lie was aware that nets had a similar effect in
intimidating flies. We may assume that the
nets worn by horses in summer are a tradition
derived from the ancient Egyptians.

The other day, the Empress of the French
passed over to the garden of Acclimatisation a
present made her of a couple of remarkable fly
destroyers. They are a pair of living Canrales
phalenoïdes (commonly called Sunbirds, or little
rose peacocks, on account of the elegance of their
plumage), from the savannahs of Guiana, where
they live on insects. It is curious to see these
birds slyly stealing up to a fly, and then taking
aim at and catching it with their bill, which is
as slender as that of a snipe, and supported by a
neck as long as a curlew's. It is suggested
that they will prove extremely useful (when
acclimated and propagated) for clearing
apartments of superfluous flies. It will rest with
the housekeeper to determine whether the
remedy be not worse than the evil: seeing that
the little rose peacocks may make more dirt and
disturbance than the insects they catch.

Finally, madam, flies are sometimes found
enclosed in the middle of a lump of amber; the
worthless insect is thus converted into a valuable
specimen. Just so, these fugitive sentences, of
little importance in themselves, are preserved by
the pages between which they have the good
fortune to lie.

PANTALOON.

I AM a pantaloon, lean and slippered, and fast
sinking into that last stage when, as Shakespeare
says, I shall be sans eyes, sans teeth, sans taste,
sans everything. At present, thank Heaven, I
can see pretty well with my specs, and as to
teeth and taste, I have more of both than is
quite convenient. I have a mighty fine taste for
a roast duck, but it's seldom that such a delicacy
comes my way. Seldom, did I say? Never. I
haven't tasted roast duck these seven year,
not since Joey took this public-house. Joey gave
a jollification on that occasion, and well he might,
to me at least, I played pantaloon to Joey's
clown, off and on, for nigh five-and-thirty years,
and he had a heavy hand—a heavy foot too. He
was always very rough at his business. If I
missed the slap, Joey would give me a real one,
a regular stinger; and the people in the front liked
the real thing best. They always laughed more
at the real thing, and that encouraged Joey to
do the real thing. Once, when he nearly broke my
back with the barber's shutter, the gallery went
into regular convulsions, and shouted " Encore."
Joey was for doing it again; but I wouldn't have
it. This half murder style of thing was what
Joey called holding the mirror up to nature;
but I didn't see it. I've had an awful life
with Joey, and that's the truth. He has kicked
aud cuffed and battered me into what I am—a
shaky old pantaloon, stiff at the joints and weak
about the small of the back—scarcely worth my
salt, even outside a booth. But Joey—Joey
keeps this first-class public that we're now in, and
Joey drives his own gig, and wears a big diamond
ring on his finger, and carries a gold watch that
cost forty guineas, with a large gold chain that
spreads out all over his beautiful crimson-velvet
waistcoat, and makes him look like a Duke. Yes,
like a Duke.  On Sundays, when he drives down
the Edgeware-road in his gig, Joey looks like the
Duke I saw go up in the balloon along with Mrs.
Graham.

Joey has been a lucky dog all through. He
married a lady—a real lady, and no mistake—
far superior to Joey. She's one of those
delicate creatures that lies a-bed half the day;
but when she does get up, she can speak French
and play the piano, like a good 'un. She don't often
come into the bar until evening, when the gas
is lighted; and then she looks like the last scene
in a pantomime. She's a regular walking blaze
of triumph, with diamonds—real ones. Ah!
It makes me think when I'm a-sitting here
in this jug and bottle department, smoking my
pipe and seeing them glittering fingers of hers
drawing me half a pint of the best porter! " Lor'
bless me," I says to myself, " what a thing is
Fortun!" Joey and me started together. I had
the best headpiece of the two; that was allowed,
I had a bit of schooling—Joey had never a morsel.
I could do the high trap leap, cleaner than Joey.
I wasn't quite so good at the hornpipe; but I
could dance it, and play the tune on the fiddle at
the same time; and Joey he couldn't play a bit.
But look at us now! Joey is down at Hornseywood
House, pigeon-shooting, togged out to
the nines, drinking champagne with swells, and
flashing his diamonds and his gold chains with
the best of them; while here am I, a sitting on
this here barrel enjoying the only luxury I can
afford—half a pint of porter and a pipe, with the
privilege of being allowed to chat with Madame
Pollonio. Here she comes, now that the gas is
turned on. Look at her rings! Don't they glitter
beautiful when she takes hold of the ivory handle
of the beer engine and passes them backwards and
forwards under the lights? Pollonio ain't Joey's
right name, of course; he took it just as I took
the name of Devanti. There was a rage for
foreigners when we were in the country together,
some five-and-twenty years ago. A lot of sprites
and contortionists come over and called
themselves Signor this and Herr that; and they
were all the go. At that time, Joey aud I were
engaged to go to London, to the Bower, to play
in the pantomime at Christmas, and I says to
Joey, " Let's be foreigners, Joey, and change our
names; I'll be a Signor and you be a Herr."
"No, no, hang it," says Joey, "I'll be the
Signor, and you be the Herr." " Very well,"
I says, " I don't mind"—Joey always had
the best of it—"you be the Signor if you
like. Now what shall we change our names
to?" " Oh," says Joey—he always had an
eye to the main chance—"let it be something
like our own names, in case anybody should
leave us a legacy." " Good," says I, though
I wasn't much afraid of that myself. After
a long consultation and much twisting and
turning about of our names, it was settled
between us that "Joe Pollard" should be