In Residence

BALLADE OF LAWN TENNIS [WE have long held Mr Swinburne and Mr W. S. Gilbert to be the greatest poets of all time. This attempt to combine their metres and styles ought consequently to produce the finest poem of all time. We affirm unhesitatingly that it has !] In the godlike golden glory of the vast irremeable insuperable weather (Where those perfectly beastly bad Rembrandt effects are, over by the sunset that looks so very much as if to-morrow would be wet) They have bridled the sun with a beautiful bit of black and purple clouds, to tie the Poor up in an intolerable tether, (It’s enough to make a ’eathen slave, ’ow much more a gennelman as ’as allus been a gennelman and a free-born son of Brittania’s ’earts of oak and no negro fret.) Notwithstanding boys beautiful with youth bounce in the efflorescent sunlight two each sweet side of a maiden’s forelock worked into the semblance of a net. Mr Swinburne is a person who can’t say a thing straight out, you know. What we're driving at (a little obscurely, you’ll say) but certainly driving, driving furiously like Ahab or one of those 33