J\Iajor Whyte Melville 



Bright, brave, and tender. Poesy's pet child, 

 Romance and History's lore alike were thine ; 

 Thy wit ne'er wounded, yet the contest won, 

 For at thy jests the gravest dullard smiled ; 

 Last scion of an ancient Scottish line. 

 Whose ' old folks ' live to mourn their only son ! 



Dec. 6, 1878. 



' YOUR HAND-WRITING, SIR ' 



' Mornin', sir,' says Mr. Sloper, scenting a customer as he 

 accosts his guest. ' Oh, it 's you, is it, Mr. Sawyer ? Won't 

 ye step in and set down after your walk } Take a glass of 

 mild ale and a crust of bread and cheese, or a drop of sherry 

 or anythink ? ' 



* No hunting to-day. Job,' answers the visitor, declining 

 the refreshment ; * so I just toddled over to see how you 're 

 getting on, and have a look round the stables ; no harm in 

 looking, you know.' 



Mr. Sloper 's face assumes an expression of profound 

 mystery. ' I 'm glad you come over to-day, sir,' he says, 

 in a tone of confidential frankness, ' of all days in the year. 

 I 've a 'orse here, as I should like to ast your opinion about 

 — a gent like you ^ as knows what a 'unter really is. And 

 so you should, Mr. Sawyer, for there 's no man alive takes 

 greater liberties with 'em when they can go and do it. And 



^ Words in italics are in italics in original. 



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