I see your sleek muzzle in front! It will puzzle
Your critics, my boy, to pick holes in you then:
There's howling "HISTORICUS,"--he's but a sorry cuss!
WEG, too, that grandest of all grand old men;
He's ridden some races; of chances and paces,
Of crocks _versus_ cracks he did ought to be judge.
He sees you are speedy; when MORLEY sneers "Weedy,"
Or LAB doubts your staying, WEG knows it's all fudge!

We're biding our time, lad. Your fettle is prime, lad;
Though we're frost-bound now, open weather must come,
At least after Easter; and, beauty, _when_ we stir.
And forge to the front, lad, we'll just make things hum.
In spite of much ruction concerning Obstruction,
I wish--_in a whisper_--we'd started before,
And, forcing the running, discarding all cunning,
Romped in--_as we will_--'midst a general roar!

[Footnote 1: ADAM LINDSAY GORDON, the ardent, horse-loving Australian
poet.]

* * * * *

MORE IBSENITY.

_Ghosts_ at the Royalty. "Alas, poor Ghosts!" A shady piece. "No money
taken at the doors" on this occasion, which is making a virtue of
necessity. This being the case, _Ghosts_ was, and if played again
will, be witnessed by an audience mainly composed of "Deadheads."
Lively this. The Critics have spoken out strongly, and those