And I hear "Seasons, please!"
Shouted in warning:
Pockets I search in vain
All through and through again;
"Pray do not stop the train--
Lost it this morning.
No, I have not a card,
Nor can I pay you, Guard--
Truly my lot is hard,
This is the reason,
Now I recall to mind
Changing my clothes, I find
I left them all behind,--
Money, cards, 'Season.'"

* * * * *

WRITTEN A HUNDRED YEARS HENCE.

(_FROM A COLLECTION OF COMMUNICATIONS SUPPLIED BY OUR PROPHETIC
COMPILER._)

DEAR MR. PUNCH,--Pray protect the Griffin! Those Goths and Vandals,
the Members of the Corporation of the City of London, will remove it,
unless you intervene. This beautiful work of Art, that stands on the
supposed site of the mythical Temple Bar, is to come down. What would
our ancestors say if they were here? Would they not frown at their
degenerate descendants? Every student of history knows that this
Griffin was put up by universal consent, and considered one of the
finest works of art of the nineteenth century. As, indeed, it was.