The poor patient at Slocum-on-Slush moaned. He had been practically
awake for a month, and nothing could send him to sleep. The Doctor held
his wrist, and as he felt the rapid beats of his pulse became graver and
graver.
"And you have no friends, no relatives?"
"No. My only visitor was the man who brought that box of books from a
metropolitan library."
"A box of books!" exclaimed the Doctor. "There may yet be time to save
his life!"
The man of science rose abruptly, and approaching the casket containing
the current literature of the day, roughly forced it open. He hurriedly
inspected its contents. He turned over the volumes impatiently until he
reached a set.
"The very thing!" he murmured. "If I can but get him to read this he
will be saved." Then turning to his patient he continued, "You should
peruse this novel. It is one that I recommend in cases such as yours."
"I am afraid I am past reading," returned the invalid. "However, I will
do my best."
An hour later the Doctor (who had had to make some calls) returned and
found that his patient was sleeping peacefully. The first volume of
_Douglas the Doomed One_ had the desired result.
"Excellent, excellent," murmured the medico. "It had the same effect
upon another of my patients. The crisis is over! He will now recover
like the other. Insomnia has been conquered for the second time by
_Douglas the Doomed One_, and who now shall say that the three-volume
novel of the amateur is not a means of spreading civilisation? It must
be a mine of wealth to somebody."
And Messrs. BINDING AND PRINT, had they heard the Doctor's remark,
would have agreed with him!
* * * * *
All the Difference.
"THE SPEAKER then called Mr. LITTLE to order."
Quite right in our wise and most vigilant warder.
He calls us to order! Oh that, without fuss,
The SPEAKER could only call Order to us!
* * * * *
[Illustration: RES ANGUSTA DOMI.
(_In a Children's Hospital._)
"MY PORE YABBIT'S DEAD!"
"HOW SAD!"
"DADDA KILLED MY PORE YABBIT IN BACK KITCHEN!"
"OH DEAR!"
"I HAD TATERS WIV MY PORE YABBIT!"]
* * * * *
"A LITTLE TOO PREVIOUS!"
["I desire to submit that this is a very great question, which will
have to be determined, but upon a very different ground from that of
the salaries of the officers of the House of Lords.... If there is
to be a contest between the House of Lords and the House of Commons,
let us take it upon higher ground than this."--_Sir William
Harcourt._]
There was a little urchin, and he had an old horse-pistol,
Which he rammed with powder damp and shots of lead, lead, lead;
And he cried "I know not fear! I'll go stalking of the deer!"
For this little cove was slightly off his head, head, head.
This ambitious little lad was a Paddy and a Rad,
And himself he rather fancied as a shot, shot, shot;
And he held the rules of sport, and close season, and, in short,
The "regulation rubbish" was all rot, rot, rot.
He held a "bird" a thing to be potted on the wing,
Or perched upon a hedge, or up a tree, tree, tree;
And, says he, "If a foine stag I can add to my small bag,
A pistol _or_ a Maxim will suit me, me, me!"
And so upon all fours he would crawl about the moors,
To the detriment of elbows, knees, and slack, slack, slack;
And he says, "What use a-talking? If I choose to call this 'stalking,'
And _I bag my game_, who's going to hould me back, back, back?"
Says he, "I scoff at raisons, and stale talk of toimes and saisons;
I'm game to shoot a fox, or spear a stag, stag, stag;
Nay, I'd net, or club, a salmon; your old rules of sport are gammon,
For wid me it's just a question of the bag, bag, bag!
"There are omadhauns, I know, who would let a foine buck go
Just bekase 'twas out of toime, or they'd no gun, gun, gun;
But if oi can hit, and hurt, wid a pistol--or a squirt--
By jabers, it is all the betther fun, fun, fun!"
So he scurryfunged around with his stomach on the ground
(For stalking seems of crawling a mere branch, branch, branch).
And he spied "a stag of ten," and he cried, "Hurroo! Now then,
I fancy I can hit _him_--in the haunch, haunch haunch!
"Faix! I'll bag that foine Stag Royal, or at any rate oi'll troy all
The devoices of a sportshman from the Oisle, Oisle, Oisle.
One who's used to shoot asprawl from behoind a hedge or wall,
At the risks of rock and heather well may smoile, smoile, smoile!"
But our sportsman bold, though silly, by a stalwart Highland gillie,
Was right suddenly arrested ere he fired, fired, fired.--
"Hoots! If you'll excuse the hint, that old thing, with lock of flint,
As a weapon for _this_ sport can't be admired, mired, mired!
"It will not bring down _that_ quarry, your horse-pistol! Don't _you_
worry!
That Royal Stag _we_'ll stalk, boy, in good time, time, time;
But to pop at it just now, and kick up an awful row,
Scare, and _miss_ it were a folly, nay a crime, crime, crime!
"Be you sure 'Our Party' will this fine quarry track and kill;
Our guns need not your poor toy blunderbuss, buss, buss.
This is not the time or place for a-following up this chase;
So just clear out and leave this game to us, us, us!"
* * * * *
[Illustration: "A LITTLE TOO PREVIOUS!"
H-RC-RT. "NO, NO, MY LAD! THAT WON'T HURT HIM! YOU MUST LEAVE HIM TO
_US_!"]
* * * * *