We Are So Very 'umble.

Can I View Thee Panting, Lying On Thy Stomach, Without Sighing; Can I Unmoved See Thee Dying On A Log Expiring Frog!

And The Voices In The Waves Are Always Whispering To Florence, In Their Ceaseless Murmuring, Of Love - Of Love, Eternal And Illimitable, Not Bounded By The Confines Of This World, Or By The End Of Time, But Ranging Still, Beyond The Sea, Beyond The Sky, To The Invisible Country Far Away!

If The Parks Be "the Lungs Of London" We Wonder What Greenwich Fair Is--a Periodical Breaking Out, We Suppose--a Sort Of Spring Rash.

Come, Let's Be A Comfortable Couple And Take Care Of Each Other! How Glad We Shall Be, That We Have Somebody We Are Fond Of Always, To Talk To And Sit With.

I Have Been Bent And Broken, But - I Hope - Into A Better Shape.