O Willow, Tit-willow, Tit-willow!"

Now his poor little cheeks had grown haggard and thin,
O Willow, Tit-willow, Tit-willow!
And his self was a shadow of what it had been,
O Willow, Tit-willow, Tit-willow!
"By the kind Mr. Powell last year was I fed
With a cocoanut stuck on a stick," so he said,
"And without this again I shall shortly be dead,
O Willow, Tit-willow, Tit-willow!"

So he gathered an army who twittered all day
"O Willow, Tit-willow, Tit-willow!"
But a cocoanut soon made them all cease to say
"O Willow, Tit-willow, Tit-willow!"
And the truth of my story you must not assail,
For the dear old _Spectator_ has published the tale.
Though those who will read it can scarcely well fail
To say "Willow, Tit-willow, Tit-willow!"

* * * * *

"The Passing of Arthur."--After _Ivanhoe_, Sir Arthur Sullivan's new
Opera, has appeared at Mr. D'OYLY CARTE's new theatre, the Knightly
and Daily Composer will rest his musical brain for a year, and will
place his Savoy throne at the disposal of Prince Edward Solomon,
direct descendant of the wisest monarch ever known save for one
amiable weakness. The successor to King Arthur has plenty of "Savoy
Faire," and a good choice has been made. The Carte will now be drawn
along merrily enough, and, no doubt, it will be a brilliant time when