Mat. My name, if you please, sir, is Matilda Merry, and I live at Number 3, Prospect Row, Whitechapel.

Mr. T. (To FANNY.) And yours?

Fanny. Fanny Fidget, if you please, sir, and I live in the next street to 'Tilda, where there's a pump at the corner.

Mr.T. (Pretending to write it down.) Very good. The next thing, I think, Mr. Brown, will be a description of the lost bonnets.

Mr. B. Certainly. (To MATILDA.) Perhaps you will describe them to us-very minutely, if you please.

Mat. Mine, if you please, sir, was mauve-mauve, spotted all over with gold, with blue strings.

Mr. B. (Aside to MR. T.) Mauve and blue! Did you ever hear of such a mixture?

Mat. And it had some pink flowers at one side.

Fanny. Mine, sir, was all pink-pink-I forget the name of it.

Mat. Derry, I think they called it.

Fanny. Yes, that was it. Derry-pink Derry-and it had five rosettes, with a steel buckle in the middle of each rosette. They wanted me only to have three, but I didn't think that would look handsome enough.

Mr. T. I admire your taste; but had you no flowers in it? Fanny. Oh yes, sir, a crownet of scarlet poppies, with a bunch of wheat ears at each side.

Mr. T. I do not wonder at your distress, such a bonnet as that is not to be met with every day.

Fanny. No, indeed, it is not, sir; we only wears them on Sundays.

Mat. And when we go out a visiting.

Mr. B. The next thing necessary to be known is where you bought those charming bonnets.

Mat. At a very fashionable shop in Whitechapel, sir,-at Mrs. Smart's.

Mr. B. (Writes.) "Mrs. Smart, Whitechapel." Now, Mr. Thompson, I think we may proceed to telegraph. We will telegraph to all the stations on the line, and inquire whether any such bonnets as you have described have been seen.

Fanny. But, sir, they were in a box; the bonnets could not be seen.

Mr. T. Ah! very true, they could not; unless, indeed, the box happened to come into collision with a heavy trunk; in that case it might be smashed,- -excuse me, I meant to say, broken. You could then, if it was insured, come upon the company for damages.

Mr. B. Do not look so alarmed,-I hope and trust there will be no damage in the case. Will you give me a description of the box, what was it like?

Mat. Like mottled soap, sir, only purple.
Mr. B. Very explicit, indeed.

Mr. T. There goes the Express! put an end to this now.

[Shrill whistle heard. (To BROWN.) We must

Mr. B. Yes, we must find the box. (He then pretends to telegraph behind the curtain.) The box is found and will be here directly. (To the girls.) I have desired them to shoot it along the telegraph wires; if you look up in that direction (points) you will see it coming.

[The girls, with many ejaculations of astonishment and delight, fix their eyes upon the place indicated.

Mr. B. There it comes! Thompson, stand ready to catch it. (He tosses the box, which must be concealed behind the curtain before the scene commences, to THOMPSON, who catches it, and it is immediately seized by the girls with a torrent of thanks. They inquire what they have to pay, but the gallant clerks will not hear of payment,-very politely bow them out, and then make their bow to the audience.)

Mr. B. Our office is closed, our business is done,

Mr. T. And we hope that our play your approval has won.

END OF CHARADE THE SIXTH.

POETICAL CHARADES.

A STORM AT SEA.

THE Storm King flew o'er the waters blue,
They rose as he passed on his way;
The waves he lashed till they foamed and dashed,
And the sun hid his face in dismay.

The wind rushed by with a moaning cry,

As if in some terrible pain;

The clouds looked down with a darkening frown,

And threatened to heavily rain.

A sharp look-out there was kept no doubt,

On that ship, for its captain reckoned

The storm would be worst in the midst of-my first, And not once did he turn-my second.

Ah! down goes my third! Now voices are heard, The passengers try conversation;

Amongst them was one, who good deeds has done, And my whole is this one's appellation.

THE WARRIOR KNIGHT.

THE sun shines bright, and a warrior knight
Comes galloping over the plain,

He urges his steed to impetuous speed,
With spur and with slackening rein.

Full many a mile has he ridden in style,
For he mounted at dawn of day,

And ate of my first, without quenching his thirst,
Before setting out on his way.

With a heated face he now slackens his pace,
And eagerly glancing around,

My second espied, and was soon by its side,-
Refreshment within it he found.

This knight, you must know, has a journey to go,
A very long journey indeed,

A visit to pay, and a word he must say
Without quitting his trusty steed.

A castle appears; see, a lady in tears
Waves a kerchief of spotless white,-

My whole be now cries, then on swiftly flies,
And is hid in a moment from sight.