* * * * *

[Illustration: _Mother._ "SO YOU'RE THE BOTTOM BOY OF YOUR CLASS. AREN'T
YOU ASHAMED OF YOURSELF?"

_Peter._ "BUT, MOTHER, IT'S NOT MY FAULT. THE BOY WHO'S ALWAYS BOTTOM IS
AWAY ILL."]

* * * * *

FIRST LINES.

After having spent an hour or so with WORDSWORTH'S sonnets I found my head
so full of his sonorous adjuratory music that when in the middle of the
night I woke as usual--from three to four is the worst time--my wooing of
reluctant sleep took on a new fashion, and instead of repeating verses I
made them. But I only once proceeded farther than the first line. Anybody
who finds pleasure in poetic pains may add the other thirteen; to me such a
task would savour of bad luck. Here, however, are some of my brave
Rydalesque beginnings, with titles:--

_To the ASSISTANT CONTROLLER of FOOD, wishing him success._

JONES, who wouldst keep potatoes for the poor--

_To the Ex-PREMIER, now in very active retirement._

ASQUITH, till recently our honoured head--