ears ring again even to think of it. On his lap lay the big fiddle, at which he was scraping, out of all time and tune, with both hands, making a great show, the nincompoop! of playing       “Judy O’Flannagan and Paddy O’Rafferty.”      

       Affairs being thus miserably situated, I left the place in disgust, and now appeal for aid to all lovers of correct time and fine kraut. Let us proceed in a body to the borough, and restore the ancient order of things in Vondervotteimittiss by ejecting that little fellow from the steeple.     

 

LIONIZING

      —— all people went Upon their ten toes in wild wonderment. —Bishop Hall’s Satires. 

       I am—that is to say I was—a great man; but I am neither the author of Junius nor the man in the mask; for my name, I believe, is Robert Jones, and I was born somewhere in the city of Fum-Fudge.     

       The first action of my life was the taking hold of my nose with both hands. My mother saw this and called me a genius—my father wept for joy and presented me with a treatise on Nosology. This I mastered before I was breeched.     

       I now began to feel my way in the science, and soon came to understand that, provided a man had a nose sufficiently conspicuous, he might, by merely following it, arrive at a Lionship. But my attention was not confined to theories alone. Every morning I gave my proboscis a couple of pulls and swallowed a half dozen of drams.     

       When I came of age my father asked me, one day, if I would step with him into his study.     

       “My son,” said he, when we were seated, “what is the chief end of your existence?”      

       “My father,” I answered, “it is the study of Nosology.”      

       “And what, Robert,” he inquired, “is Nosology?”      

       “Sir,” I said, “it is the science of Noses.”      

       “And can you tell me,” he demanded, “what is the meaning of a nose?”      

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