Hail! Goddess of battle,
Yet hated of Ma(r)s,
How ceaseless their tattle
Of tumbles and scars!
Such warnings are vain,
For thy rites we prepare,
Youth is yearning again
In thy perils to share.
Broken limbs and black eyes,
May, perchance, be our lot;
But grant goals and ties
And we care not a jot.
Too sacred to name
With thy posts, ball, and field,
There is no winter game
To which thou canst yield.
* * * * *
NEW TRANSLATION--"VERY CHOICE ITALIAN,"--"_Sotto voce_;" i.e., in a
drunken tone of voice.
* * * * *
AN EN-NOBBLING SPECTACLE!
_BEING SOME ACCOUNT OF THE PRODIGAL DAUGHTER OF DRURY LANE._
CHAPTER I.--_THE TEA-URN OF THE HUNTER._
SIR JOHN HENRY NEVILLE WOODMERE was the most considerate of men, and
he had a very considerate family, and a large circle of considerate
acquaintances. He was obliging to the last degree, Among those he
knew, and to whom he owed a deep debt of gratitude (for they had
furnished him with an old family mansion, a stud of racers, and passes
for himself and circle to Paris) were AUGUSTE LE GRAND, and HENRI LE
PETTITT.
[Illustration: Voluptuary, carrying weight, winning the Great
Metropolitan Drury Lane Stakes. Everybody up.]
"My good friend," said HENRI, "your daughter is charming.
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