At the might of Sir GOLF, the Red Knight of the Links.

But her Champion, Sir TENNIS, the Knight of the Lawn,
At the throne of the lady who loves him bows low:
He fears not the fight, for his racket is drawn,
And he spurs his great steed as he charges the foe.
And the sound of his war-cry is heard in the din,
"Fifteen, thirty, forty, deuce, vantage, I win!"

But the Red Knight, Sir GOLF, smiles a smile that is grim,
And a flash as of triumph has mantled his cheek;
And he shouts, "I would scorn to be vanquished by _him_,
With my driver, my iron, my niblick and cleek.
Now, TENNIS, I have thee; I charge from the Tee,
To the deuce with thy racket, thy scoring, and thee!"

And the ladies all cry, "Oh, Sir TENNIS, our own,
Drive him back whence he came to his bunkers and gorse."
And the men shake their heads, for Sir TENNIS seems blown,
There are cracks in his armour, and wounds on his horse.
But the Umpire, Sir PUNCH, as he watches says, "Pooh!
Let them fight and be friends; _there is room for the two_."

* * * * *

A LAMB-LIKE GAMBOL.

Some little time ago we noticed with great satisfaction, that the
Committee of the Sunday School Union had advertised in the _Athenæum_
for the "best Tale on Gambling," for which they were anxious to