The cauldron is steaming, the lobster cooked to a turn. The Jack scrambled goose stands at my shoulder, Oh vile Type Setter, I am at thy mercy. A certain man, a friend of mine from Oshkosh suggests I should gather, all my bugs into one volume.

          The said Guy from Oshkosh—a clever fellow by the way,—he has a brother in Brooklyn who can play the flute. Well—I have taken his advice. Good! I have arranged my eyelids. I have gone over my scrap book, collected all the bugs into one fold. For the benefit of those interested, I herein state that the bugs in the picture are genuine, all those darling vinegerones! The last one died yesterday, poor little Archibald, I never can forget him. I also wish to inform the Reader that the famous tree of Nax is still standing on the banks of the Sax. Pax pax. The tree is in a good state of preservation, the pride of the entire countryside. If the fellow in the next room would only can that flute. If the Tooter would only toot elsewhere, far, far away. They tell me that the flute is the grandfather of the fife. That brings me to the poor Rube who went dippy over the loss of his fife. My sympathies have always been with him and against the wife with the blistered heel. I am trying to scribble this in the heart of Greenwich village. My cosmos is all beclouded by the demoniac howls of "Hudson Dusters." They are hanging a man to a lamp-post on the corner. Those "Hudson Dusters" almost rival the famous "Flying Angels" of Ballarat, making my heart revert to dear old Australia. Oh for a change! Oh for the quiet of Billingsgate, or the shady side of Epping Forest where I might gaze on our old Baronial Hall of Saffron Walden.

          Be still my heart, be still! Ne Vile Vilis. I must do my level best—I always try to do so, whether at the frozen plains of far off Manitoba, or the cactus-laden banks of the Rio Grande. Oh my Ukulele! Oh the Dead March from Saul! Have just had it arranged for the banjo. Expect fine results. Dear friends, the lobster's gizzard is well done, the lobscouse just right, the bugs ready to serve. Oh that banana peel, I see thee in time. At last I am free. I avoid all pitfalls. The Type Setter, the Jack Scrambled goose is at my elbow.

          RICHARD GRIFFIN.

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