Tropicitis.

The Polynesian Islands are being invaded by e'derly gentlemen lured thither by South Sea fiction writers.

An old gent, there was, who should have known better, Who read Tropic stories —believed every letter.

He closed “Isles of Eden,” and two rheumy eyes, And straightway was wafted ’neath warm, sunny skies, Where he walked on a beach most sur prisingly yellow, Wearing very few clothes and an air bright and mellow.

He out-natived the natives and chuckled to see, There was not one who dared wear as little as he!

Just a single hibiscus, alluring and chaste, And a few milky beads round his corpu lent waist.

A slim, svelte young maid in the short est grass dress Enchanted his days with each langorous caress.

And when he was hungry he cast out his line To draw in fat fishes, a score at a time.

Or, if he liked bacon, he simply went out And hit the first tusker he saw on the snout.

The sharks did not bite when he swam the lagoon, And mossies flew round him with soft, lulling croon.

The Great Chief adored him, and sent him each night Such luscious, dark beauties as dazzled his sight: Their skins were like velvet, their lips ruddy red, And the scent of their hair fairly went to his head.

Etcetera ; ad lib.; ad nauseum. * * * Oh, keep to your reading, we pray you, dear sir, Nor think to take ship in your haste to find Her; Live softly and dream of Romance’s sweet wiles — And leave us poor blighters these d—d Tropic Isles! —M.M.