Aston-ishing!--The English Cup, won by the Aston Villa Football Club
last year, has been stolen. Between boots and football a strong
affinity exists; and it appears that a _cordonnier_, a member of the
club, obtained a loan of the trophy, which he proudly placed in his
shop window. On a pedestal, in the midst of all sorts and conditions
and sizes of shoes, it stood in silvery splendour--a sovereign, as it
were, o'er a kingdom of soles--and was the gaping admiration of the
"idle progeny" of the neighbourhood, who, as is well known, evince
ever an absorbing interest in all things appertaining to "the rolling
circle's speed." And the knight of the Soccus and Cothurnus, the adept
constructor of JESSAMY'S slipper and GILES'S "hobnailed," the owner of
the store, lulled himself to sleep singing "Dear little Boot-ercup,
Sweet little Footer-cup," and dreamed that the goal of his ambition
had been reached, and that he had received the appointment of Soler
and Heeler Extraordinary to all the Football Clubs of the United
Kingdom. But, alas! he awoke one morn to find that a burglary had been
committed, and that the Cup had vanished! "It would appear," says the
_Liverpool Courier_, "that the thieves _wanted the cup for the value
of its silver!_" Oh! impossible! Gentlemen who thus acquire valuable
articles of gold or silver do so not for the coarse gratification of
an _auri sacra fames_, but rather for the satisfaction of an artistic
craving, a laudable desire to contemplate, in poetic solitude, the
beauty of the objects.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE RETURN OF THE NATIVE.
_Tam._ "SAE YE'VE GOTTEN BACK, SANDERS?"
_Sanders._ "'DEED, AYE. I'VE JUST GOTTEN BACK."
_Jamie._ "AN' HOO DID 'E LIKE LONDON?"
_Sanders._ "OD, IT'S AN OOTLANDISH PLACE YON! THEY TELL 'T ME THEY
COULDNA UNNERSTAUN MA AWCCENT!"
_John._ "AWCCENT! I NEVER HEARD TELL THAT FIFE FOLK HAD _ONY_ AWCCENT!"]
* * * * *
"BY PROXY."
More lovely than the summer morn
That floods with light a southern shore
And smiles upon the yellow corn
Thy sister is, O sweet LENORE!
And yet, LENORE, dost thou not guess
What draws me now from her to _thee_,
What prompts me thus _thy_ hand to press,
And from _thy_ lips seek Fate's decree?
Call me not fickle; for I'll love
With fondness growing e'er more fond;
More tender be than gentle dove
Tow'rds her I prize all else beyond.
Dost thou not guess--or _wilt_ thou not--
The thoughts that in my bosom dwell?--
Then "lend me all the ears you've got,"
And I'll the mystery dispel:
More lovely than the summer sky
Your sister is, whom I adore!
I would propose--but I'm too shy;
Pray _ask her for me_, kind LENORE!
* * * * *