I'm in a milancolly mood agin this week, for that mane ommadhaun, Bryce, has been backbitin' Johnny Sheehan, so he has. Jist bekays Johnny is a janial ginerous boy that loves the davlints, an' small blame to him, Misther Bryce thries to make out that me former collaige miss-o-pi-opriated the funs, keepin' the Maori girls quiet. Some o' these could-blooded in-dovijuals that niver filt a glow av love's young dhraime cannot rayilise the posishun av a warm-hearted boy like Johnny thrown into the society av a crowd o' half-castes an' hole-castes. I've no patience wid such min, so I've not, an' more be token, I'll give Misther Bryce a bit o' me mind the nixt time I meet him up at Jack M'Ginnaty's on the Kay. I'm goin' to write a long haroic an' ipic pome on the subject o' Johnny an' his Maori loves. Ye'll glain be the folloin' specimin that I've adopted Misther Long-fellow's style, though av coorse my varses are much shuperior to the American pote's:—