Indeed, 'little' Allan Grant's desperate feats and hairbreadth escapes to this day form the theme of fire side story in the land of his birth. He was about the last of mortals whom one would think of turning rhymer. But love effects strange transformations. I have before me a bundle of mildewed papers, written over with verses addressed to 'Pretty Fanny Hamilton.' They might be more polished, perhaps, but they could hardly be more earnest and original, or more free from affec tation and conceit. The following carries with it its own explanation : ' Full thirty long minutes or more Have I been awaiting her here; She never delay'd so before, And won't come at all now, I fear. To tease one like this is a shame, I begin to suspect 'tis a plan; But the worst of it is—l can't blame; For who could be angry with Fan ! When met by her smile, who could frown t Or chide 'neath the glance of her eye ? If a man on that face could look down Reproving, that man is not I. And yet, if I thought she beguiled, For another annoying me so, By Jove ! I should go downright wild ; Nor spare her while squashing the beaul' That last verse is characteristic ; and so, also, are the following verses— ' Within me rises passion's flood, Contemptuous of control : I am a thing of flesh and blood, Of sense as well as soul. Then wherefore, Fanny, thus reprove- As now and then you do ? I love you as a man should love • A woman such as you. I want your clasp—l want your kiss— I want—oh, why conceal ? For me there is no other bliss In all the earth to feel. 