Part 3

For yow and for noon other, ladye dere, At this ful jolyf sesoun of the yeer Now wol I truste, ne thynkynge naught of cost, This litel yefte to yon rede pilere post; Ryghte wel ystampen sikerly, I trowe, Anon myn yefte schal come to noon but yow. Ne golde han I to yeve, ne pretious gere, But floures that ben ful rare (this tyme of yeer). Ne yelwe astere, late ycome to toun, Ne yet (God wot) a grene carnacioun, But tak al fressche from Convent Gardyn plot Myn flour, and eek prayere, "Foryete-me-not." With feste and merie chere and moche solas Sone wol this jolyf sesoun yeve us grace; So mote ye spende, whanne that bels swete chyme At yule, in sothe a veray parfait tyme. "At Cristemasse merie may ye dance," And in the Newe Yeer han gret plesance: So fare now wel, myn hertes queene; I praie R.S.V.P.--Ther nys no more to saye!

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OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

A Baronite warns me thusly: In opening _The New Standard Elocutionist_, selected by ALFRED H. MILES (HUTCHINSON & CO.), you may think there is a mistake somewhere, as on the first page you are confronted with an anatomical sketch of a cheerful-looking gentleman with his chest laid open for inspection. Don't be afraid, it's all right, the gentleman's countenance is reassuring, still, it makes me wonder if all reciters come to that. But after reading a little of LENNOX BROWN'S chapter, we find it is an object lesson teaching the usually inflated reciter how to work his diaphragm as it should be worked. Perhaps its advantages may be felt when the elocutionist wishes to rouse an admiring but slumbering audience with a little thundering out of "Rise! sleep no more." If the average recitation has a soporific effect, PHIL MAY'S drawings in _Fun, Frolic and Fancy_, by BYRON WEBBER will soon wake you up. The annual of three F's quite fulfils the "promise of May."

Though _Kitty Alone_, by S. BARING GOULD, runs through _Good Words_ this year, edited by DONALD MACLEOD, D.D., she does it surrounded by excellent company. Just imagine how a child's preconceived notions of euphonious spelling will be upset by teaching _Artful Anticks_ spelt with a _k_, by OLIVE HERFORD (GAY AND BIRD). Such a frivolous liberty to take with any word in these days of solid moral educational principles.

There always exists a certain sneaking friendly feeling for ghosts, especially at Christmas time, but it's nothing to the Paddies who experience a hurtful resentment if you won't listen to their familiar banshee yarns, and _Banshee Castle_, by ROSA MULHOLLAND is full of their sighing and wailing; they like to make themselves heard.

_À propos_ of Christmas numbers, my Baronitess writes: _The Queen_ and _The Gentlewoman_ present themselves beautifully "got up." They are both decidedly smart, and, like their titles, their stories are by a very select company. By-the-bye, in _The Gentlewoman_ the little bird says that her New Year will open with an exciting serial, _Sons of Fire_, from the indefatigable pen of Miss BRADDON. There is a hearty, warm sound in it, agreeable at this time of the year.

According to the researching remarks of JOSEPH JACOBS, who has arranged a new and selected edition of _Æsop's Fables_ (MACMILLAN & CO.), one gathers that the "modest violet" is not in it with the retiring manner in which every other writer of fable have hidden their worth under the sheltering leaves of the ever green laurels of Old ÆSOP. Their number might be termed fabulous. But SHERLOCK HOLMES has not lived in vain. With unerring instinct the true mythical authors have been tracked, and their deeds brought to light. The immortal genius may at last enjoy his own wealth, which he finds fits better now that it has not to be stretched. Quaint little pictures, done by RICHARD HEIGHWAY, adorn the pages.

"A pretty volume of fairy tales," writes one of the Assistant Readers, "comes from Messrs. SEELEY & CO. It is called _Lily and the Lift_, and is not only written, but also illustrated, by Mrs. HERBERT RAILTON. _Lily_ herself, the little heroine, who is wafted in the magic hotel-lift through the regions of Fairyland, is a darling. Beautiful butterflies, wonderful birds, quaint dwarfs, and lovely fairies abound in the marvellous country visited by _Lily_. Mrs. RAILTON writes with delightful fancy and quiet humour, and her illustrations add a great charm to a book which is bound to please the little ones for whom it is intended."

_In Furthest Ind_ (BLACKWOOD) purports to be the narrative of Mr. EDWARD CARLYON, of the Honourable East India Company's service, comprising his escape from the hands of the Inquisition at Goa, his journey to the Court of the Great Mogul, and much else. It all took place some two hundred years ago, and was "wrote by his own hand in the Year of Grace 1697." As for Mr. SYDNEY C. GRIER, he simply "edits the narrative with a few explanatory notes," which is very modest of him. The narrative is a moving one, full of local colour, plastered on pictures of the outskirts of India in John Company's day. Mr. EDWARD CARLYON is a properly pragmatical person, with true British obstinacy knocking his head against any wall that comes in his way. He makes my Baronite almost think kindly of the Inquisition. And this is genial at Christmas time, when we like to think well of everybody, "and so bless us all, Pen-and-Inkysition included," quoth TINY TIM, alias

THE GAY BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

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A SEQUEL TO THE STORY OF UNG.

(A FABLE FOR THOSE WHO RESENT CRITICISM.)

_In continuation (with apologies) of Mr. Rudyard Kipling's clever "Story of Ung," in the December Number of "The Idler."_

Now UNG grew exceeding bumptious along of his scribings on bone; And he sware that no one could judge them save only the scriber alone; And he cocked his nose at the critics (save such as effusively praised), And he prated of "Art for Art's sake," till the tribesmen imagined him crazed.

And UNG grew exceeding abusive, and proudly "uplifted his horn," With an Oscar Wildeish swagger, with a more than Whistlerian scorn. He kicked with the wrath of a KIPLING at "the dull-brained _bourgeois_ lot," (Though he put it in different lingo, for _this_ Billingsgate then was not.)

But the prehistoric for "Philistine!" fell from his scorn-curled lips, And he lashed the non-artistic with words which would cut like whips. And the non-artistic tribesmen they cried "he is right, this UNG, Though we doubt if the sabre-tooth tiger has got such a rasping tongue:

"But there's truth in his 'Art for Art's Sake,' and Art for him shall suffice." So they shut him up, with his bones and his tools, in a cave of ice. No new-cut tongues if the bison, no pelts of the reindeer there, But only cold snow for cover, and only bare bones for fare.

For they said, "We are nowise worthy, we hunting and trapping fools, To judge of his fine bone-scribings, and the way he uses his tools, Only an artist can judge of an artist's work, and he Is our only maker of pictures, our only man who can _see_.

"So he must be artist and critic and purchaser all in one!" And UNG admitted their logic, but he did not see the fun. He cried "I am cold and hungry!" Then they said, "O picture-man, Art for Art's sake is your motto; then live on your Art--_if you can!_"

And UNG essayed to do so--by gnawing his graven bones, But he did not find them nourish, and he begged in humbled tones For a lump of stranded whale-meat, succulent, fat and _hot_; In return for which, if they cared for his bones, _they might take the lot!_

So they let UNG out of the ice-cave upon these liberal terms, And cured the fool of regarding his fellow-mortals as worms. And whenever ye hear Art crackpots a-wagging an insolent tongue, Why then--in the words of RUDYARD--_heed ye the_ "_Story of Ung!_"