mind, shut the box — Lie still in lavender, Some one's Forget-me-nots, Long since forgotten ! 37 REPLY TO A VALENTINE WITH A PORTRAIT. fAIR archeress, the shafts you wield Are splintered on a careless shield ; A wandering knight on bootless quest, For me there throbs no maiden breast, No lady's favor decks my crest. With pointless spear and silken glove, I tilt not in the lists of love, Tho' beauty's queen bestowed the prize, — And if a smile my heart entice 'Tis as a sunbeam strikes on ice. But yet, methinks, if life were young, And love were all that bards have sung — If you were fond, and I were free, Sweet Valentine — whoe'er you be — I fain would break a lance for thee ! 38 I'm Fair Archi ri ss A GORDIAN KNOT HANDKERCHIEF— dropt out, you say. From the receptacle allotted ? Not much if that were all, but stay, This pocket-handkerchief is knotted — There at one end — frail souvenir, Hinting the need of mental tonics; Whence comes the pale preceptor here To iiivc his lesson in mnemonics ? Is it from him whose " un-urned" shade Petitions that, instead of joking, The debt of kinship should be paid To-day at Kensal Green or Woking ? Poor Tom ! you were not much to me, A cousin, twice removed, by marriage, Removed once more by fate's decree — At any rate I'll send the carriage. . . . ( )i -, query, was it " him" at all ? This true-love knot may be a token Of some fair vision I'd recall — Of faithless vows and promise broken ? 5 4' 42 A GORDIAN KNOT. Love's tryst unkept by haunted well. Its sweet forget-me-nots forgotten. . . , Perhaps it's only someone's bill I back'd ? — of course it turned out rotten,- Or hint to pay that bet I owe For views about the Derby winner ; I'd rather much it was to go To Greenwich to a whitebait dinner ? . . . Of pay or play may preach this knot — Of death or duns or love's emotion — I tied it yesterday, but what It means I've not the faintest notion. WANTED AN IDEA. WANT an idea, if you've got it Be pleased to impart on the spot : You'll probably think The idea's for a rink Or a bank or bazaar — but it's not. Not at all ! I disclaim all design On your pockets, past, future or present — Then of course you'll suppose It's a poem or prose, Or a sermon or song — but it isn't. You'd say it was something in art Or in science — that should be, or shouldn't — 'Twould be something that's new, Or at least something true — Something somehow, you know — but it wouldn't No, no! F. R. S. and R. A., My idea isn't what you call savant — Not Tyndall or Phiz — But what the devil it is P'rhaps you've got some idea — for I haven't 43 ANTI-ANTIQUARIAN. O I doat upon " desolate towers ?" I really can't say that I do ; They afford no protection from showers But copious cob-webs and dew. These courts (do you ever play tennis ?) Are Norman ? No, Saxon, I'm sure : That arch Saracenic? — at Venice And Cairo I've seen them before. Let them sleep with their founders below them — The sight of a lot of old stones Won't stop an east wind howling thro' them And chilling one into the bones. My taste doesn't run into gables Or buttresses old as the flood ; I'd rather put faith in " Last Fables" Than the dates of Professor Macmud. " Stone Facts" I believe to be fiction — " Rock Records" afford me no joy, — No, I haven't the least predilection For desolate towers, old boy. 44 FOR SALE, PENSIVE SELIMA. ILL any one bid for a cat ? Whose coat is the softest of silk — Who's sleek and well-liking and fat — And never refuses her milk. Whose mistress no scratcli can aver, Whose master has never been bitten, Who's warranted always to purr, And not to have more than one kitten A cat who will polish off mice And rats till the peep of Aurora — In short who's delightfully nice, A regular first-rate Angora ? 45 A CURL IN A LETTER. LETTER, and a yellow curl, — To call it " sandy" p'raps might rile her- Who's this romantic little girl That's fain to be her own Delilah ? For me I who never cared a rap For rounded waist or taper ankle, — At whom no spinster sets her cap, No Cupid shoots the shafts that rankle ! " My dear — I grieve to make you pout — But still it is imprudent, very, To show'r your golden gifts about In this way on Dick, Tom, and Harry ; 4 6 ' No doubt you've charms you highly prize Or else you'd scarce be Adam's daughter,- There may be death in your blue eyes, But — don't affect promiscuous slaughter." A CI RL IN A LETTER. Well preach'd ! but somehow don't sound nice? — And letters lead to tittle-tattle. . . . I think one ought to give advice Vive voi.x — the tone is half the battle? . . Twould not be hard to match this curl — But should I like its fellow better? . . . . . . You very ycllow-pated girl Who wrote me this romantic letter? OUTSIDE. UST a gleam thro' the darkness The lift of two eyes from a book — A glance, but some glances are heaven. To such eyes 'tis given To make Paradise in a look. Just a face in the lamplight, A hand and some glittering hair, But hearts have been broken it's said And white steel stained red For faces less faultlessly fair. Just a girl in her beauty Her glory of freshness and youth. But what has earth better to sigh for To live for to die for Than innocence beauty and — Ruth ? 48 i M i SIDE." THE BLOATED BIGGAROON. I E bloated Biggaroon, Was so haughty, he would not repose In a house, or a hall, or ces choses, But he slept his high sleep in his clothes — Neath the moon. The bloated Biggaroon, Thinking scorn of effeminate fops Who use knives to dismember their chops, Ate with hands his proud meats, and his slops Without spoon. The bloated Biggaroon Poured contempt upon waistcoat and skirt. Holding swallow-tails even as dirt — So he puff d himself out in his shirt, Like a b'loon. The bloated Biggaroon Scorned to pay a ridiculous race Petty cash — so the race, meanly base, Locked him up in a rather ridiculous place Rather soon. 6 5« UNSUNG SONGS. I. PARFAIT AMOUR. JOU all knew St. Pierre's, with the star in the blind, And Julie, the love-star, that glittered behind ? Chartreuse, Curacoa, Acqua d'Oro, Russie, Grew dim when compared with the smiles of Julie. One day, with his lute and his long flowing hair, Came a minstrel and played, at the Star of St. Pierre, — " What will you please take ?" — stopped the youth in the door — "Oh, give me, dear maiden, some p arj ait amour;" He sighed, as he turned him away from the door, " There's no wine that's so sweet as your parfait amour!" Now morn, noon, and eve, for his glass of liqueur To the Star of St. Pierre came that young troubadour ; And ever his cheek it grew pale as the snow, For the love-light burnt up as the life-light burnt low. But Julie smiled on ; not a blush nor a sigh Played tell-tale to Love when Bertrandie was nigh ; 52 BITTER VERMUTH. And the boy never speaks ; was he rich? was he poor? — He asks but a glass of her patfait amour. Ah, Julie ! tin)' rich, for your sake he is poor, And he dies for one drop of your parfait amour. Months fly — still a youth with his long flowing hair, May be seen drinking wine at the Star of St. Pierre, And Julie-la-belle, whilst his liqueur he sips, Still witches his heart with her eyes and her lips. Such eyes pass not coldly when often they greet — 'Twould be hard that such lips should not manage to meet. Yet I know not, in sooth, if her young troubadour Still sighs to his lute, " Julie, parfait amour/" — If he pines in despair, or, his anguish to cure, She has given him the glass of her parfait amour. ; > II. BITTER VERMUTH. V ANOTHER HAND, i I, prate not to me of your Parfait amour/ Your old maraschino or dry curagoa; Such syrupy fluids are not to my taste, Too honied their flavor too oily* their flow : 54 " OH, IF LIFE WERE A BUMPER." But fill me a draught that my temper will suit — A bumper of bitingly bitter Vermuth. I'm sick of the sugary shams that enchant The ignorant palates of girls and of boys, — The chalk-cover'd comfits, half poison half paint, The pleasures that pall and the sweetness that cloys ; Outside they're as tempting as Dead Sea-shore fruit, Inside — why they're worse than my bitter Vermuth. Then fill to the brim ! and we'll drink to the Fates, The cynical trio who parcel our lives, — Our creditors pledge in the golden-green gall, And whilst we're about it we'll drink to our wives — Let optimists shudder, cry scandal, and hoot, We'll stand to our liquor : Vive bitter Vermuth !. III. "OH, IF LIFE WERE A BUMPER." H, if life were a bumper of glittering wine And death but the bubble that bursts as it wakes, How gladly the magical draught we should drain Like the goblet that sparkles its best as it breaks, — For there's nothing makes joy sparkle up to the brain Like a glorious bumper of golden champagne 1 "OH, IF LIFE WERE A BUMPER." Tis an April-day world that we live in at best, So fleeting the pleasures, so dark arc the cares ; Like a landscape all chequered with shadows and mist, Where a sunbeam is trying to kiss off its tears, — And the sun that best shines off the mists of the brain ts a glorious bumper of golden champagne. Then fill up with glittering wine to the brim — Let it smile like the smile of sweet beauty around, Like a night-star of pleasure at morning's fust beam Some rosy Aurora still waking hath found ; — And the last and best toast that in brimmers we'll drain Is a glorious bumper of golden champagne! 55 HUNTING A "SLIPPER." IS there any one can tell a Fellow what's become of Bella ! (She's an angel that I've spotted With a pig-tail) . . . Stay — I've got it . Fifty pardons . . . Why that's not it ? Yet this is the corner where She " inhabits ?" — that's her chair — Here's her card with my name in it : Ices ? ha, that must have been it, She'll be back in half a minute : She'll return with all her graces — With the exquisest of faces — Would have driven wild a Lawrence, — Figure makes one feel abhorrence Of the Venuses of Florence. Shames the Venus of Canova, Knocks the Capitolian over, Might have made a Milo jealous — Such a foot and hand are Bella's! — Twice as nice as Cinderella's. . . . 56 HUNTING A " SI. I ITER ." And the last step out I'll teach her, Beaming Love in every feature, Blushing when soft whispers reach her, Answ'rin^ shyly, " ask my mother" * Jove ! she's dancing with another ! ! : r. , THE BUTTERFLY CHAINED. HEN my years were gay eighteen Rumor says that I've been seen Oft disporting on the green Mid the bow'rs, Now enraptured with the rose Now entranced by lily's snows Or coquetting with a nose- gay of fiow'rs. There are charms I must admit Tn thus playing the coquette — In this light conter fleurette Everywhere, From the Picnic to the " hop" — At Swan & Edgar's shop, Or sitting on the top Ball-room stair. 58 In those days it's been averred That my giddy pulse was stirr'd THE BUTTERFLY CHAINED. By a -lance or by a word Shot at me, — Now such beatings arc misplaced For my heart is locked and laced And my I )aisy .it her waist Keeps the key ! QUACK! QUACK!! QUACK!!! First Patient. H, doctor dear make haste ! Give me something nice to taste- I'm bent like a ball With what you may call A headache in the waist. First Quack. I'll give you a box of Pills — They cure all earthly ills — Take ten at a time You'll find it sublime — (If it doesn't cure it kills.) Second Patient. Oh, doctor I shall die ! I've just poked out my eye — It's black as a nigger And five times bigger Than the biggest gooseberry pie ! 60 Q ( : l CK I 'J UAi A' .'.' Q LA ' K III (, \ Sei OND < >UACK. I give you a splendid LOTION, (What it docs I haven't a notion Keep mopping it fast You'll find out at last The plan of perpetual motion. Third Patient. 1 I dp doctor dear, I b< I want screwing up a " peg" — I happened to fall 1 1 1 »m the top of St. Paul And fractured my dexter leg! Third Quack. I'll give you an OlNTMENT of power — You'll rub it in for an hour — ( If you fancy it two — It's amusing for you And won't hurt — it's tallow and flour). Chorus of Quacks and Patients. This world's all take and give, One dies that t'other may live, And fools for knaves Drop into their graves As sand drops through a sieve ! A FINE OLD BUSTER. |Y neighbor Claptinbank is worth a pot, And naturally feels he sheds a lustre On the whole human family — he's what I call a fine old Buster. Respectable as even three per cents., Broad as his lands and boundless as his lunches ; His waist was once as slender as his rents — It now resembles Punch's. Madame is round and sound, but cheery most, With pleasant kindly ways good-nature taught her, I would all mother-ladyships could boast As nice a little daughter ! . . . I married Maud — about this time last year — And now think Claptinbank can well pass muster; Why is it, tho', he can't endure to hear Me call him " fine old Buster?" 2 ^Ata**s\-VES me — he loves me not" — Ah, golden Margaret ! Tell me, then, has he got Truth in his heart or not, Love in his heart or what ? — Coitcr fieurette. Ah, tell me true, I pray, Gentle white Margarel What does my lover say Now he is far away, Where do his glances stray — Is it at Maud or May? — Center fieurette. 1 have a fear full sore. Weary, my Margaret, — That he has taken more Than he gave ten times o'er, Loit'ring by lattice door, Listing the streamlet's pour, Ling'ring on sunset shore — ( 'onter fieurette. WITH THE HORSE "WHITE MIST.'* HE sequel of to-day dissevers all This fellowship of straight riders, and hard men To hounds — the flyers of the hunt . . . I think That we shall never more in days to come Hold cheery talk of hounds and horses, each Praising his own the most, — shall steal away Through brake and coppice-wood, or side by side Breast the sharp bullfinch and deep-holding dyke, Sweep through the uplands, skim the vale below, And leave the land behind us like a dream. Farewell to all ! to the brave sport I loved — Though Paget sware that I should ride again — But yet I think I shall not; I have done : My hunt is hunted : I have skimmed the cream, The blossom of the seasons, and no more For me shall gallant Scott have cause for wrath, Or injured Smallpiece mourn his wasted crops. * Lines sent to the late Charles Buxton, M.l'., with a favorite horse, on the author giving np hunting owing to an accident in the hunting field. 76 //7/7/ THE HORS1: •• WHITE MIST. 77 Now, therefore, take my horse, which was my pride (For still thou know'st he bore me like a man — ), And wheel him not, nor plunge him in the mere, lint set him straight and give his head the rein. And he shall bear thee lightly to the front, Swifter than wind, and stout as truest steel, And none shall rob thee of tin- pride of place. - MUSICAL UNDERTONES. ERR BELLOWS won't you sing ? (Or rather won't you roar? — ) I should like so to accompany you — (As far as the street door) . . . Miss Squeals will take her part In that charming duette by Meyer, With Signor Buffo ? (that's two at a go, I wish I could do them "en choir") . . . Lord Whooper sings I know (Too well ! and always flat) What an exquisite air — (for a dirge on the stair ! Assisted by the cat) . . . Shan't we hear your voice, madame ? (Be thanked! she's a cold in the head — ) Pray pity our loss — (what a fool I was ! She's going to " play instead") . . . " Encore !" (oh, I can't stand this — They're going it, hammer and tongs : Confound them all ! I'll go out in the hall And leather away at the gongs !) 78 A DAISY CHAIN. I I I white-rose decks the breast of May, The red-rose smiles in [une, Yet autumn chills and winter kills And leaves their stems alone ; Ah, swiftly dies the garden's pride Whose sleep no waking knows, — But my love she is the daisy That all the long year grows. The early woods are gay with green, The fields are prankt with gold, But fair must fade and green hi- grayed Before the year is old ; The blue-bell hangs her shining head. No more the oxslip blows, — But my love she is the daisy That all the long year grows. Still deck, wild woods, your mantle green, All meads bright jewels wear, 9 8o A DAISY CHAIN. Let showers of Spring fresh violets bring And sweetness load the air ; Whilst Summer boasts her roses red And March her scented snows, — My love be still the daisy, And my heart whereon she grows. ON r.IKiSTS By A M \ I IK I A 1. 1ST. UON'T go much for ghosts — altho 1 no doubt Humanitarians feci a predilection For such " leave-ticket" gentry, loose about In history and fiction ; — Familiar spirits, loved but never lost! Like that vex'd shade in Corsica's twin Brothers, Or in Macbeth, Don Juan, Hamlet, Faust. And half a hundred others: Of which, N. B., not half are ghosts at all, But nondescripts defying diagnosis Tho' Mrs. Crowe herself the list should call Of each metempsychosis. Faust's Mephistopheles who filch'd his soul Was just a "psychic" with a kleptomania. (In this resembling Oberon — who stole The changeling of Titania — ) 81 82 ON GNOSIS: Ondine's a " Nymph," who wanted to be kissed And didn't, both at once, case not uncommon, — And, barring liquids, it must be confessed A rather nice young woman : Ariel's a puzzle, or has always been To me — altho' the part plays neatly, very, — But then it's only fair to add I've seen It acted by Kate Terry : Avenel's White Lady of the Fountain grieved Because the girdle at her waist grew shorter, Proving herself, if Scott's to be believed, No ghost of Adam's daughter: Witches aren't ghosts, or ghosts still in the flesh, Altho' they ride on broomsticks over ditches ; And this being thus, the point that's raised afresh Is to know which is witches ? A Sylphide's what — 1 know not — not a miss — Nor fragile Peri from a rose-leaf sipping, Mermaids and Naiads wear a charming dress But run too much to dripping. /.' ) / MATERIALIST. 83 Then there's the Dry-ad, just by way of chanj Brownie and Banshee, Troll — but he's a wood-fellow,- Fays, Elves, and Sprites who toadstool rings arrang And Puck or Robin Goodfellow; — Kelpie and Kobold, Wraith, and Spook, and Pix, Hobgoblin, Imp, and things of smaller matter, Not worth invoking — Bogie, Gnome, and Nix, " Hyperion to a Satyr.'' . . . And still they come! they come before I call — Indeed, I'd no idea so vast their bulk was. Adieu, sweet friends! give me, if ghosts at all Ghosts solid — as Fitzfulk was. POSTSCRIPT TO GHOSTS. r seems that after all there've been left out Some " most respectables," to favor brevity The apparitions mean to make it hot For treating them with levity. A Siren hints I must have lost my eyes, A Harpy kindly lets me know I'm "wanted," A Houri threatens me with Paradise, A Hag with being haunted. If this were all I might p'raps " chance the ducks" But there's a Vampyre making frightful faces ; A Ghoul has routed all my guardian Pucks And offers its embraces. . . . So there, — now, let's make peace! — But when all's done These kind won't " act" with Edmund Phelps or Fechter, At least your genuine Ghost has got some fun, The real Shakspearian Spectre. x 4 POSTSCRIPT TO GHOSTS. S5 The King of Denmark was a gallant soul Fresh run from Styx, and lively as a samlet, (Twas Hamlet's uncle murder'd the "old mole," Ami Fechter murder'd 1 1. unlet.) But still the shade was honester than most, And what he owed his brother came and paid him. As for Macbeth — but stay, he's not a ghost, Or Irving would have laid him ! . . . And so adieu, sweet friends — going, going, gone I I have enshrined you in a splendid ditty, And won't be haunted more by any one — Unless they're young and pretty. A REPLY TO BIRTHDAY STANZAS. EAR poet of the playful pen, Who fling'st thy rhyme in airy wreath And graceful cadence of sweet breath Upon the graceless sons of men — Be sure the fairy flowers you twine, With bud and bloom and scented sweets, Warm from the kindest heart that beats, Will shed a fragrance over mine. Not often is life's past complete, And seldom can tlr auspicious fete That tells him he is thirty-eight To man be altogether sweet. But tho' my sun has well-nigh set, One ray across the gathering night Has cast a fair and lingering light That gilds the horizon yet. 86 I.ahy 'Bell's Ca i i < iii-m." LADY 'BELL'S CATECHISM. I [AT arc your " load-stars," sir? — " My Bella's eyes:" And what's the sweetest of "sweet air?" — "Her sighs :" Where does the " bee suck ?" — " From her honied lip, (Wish I'd the luck, just a rewarding sip !") Who "smiles and smiles," and not one false? — " My sweet:" What look as if they " dreamt a valse ?" — " Her feet :" What is her arm? — A " wreath as moonlight fair:" Her hand, " so white, so warm ?" — " A sceptre rare — (The only rule to which I bow, my pet!") Stuff! pay attention now, and don't forget : — Where is the " glass of fashion ?" — " In her eye !" . . . (You'll put me in a passion if you try! — ) What is the " mould of form," then ? — " Bella's bonnet :" (Good gracious ! Tom, I think you're sitting on it !) . . . What is " each changeful fancy's sport?" — " The moon :" It's nothing of the sort, you know — " A spoon :" What's " changeless yet; tho' all should turn away" . . . (Hullo ! this grass is getting damp, I say — ) A " thing of beauty and a joy," what is it, tell ? — " My loved and loving lovely lady Bell !" 10 89 MAYFAIR ON SKATES. {Recitative. Allegro.) JO you think the ice is safe, Mr. Beard? — I'm sure I shall never be able to stand — A chair? (he wants to put me off with a chair!) thank you, but I think I should prefer a hand . . . Oh, please don't let me go ! I shall fall — I know I shall — I feel I must — O dear ! . . . I told you so ! — and — oh, Mr. Beard, I'm so ashamed, I really didn't mean to pull your hair! Chorus. For here we fall And there we sprawl, — This bumping is pernicious ; Yet Charley swears And Blanche declares That skating's quite delicious ! Thank you so much — I hope I've not tired you . . . light, am I ? I'm sure I feel like lead ; (It's very kind of him to say he's not a bit tired, but he looks half dead) — 90 MA YFAIR ON SKATES. ►1 Getting on awfully fast? — Yes, dreadfully! I feel I couldn't stop myself to save my life — And here's Lord Dash towing Lady I), backwards like a lightning conductor, or a pilot engine with a wife, — He'll be over us in half a minute! — can't somebody manage to tch me ? — Ada, elf! . . . Was there ever! . . . hurt myself did you say, sir? No, sir, I did not hurt myself/ . . . He'll scatter someone else directly — look, I told you so — there's Constance down and there goes Fanny Flop, And Katy, and Ada with her "ice wings," and the three Mi>s Maypoles, and huge Mrs. MacAnak at the top: Why can't the man look where he's going to, or skate forwards like other people, I should like to know? — He's bowling them over like ninepins, and, oh hurrah ! I declare he's bowled himself over at last into a great heap of snow ! Chorus. For here we slip And there we trip In moments too ambitious Yet Blanche declares And Charley swears That skating's quite delicious! 9 2 MA YFAIR ON SKA TES. The Lancers ? What on skates ? Of all things ! — wouldn't it be jolly? Richard can dance with me, and I'll introduce you to my country cousin Polly : Rather have me? No, would you? I thought you'd like better to have danced with her ; Only Polly always goes wrong in the Grand Chain and Dick systematically refuses to stir. . . . Can't somebody whistle? — They'll never get on like this — but we'll finish it in spite of spites, — What's stopping us now ? Oh it's the girl with the pretty feet again wanting her skate straps put to rights ; — And pray what are you about, sir ? New Lancer step ? Non- sense, it's nothing of the sort, I know, It's spread-" addle," or " eagle," or something, but you've fairly settled the "set," and I believe that's what you wanted to do- So we'll go and cut some " eights," shall we ? or " threes back ?' ; (Yes, I know your stupid joke about my " backward roll,") Or make a voyage of discovery to the furthest ice, like Captain Cook or Franklin when they got to the top of North Pole ! Chorus. For here we slide And there we glide M.l YFA1R ON SKA 11 S. 1 ho 1 Ma may look suspicii A fall or two 1 >on't matter a sou, And skating IS delicious! V J '<> THE "MATRIMONIAL NEWS." YEAR ago with pockets full My steps would often range, To do a modest " bear" or "bull" From Grub Street to th' Exchange ; Sometimes my glance was golden-hued — Sometimes I'd got the blues, — But smile or frown Could not put down The " Matrimonial News." " I say, sir ! Marry ! Want a wife ?" " The Devil !"— " Here you are !- " Just only buy the 'News and try"- " Be off!"—" a penny!!" . . . "bah!!!' And now, you know, I'm really wed,- Perhaps I took the hint ? — At all events I'm fairly rid Of that obnoxious print ; •>4 THE "MATRIMONIAL NEWS" For since the hour I said " I will," All note the brats refuse, No youthful tout now spreads me out The " Matrimonial News." It can't be in my cut of coats, — I'm not increasing fat, — I still wear Hoby-Humby's boots And Lincoln-Bennett's hat, And thro' a single eye-glass squint The most benignant views ; — Hut frown or smile I can't beguile The " Matrimonial News ! ' t%&$$X PINCHER. AREWELL — sleep soft ! whilst over mosses grow, Kindest of all thy race was ever seen; Some tears are thine, some drops of long adieu From hearts where still thy memory shall be green. II. Farewell ! — but oh ! how often did'st thou lay A soft head and brown eyes upon my breast, Nestling and sighing deep, as if to say " I love, I love you — master think the rest !" III. Companion both and terror of my gun, Who all inapt, yet ardent for the chase, Plunged in the crackling marsh when snipe was down Spurr'd by ambitions alien to thy race ; IV. Or else, when bluebells rang thro' woods of May Girt by the winding stream where alders nod, How would'st thou drive th' amphibious foe to bay Dripping and panting like some river god. . . . 96 PINCHER. Farewell! farewell! and yet one last caress, Old comrade, friend, for truer ne'er can be ; Whose faults were only virtues in excess, Whose virtues faultless — there's a star for thee! 1 1 NEXT MORNING. F some one's head's not very bright At least the owner bears no malice . Who was it pulled my nose last night, And begged an interview at Calais ? The quarrel was not much, I think, For such a deadly arbitration, — Some joke about the " missing link" And all the rest inebriation. In vino Veritas I which means A man's a very ass in liquor; The " thief that slowly steals our brains" Makes nothing but the temper quicker. 98 Next morning brings a train of woes, But finds the passions much sedater— Who was it, now, that pulled my nose?- I'd better go and ask the waiter. DAISY'S DIGIT. FINGER with the circlet slight, That keeps it warm and cosy, Wee winsome third left-handed doight So white and warm and rosy, — More taper dibits there may be, More lips may kiss and cling on, This tiny finger's best to me — The one I put the ring on. Some fingers may perhaps proclaim A precedence of status, To point the shaft of praise or blame ( )r scorn at those that hate us : Lay down the law, you counsel small ! — Your barbed arrows string on ! To me this finger's best of all — The one I put the ring on. My finger has not worked a bit In calligraphics dainty, The busy thimble dares not fit The type of Suzerainty, — >> IOO DAISYS DIGIT. Such weapons of bewild'ring art I have no wit to sing on, This fairy finger holds my heart— The one I put the ring on. LONDON'S "SUEZ CANAL." 1 [AT pretty girls one sees about! At rink and race, at ball and rout, At drums and dinners, - In books, where /Enids find Geraints, In pictures Mr. Millais paints, In church — I'm fond of such young saints and sinners. A score at least one's sure to meet From Charing Cross to Oxford Street, Or climbing hilly St. James's, where of clubdom sick, Old fogeys voted at old Nick Fond glances turn at 4 towards Pic- -cadilly. Muse favored haunt of all that's gay ! Whose every stone has had its day Of loves and graces ! Your triumphs many a bard can tell, Fred Locker sings them passing well, I know you bear away the bell for faces. 101 IG 2 LONDON'S "SUEZ CANAL." Along your Strand converging flow The social tides to Rotten Row, Beloved and shady ; Old Gouty trundles with his " pair," De Boodle saunters, cane in air — And wonders who's that golden hair- 'd young lady? . . . But whether gold or black or gray- Fashion decrees her slaves shall say The dernier gout is, You bear your motley freightage well, And East and West your convoys swell,- A sort of cockneyfied canal of Suez ! A neutral " cut," where every man's A vessel bound to pay the trans- -it dues and duty, — Dues stricter than e'er Lesseps took, Love's tribute levied on a look — And duly noted in the book of Beauty. /.o.YDON'S "SI 1 /. CANAL. And now, whilst ice enwraps you still And snow's on Constitution Hill — Like some old Pharaoh, Sun-shaded mid the fervent rays, I bask away the balmy days And write these verses to your praise in Cairo. Across the desert ridges high Long lines of camels track the sky, The pink lights flicker, — The day has done his golden race — The Mussulman kneels in his place, The pilgrim turns his patient face to Mecca. . . . All here's aglow with summer sun — Tkerehugs black frost his mantle dun In winter chilly : Yet could I stand on Simla's desk And westward — ere this watch's tick ( )ld England ho! for me, and Pic- -cadilly ! A POCKET VENUS." ABEL isn't quite fifteen, She's just like some dolls I've seen — Could they mischief mean us ; Two red lips my doll has got, Eyes like blue forget-me-not, Flaxen ringlets — such a lot ! — May's my pocket Venus. May has got a figure fine Tho' she says her boots are " nine /" — That's a joke between us, — She's a foot outruns the breeze, Killing ankles if you please, You should see her climbing trees ! May, my pocket Venus. In abbreviated frock That would Mrs. Grundy shock, Had she only seen us, — Tripping, dancing like a fay, Playing hide and seek — some day I should like to hide away Altogether charming May As my pocket Venus ! 104 \T \ u \ *t Ml 1 n -"" 13 ^ 1 n I f ,, t ) ***> *r /> 1 h '_ . ■ , ' ! ■ ■ '■ A POCKE1 \'i THE COMING R VCE. OOK back, look back ! a hundred years — The retrospect is funny; Men-kind, the puppets of an hour, Monopolizing place and pow'r, And spending all the money. Now ladies of creation sit Like gods of ancient story, Arranging all sub-lunar things, With lady-popes and lady-kings, And lady-judge and jury. One privilege to man is left — The privilege of earning The dross that pays the weekly bills — All hints beside of former ills We pride ourselves on spurnin< ^- The chain that once we used to hug We now agree to hate ; No skirts our tameless ankles vex, No ringlets stigmatize the sex, Nor bonnets — pas si bete ! 12 I07 io 8 THE COMING RACE. A slightly classic style of dress, Is quite preferred, you know, Not absolutely statuesque, But like the heroes of burlesque, A century ago. Blacks, grays, and drabs are out of date, We fancy livelier hues ; The modest crimson silk looks neat, Or sky-blue velvet tout en suite, With pearl-bespangled shoes. The men would fain affect our style As far as they were able ; Of course that could not be endured, Their peacock-ships we quickly cured, And toned them down to sable ! Our parliament decreed besides, What seemed a little harsh — On pain of death no male should wear A quizzing-glass or short-cropped hair, Beard, whiskers, or moustache. THE COMING K.\< I Malt, Imps, to brew they were forbid, Nor pipes allowed to carry ; Cigars and brandy lead to debts, And everything but cigarettes And claret, to old 1 [any. At first they tried the fixed balloons, And smoked upon the quiet; But when we cut the ropes adrift, And left the aeronauts to shift They almost raised a riot. And what a howl the creatures made. As if they'd all got rabies, When mothers ruled it was the chic That fathers should in future stick At home and mind the bahi It's not to be supposed that we Could drudge in toil domestic When daily we attend debate — Law, Physic, ami the Pulpit wait Our presences majestic. . . . no THE COMING RACE. And that reminds me to indite My " pastoral" on Hades . . Does it exist ? Where can it be ? Not where the state is truly free.- N.B. That is for ladies. TWO LETTERS. BRACE of letters— one by far Too black, and one with silver label ; I'll toss for which shall have the pas — Black wins! conic then my friend in sable. . * * * * Run down at last ? Ten years ago He plucked with me the tree of knowledge, Was " pluckt" for the same " little go" And rowed in the same eight at College. Poor Charley ! once so frank and fn But duns and doctors did their killing ; I think I heard he could not pay At last even the proverbial shilling. The pauper's pound : now Death squares all, From debt or duns no more gainsayment, — I lent him fifty, and must call To-day at Woking for repayment! * * * * 1 1 1 j I2 TWO LETTERS. Let's hope there's something livelier here — These silver trimmings hint a wedding, I almost fancy I could swear An orange-blossom odor's spreading. . . . What Blanche mignonne ! my fairy friend ! And who may be the lucky fellow ? Next week your pretty pranks must end ? — Some score will have to wear the willow. I wonder if you mean to bid Each former victim of your graces To see their fickle tyrant wed ? If so they'll want a lot of places. There was a time I might have been Averse to render such assistance, — But you've forgot our tiff since then, And I'd forgotten your existence! VENL vim. vici. N unfledged heiress in her 'teens, And worth a " plum" they say ; With charms to move an anchorite — The Duke made running at first sight, But didn't seem to " stay" — / mean to-night to wire in. No " waiting" business — run to win — You know my slashing way, The veni, vidi, vici style, Short, sharp, decisive, eh ? . . . * * * * * * It's all U. P., old boy, — I'm done ! Could laugh if 'tweren't for spite ; — " Unfledged," indeed ! — an old coquette ! She'll teach them all confer fleuretfes t And confer scalps, the kite ! She's up to every move that's out, Knows when to sigh and smile and pout And " plays" you as you'd play a trout — The more fool I to bite! 1 1 ! , 4 VENI, VIDI, VI CI. At first she seemed to like the pace And answered to the bit, Blushed when I praised her twinkling feet, Whilst her two eyes grew dark and sweet — Green eyes with mischief lit, — " I'm like a grape from the rich South, (They said) to drop into your mouth — Why don't you open it ?" . . . Ah, les yeux verts, les yeux d'enfer ! — The artful doll-faced chit ! I clasped her jewelled hand in mine And through the gallop flew, Her yielding waist my arm compressed, Her whispered words almost caressed, — " Please hold me tighter, so" — . . . Then led her drooping to a seat (Here the scene changed, you know). I whispered " hearts are more than gold !" (Now for a lucky fluke !) She said " so I've been often told," " Then hear me swear to all I hold" — She smiled—" I think I won't !" (One effort more to wire in) " You do not care for me a pin !" She laughed — " of course I don't !" 17:.\7, VID1, / /< I. I I Then gently yawning — "There's mama Is looking for me — thanks — ta-ta !" — And left me speechless, plante la, — - I'.S.i The minx has hooked the Duke. -■ V A FABLE WITH A MORAL. WAKEN snakes !" a herald cried, " Attend to what I say ; The bearer of a mandate, sent To call a general parliament — Oyez ! oyez ! ! oyez ! ! ! " A congress of all rattlesnakes Whom indignation pales, That we alone of serpent kind An instrument of torture find Appended to our tails. " An instrument that signal gives To every snake-molester ; That warns mankind to clear the course And often wakens up per force Ourselves from our siesta. " It makes us all look white and wan Thus robbed of peaceful slumber ; It's neither useful that we find, Nor ornamental, to our mind, And serves but to encumber. 116 ./ FABLE WITH A MORAL. \ \-j " Wherefore ... a Parliament is fixed By croctalistic usance, To legislate upon the point I [ow to curtail this caudal joint And remedy the nuisance." * * * * The day was set, the serpents met Prepared for wordy battle ; They met — alas ! no single word By clerk or congress could be heard But one stupendous rattle ! TWENTY-ONE TO-MORROW. OU are young; I'm getting old, Cara Mia ! In the glass when I behold Touched locks in contrasted fold, Mine are gray, and yours are gold, Cara Mia. Twenty — forty ! that's the score, Cara Mia. One to two, a trifle o'er — Why weren't you a decade more ? Why am I not twenty-four, Cara Mia? Twice your age ! no time to say, "Cara Mia;" Doubled years make short delay. . . . Happy thought ! after to-day Can't again be double, eh, Cara Mia? ii8 A [APANESE PUZZLE ITTLE So-sli has an almond eye And a foot that's fit for the graces, She's pearls in her lips, and her finger-tips Determined by golden cases. Her cousin, you know, is little So-slo, {So fast more correct — less idyllic) Her mouth's a red rose, and as for her nose It's celestial and therefore angelic. The worst of it is — for So-sli's a quiz, And So-slo would plague her own brother When for mischief inclined — I can't make up my mind If it's this one I like or the other. i') 120 A JAPANESE PUZZLE. You can choose with more ease, from the cut, if you please, Tho' you'll hardly get love for your labors, But if all Japanese are as pretty as these It's provoking we aren't nearer neighbors ? UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. ttECD 10-URC MAY 3 1 1986 RECD UMI* NOV 1919^6 Form L9-100m-9,'52(A3105)444 Pennell — 5167 ^e.^bisus re-saddledl P33p PR 5167 P33p KSoONAL AA 000 371007 •■' : mm%m^^mm%Mmm;