REVANCHE.

AND HERE, AUNTIE, WE GET THE SIDE ELEVATION.Potential President of the Royal Academy."AND HERE, AUNTIE, WE GET THE SIDE ELEVATION."Auntie."HOW DELIGHTFULLY THOROUGH! I'D NO IDEA THAT ARCHITECTS DID THE SIDES AS WELL."

Potential President of the Royal Academy."AND HERE, AUNTIE, WE GET THE SIDE ELEVATION."

Auntie."HOW DELIGHTFULLY THOROUGH! I'D NO IDEA THAT ARCHITECTS DID THE SIDES AS WELL."

Another Impending Apology."A sub-department of Scotland Yard ... which looks after Kings and visiting potentates, Cabinet Ministers and Suffragettes, spies, anarchists, and other 'undesirables.'"—Daily Paper.

"A sub-department of Scotland Yard ... which looks after Kings and visiting potentates, Cabinet Ministers and Suffragettes, spies, anarchists, and other 'undesirables.'"—Daily Paper.

"The custodian smothered the ball, and after a Ruby scrimmage the City goal escaped."—Provincial Paper.

A much prettier word than the other.

"Teacher (juniors); £1 monthly."—Advt. in Liverpool Paper.

Who says there are no prizes in the teaching profession?

OUR ARTIST GIVES HIS MODEL AN IDEA OF THE GRACE AND BEAUTY OF THE POSE HE REQUIRES OF HER.OUR ARTIST GIVES HIS MODEL AN IDEA OF THE GRACE AND BEAUTY OF THE POSE HE REQUIRES OF HER.

When I had seen ten thousand pass me byAnd waved my arms and wearied of hallooing,"Ho, taxi-meter! Taxi-meter, hi!"And they hied on and there was nothing doing;When I was sick of counting dud by dudBearing I know not whom—or coarse carousers,Or damsels fairer than the moss-rose bud—And still more sick at having bits of mudDaubed on my new dress-trousers;I went to dinner by the UndergroundAnd every time the carriage stopped or startedClung to my neighbour very tightly roundThe neck till at Sloane Square his collar parted.I saw my hostess glancing at my socks,Surprised perhaps at so much clay's adherenceAnd, still unnerved by those infernal shocks,Said, "I was working in my window-box;Excuse my soiled appearance."But in the morn I found a silent squareAnd one tall house with all the windows shuttered,The mansion of the Marquis of Mayfair,And "Here shall be the counter-stroke," I muttered;"Shall not the noble Marquis and his kinMake feast to-night in his superb refectory,And then go on to see 'The Purple Sin'?They shall." I sought a taxi-garage inThe Telephone Directory."Ho, there!" I cried within the wooden hutch;"Hammersmith House—a most absurd dilemma—His lordship's motor-cars have strained a clutch,And taxis are required at 8 pip emma(Six of your finest and most up-to-date,With no false starts and no foul petrol leaking),To bear a certain party of the greatTo the Melpomene at ten past eight.Thompson, the butler, speaking."They came. And I at the appointed hourWatched them arrive before the muted dwellingAnd heard some speeches full of pith and powerAnd saw them turn and go with anger swelling;Save only one who, spite his rude dismay,Like a whipped Hun, made traffic of his sorrowAnd shouted, "Taxi, Sir?" I answered "Nay,I do not need you, jarvey, but I mayBe disengaged to-morrow."EVOE.

When I had seen ten thousand pass me by

And waved my arms and wearied of hallooing,

"Ho, taxi-meter! Taxi-meter, hi!"

And they hied on and there was nothing doing;

When I was sick of counting dud by dud

Bearing I know not whom—or coarse carousers,

Or damsels fairer than the moss-rose bud—

And still more sick at having bits of mud

Daubed on my new dress-trousers;

I went to dinner by the UndergroundAnd every time the carriage stopped or startedClung to my neighbour very tightly roundThe neck till at Sloane Square his collar parted.I saw my hostess glancing at my socks,Surprised perhaps at so much clay's adherenceAnd, still unnerved by those infernal shocks,Said, "I was working in my window-box;Excuse my soiled appearance."

I went to dinner by the Underground

And every time the carriage stopped or started

Clung to my neighbour very tightly round

The neck till at Sloane Square his collar parted.

I saw my hostess glancing at my socks,

Surprised perhaps at so much clay's adherence

And, still unnerved by those infernal shocks,

Said, "I was working in my window-box;

Excuse my soiled appearance."

But in the morn I found a silent squareAnd one tall house with all the windows shuttered,The mansion of the Marquis of Mayfair,And "Here shall be the counter-stroke," I muttered;"Shall not the noble Marquis and his kinMake feast to-night in his superb refectory,And then go on to see 'The Purple Sin'?They shall." I sought a taxi-garage inThe Telephone Directory.

But in the morn I found a silent square

And one tall house with all the windows shuttered,

The mansion of the Marquis of Mayfair,

And "Here shall be the counter-stroke," I muttered;

"Shall not the noble Marquis and his kin

Make feast to-night in his superb refectory,

And then go on to see 'The Purple Sin'?

They shall." I sought a taxi-garage in

The Telephone Directory.

"Ho, there!" I cried within the wooden hutch;"Hammersmith House—a most absurd dilemma—His lordship's motor-cars have strained a clutch,And taxis are required at 8 pip emma(Six of your finest and most up-to-date,With no false starts and no foul petrol leaking),To bear a certain party of the greatTo the Melpomene at ten past eight.Thompson, the butler, speaking."

"Ho, there!" I cried within the wooden hutch;

"Hammersmith House—a most absurd dilemma—

His lordship's motor-cars have strained a clutch,

And taxis are required at 8 pip emma

(Six of your finest and most up-to-date,

With no false starts and no foul petrol leaking),

To bear a certain party of the great

To the Melpomene at ten past eight.

Thompson, the butler, speaking."

They came. And I at the appointed hourWatched them arrive before the muted dwellingAnd heard some speeches full of pith and powerAnd saw them turn and go with anger swelling;Save only one who, spite his rude dismay,Like a whipped Hun, made traffic of his sorrowAnd shouted, "Taxi, Sir?" I answered "Nay,I do not need you, jarvey, but I mayBe disengaged to-morrow."

They came. And I at the appointed hour

Watched them arrive before the muted dwelling

And heard some speeches full of pith and power

And saw them turn and go with anger swelling;

Save only one who, spite his rude dismay,

Like a whipped Hun, made traffic of his sorrow

And shouted, "Taxi, Sir?" I answered "Nay,

I do not need you, jarvey, but I may

Be disengaged to-morrow."

EVOE.

The Punishment of Greed."Large quantity of new Block Chocolate offered cheap; cause ill-health."—Manchester Evening News.

"Large quantity of new Block Chocolate offered cheap; cause ill-health."—Manchester Evening News.

"Miss M. Albanesi, daughter of the well-known singer, Mme. Albanesi."—Daily Paper.

Not to be confused with Mme. ALBANI, the popular novelist.

"The Portuguese retreated a step. His head flew to his hip-pocket. But he was a fraction of a second too late."—The Scout.

Many a slip 'twixt the head and the hip.

GHOSTS AT VERSAILLES.GHOSTS AT VERSAILLES.

Tuesday, April 29th.—When the House of Commons re-assembled this afternoon a good many gaps were noticeable on the green benches. They were not due, however, to the New Year's Honours, which made a belated appearance this morning, for not a single Member of Parliament has been ennobled. The notion that not one of the seven hundred is worthy of elevation is, of course, unthinkable. But by-elections are so chancy.

Mr. JEREMIAH MACVEAGH still has some difficulty in realising that the Irish centre of gravity has shifted from Westminster to Dublin. He indignantly refused to accept an answer to one of his questions from little Mr. PRATT, and loudly demanded the corporeal presence of the CHIEF SECRETARY. Mr. MACPHERSON, however, considers that his duty requires him to remain in Ireland, where Mr. MACVEAGH'S seventy Sinn Fein colleagues are keeping him sufficiently busy.

In explaining the swollen estimates of the Ministry of Labour, Sir ROBERT HORNE pointed out that it is now charged with the functions formerly appertaining to half-a-dozen other Departments. He has indeed become a sort of administrativePooh-Bah. Unlike that functionary, however, he was not "born sneering." On the contrary, he made a most sympathetic speech, chiefly devoted to justifying the much-abused unemployment donation, which accounts for twenty-five out of the thirty-eight millions to be spent by his Department this year. But let no one mistake him for a mere HORNE of Plenty, pouring out benefits indiscriminately upon the genuine unemployed and the work-shy. He has already deprived some seventeen thousand potential domestics of their unearned increment, and he promises ruthless prosecution of all who try to cheat the State in future.

Criticism was largely silenced by the Minister's frankness. Sir F. BANBURY, of course, was dead against the whole policy, and demanded the immediate withdrawal of the civilian grants; but his uncompromising attitude found little favour. Mr. CLYNES thought it would have been better for the State to furnish work instead of doles, but did not explain how in that case private enterprise was to get going. France's experience with theateliers nationauxis not encouraging, though 1919, when "demobbed" subalterns turn up their noses at £250 a year, is not 1848.

Wednesday, April 30th.—Mr. AUSTEN CHAMBERLAIN, returning to the Exchequer after an interval of thirteen years, made a much better Budget speech than one would have expected. It was longer, perhaps, than was absolutely necessary. Like the late Mr. GLADSTONE, he has a tendency to digress into financial backwaters instead of sticking to the main Pactolian stream. His excursus upon the impracticability of a levy on capital was really redundant, though it pleased the millionaires and reconciled them to the screwing-up of the death-duties. Still, on the whole, he had a more flattering tale to unfold than most of us had ventured to anticipate, and he told it well, in spite of an occasional confusion in his figures. After all, it must be hard for a Chancellor who left the national expenditure at a hundred and fifty millions and comes back to find it multiplied tenfold not to mistake millions for thousands now and again.

On the whole the Committee was well pleased with his performance, partly because the gap between revenue and expenditure turned out to be a mere trifle of two hundred millions instead of twice or thrice that amount; partly because there was, for once, no increase in the income-tax; but chiefly, I think, for the sentimental reason that in recommending a tiny preference for the produce of the Dominions and Dependencies Mr. CHAMBERLAIN was happily combining imperial interests with filial affection.

Almost casually the CHANCELLOR announced that the Land Values Duties, the outstanding feature of Mr. LLOYD GEORGE'S famous Budget of 1909, were, with the approval of their author, to be referred to a Select Committee, to see if anything could be made of them. If only Mr. ASQUITH had thought of that device when his brilliant young lieutenant first propounded them! There would have been no quarrel between the two Houses: the Parliament Act would never have been passed, and a Home Rule Act, for which nobody in Ireland has a good word, would not now be reposing on the Statute-Book.

In the absence of any EX-CHANCELLOR OF THE EXCHEQUER the task of criticism was left to Mr. ADAMSON, who was mildly aggressive and showed a hankering after a levy on capital, not altogether easy to reconcile with his statement that no responsible Member of the Labour Party desired to repudiate the National Debt. Mr. JESSON, a National Democrat, was more original and stimulating. As a representative of the Musicians' Union he is all for harmony, and foresees the time when Capital and Labour shall unite their forces in one great national orchestra, under the directing baton of the State.

At the instance of Lord STRACHIE the House of Lords conducted a spirited little debate on the price of milk. It appears that there is a conflict of jurisdiction between the FOOD-CONTROLLER and the MINISTER OF AGRICULTURE, and that the shortage in the supply of this commodity must be ascribed to the overlapping of the Departments.

YOU MAY HAVE WON THE WAR, BUT WE'VE GOT TO PAY FOR IT.Budget Victims."YOU MAY HAVE WON THE WAR, BUT WE'VE GOT TO PAY FOR IT."

Budget Victims."YOU MAY HAVE WON THE WAR, BUT WE'VE GOT TO PAY FOR IT."

Thursday, May 1st.—Sinn Fein has decreed that nobody in Ireland should do any work on May Day. Messrs. DEVLIN and MACVEAGH, however, being out of the jurisdiction, demonstrated their independence by being busier than ever. The appointment of a new Press Censor in Ireland furnished them with many opportunities at Question-time for the display of their wit, which some of the new Members seemed to find passably amusing.

Mr. DEVLIN'S best joke was, however,reserved for the Budget debate, when, in denouncing the further burdens laid on stout and whisky, he declared that Ireland was, "apart from political trouble," the most peaceful country in the world.

The fiscal question always seems to invite exaggeration of statement. The CHANCELLOR'S not very tremendous Preference proposals were denounced by Sir DONALD MACLEAN as inevitably leading to the taxation of food and to quarrels with foreign countries. Colonel AMERY, on the other hand, waxed dithyrambic in their praise, and declared that by taking twopence off Colonial tea the Government were not only consecrating the policy of Imperial Preference, but were "putting the coping-stone on it."

HERE, MODOM, IS A CHARMING MODEL WHICH WOULD SUIT YOU, IF I MAY SO PUT IT, DOWN TO THE GROUND.The Minister of Labour (anxious to find work for the ex-munitionette drawing unemployment pay). "HERE, MODOM, IS A CHARMING MODEL WHICH WOULD SUIT YOU, IF I MAY SO PUT IT, DOWN TO THE GROUND."

The Minister of Labour (anxious to find work for the ex-munitionette drawing unemployment pay). "HERE, MODOM, IS A CHARMING MODEL WHICH WOULD SUIT YOU, IF I MAY SO PUT IT, DOWN TO THE GROUND."

The continued domination of the Russians in the domain of the ballet has already excited a certain amount of not unfriendly criticism. But our Muscovite visitors are not to be allowed to have it all their own way, and we understand that negotiations are already on foot with a view to enabling the Irish Ballet to give a season at a leading London theatre in the near future.

The Irish Ballet, which is organised on a strictly self-determining basis, is one of the outcomes of the Irish Theatre, but derives in its essentials directly from the school established by Cormac, son of Art. That is to say it is in its aims, ideals and methods permeated by the Dalecarlian, Fomorian, Brythonic and Firbolgian impulse. Mr. Fergal Dindsenchus O'Corkery, the Director, is a direct descendant of Cuchulinn and only uses the Ulidian, dialect. Mr. Tordelbach O'Lochlainn, who has composed most of the ballets in the répertoire, is a chieftain of mingled Dalcassian and Gallgoidel descent. The scenery has been painted by Mr. Cathal Eochaid. MacCathamhoil, and the dresses designed by Mr. Domnall Fothud O'Conchobar.

The artists who compose the troupe have all been trained during the War at the Ballybunnion School in North Kerry, and combine in a wonderful way the sobriety of the Delsartean method with the feline agility of that of Kilkenny. Headed by the bewitching Gormflaith Rathbressil, and including such brilliant artists as Maeve Errigal, Coomhoola Grits, Ethne O'Conarchy, Brigit Brandub, Corcu and Mocu, Diarmid Hy Brasil, Murtagh MacMurchada, Aillil Molt, Mag Mell and Donnchad Bodb, they form a galaxy of talent which, alike for the euphony of its nomenclature and the elasticity of its technique, has never been equalled since the days of ST. VITUS.

We have spoken of the work of Mr. O'Lochlainn, who is responsible for the three-act ballet,Brian Boruma; a fantasy on the Brehon laws, entitledThe Gardens of Goll; Poulaphuca, and theRoaring of O'Rafferty;but the repertory also includes notable and impassioned compositions by Ossian MacGillycuddy, Aghla Malachy, Carolan MacFirbis and Emer Sidh. The orchestra employed differs in many respects from that to which we are accustomed, the wood-wind being strengthened by a quartet of Firbolg flutes and two Fodlaphones, while the brass is reinforced by a bass bosthoon, an instrument of extraordinary depth and sonority, and the percussion by a group of Dingle drums.

But enough has been said to show that the Irish ballet is assured in advance of a cordial reception from all admirers of the neo-Celtic genius.

"A Bill has been introduced in Florida providing that 'from and after equal suffrage has been established in Florida it shall be lawful for females to don and wear the wearing apparel of man as now worn publicly by him.'"—Western Morning News.

Happily they cannot take the breeks off a Highlander.

Biddick has placed me in a most awkward position. I am a proud man; I cannot bring myself to accept a gift of money from anybody. And yet I cannot help feeling I should be justified in taking the guinea he has sent me.

Biddick is a journalist. I was discussing the inflation of prices and asking his advice as to how to increase one's income. "Why not write something for the Press, my dear fellow?" he said. "Five hundred words with a catchy title; nothing funny—that'smyline—but something solid and practical with money in it; the public's always ready for that. Take your neighbour, old Diggles, and his mushroom-beds, for instance. Thriving local industry—capital copy. Try your hand at half a column, and call it 'A Fortune in Fungus.'"

"I 'm afraid I know nothing about mushrooms, with the exception of the one I nearly died of," I replied, "and I'm not sufficiently acquainted with Mr. Diggles to venture to invite his confidence respecting his business."

"My dear man, I don't ask you to tell Diggles you're going to write him up in the newspapers; he'd kick you off the premises; he doesn't want his secrets given away to competitors. Just dodge the old man round the sheds, get into conversation with his staff, keep your eyes open generally and you'll pick up as much as you want for half a column. And when you've got your notes together bring 'em along to me. I'll put 'em shipshape for you."

I thanked him very gratefully.

The mushroom-sheds are situated in a field some distance from my residence, and I found it rather a fatiguing walk. After tedious watching in a cramped position through a gap in the hedge I saw Mr. Diggles emerge from a shed and move away from my direction. I lost no time in creeping forward under cover of my umbrella towards an employee, who was engaged in tossing manure. I drew out my note-book and interrogated him briefly and briskly.

"Do you rear from seeds or from cuttings?" I asked him. He scratched his head and appeared in doubt. "Are your plants self-supporting," I went on, "or do you train them on twigs? What would be the diameter of your finest specimen?" He continued indoubt. I adopted a conversational manner. "I suppose you'll be potting off soon? You must get very fond of your mushrooms. I think one always gets fond of anything which demands one's whole care and attention. I wonder if I might have a peep at yourprotégés?"

I edged towards the door of one of the sheds, but he made no attempt to accompany me. Instead he put his hands to his mouth and shouted, "Hi, maister!"

Mr. Diggles promptly responded to the summons. There was no eluding him. I put my note-book out of sight and inquired if he could oblige me with a pound of fresh-culled mushrooms. He could, and he did. I paid him four-and-sixpence for them, the control price presumably, but he gave me no invitation to view the growing crops. I retraced my steps without having collected even an opening paragraph for "A Fortune in Fungus."

The next day found me again near the sheds. Mr. Diggles was nowhere in sight. I approached unobtrusively through the hedge and accosted a small boy.

"Hulloa, my little man," I said, "what is your department in this hive of industry? You weed the mushrooms, perhaps, or prune them?" He seemed shy and offered no answer. "Perhaps you hoe between the plants or syringe them with insecticide?"

Still I could not win his confidence, so I tried pressing sixpence into his palm. "Between ourselves, what are the weekly takings?" I said. He pocketed the coin and put his finger on his lips.

"Belge,"he said. Then he bolted into a shed and returned accompanied by Mr. Diggles. There was nothing for it but to purchase another pound of mushrooms. I was no nearer "A Fortune in Fungus" than before.

Two days later, having received apparently reliable information that Mr. Diggles was confined to his bed with influenza, I ventured again to visit the sheds. I was advancing boldly across the field when to my consternation he suddenly appeared from behind a hayrick. I was so startled that I turned to fly, and in my precipitancy tripped on a tussock and fell. Mr. Diggles came to my assistance, and, when he had helped me to my feet and brushed me down with a birch broom he was carrying, I could do nothing less than buy another pound of his mushrooms.

I felt it was time to consult Biddick. He was sitting at his desk staring at a blank sheet of paper. His fingers were harrowing his hair and he looked distraught.

"Excuse the interruption," I said, "but this 'Fortune in Fungus' is ruining me;" and I related my experience.

At the finish Biddick gripped my hand and spoke with some emotion. "Dear old chap," he said, "it's my line, after all. It's funny. If only I can do it justice;" and he shook his fountain-pen.

This morning I received a guinea and a newspaper cutting entitled "A Cadger for Copy," which may appeal to some people's sense of humour. It makes none to mine. In the flap of the envelope Biddick writes: "Halves, with best thanks."

Upon consideration I shall forward him a simple formal receipt.

IT LOOKS QUITE LIKE PRE-WAR BACON."IT LOOKS QUITE LIKE PRE-WAR BACON.""ON THE CONTRARY, MADAM, PERMIT ME TO ASSURE YOU IT IS OUR FINEST 'POST-BELLUM STREAKY.'"

"IT LOOKS QUITE LIKE PRE-WAR BACON."

"ON THE CONTRARY, MADAM, PERMIT ME TO ASSURE YOU IT IS OUR FINEST 'POST-BELLUM STREAKY.'"

From a bookseller's catalogue:—

"THE ART OF TATTING.This book is intended for the woman who has time to spare for reading, Tatting being such quick and easy work that busy fingers can do both at the same time."

"THE ART OF TATTING.

This book is intended for the woman who has time to spare for reading, Tatting being such quick and easy work that busy fingers can do both at the same time."

An edition in Braille would appear to be contemplated.

The great Bacteriologist entered the lecture-room and ascended the platform. A murmur of astonishment ran round the audience as they beheld, not the haggard face of a man who daily risked the possibility of being awarded the O.B.E., but the calm and smiling countenance of one who had succeeded where other scientists, even of Anglo-American reputation, had failed.

In an awed silence this remarkable man placed on the table a dish, somewhat like a soup-plate in appearance, and carefully removed its glass cover.

"In this dish, gentlemen," said the Professor, "we have the Agar-Agar, which is without doubt the best bacteriological culture medium yet discovered and is especially useful in growing a pathogenic organism such as we are about to test this afternoon."

Then taking a glass rod, to the end of which was attached a small piece of platinum wire, the lecturer proceeded to scrape a little of the growth from off the Agar-Agar. Having done this he quickly deposited it in a test-tube half full of distilled water, which he then heated over a Bunsen burner. Finally, with the aid of a hypodermic syringe, a little of the liquid was injected into two sleepy-looking guinea-pigs, and with bated breath the result of the test was awaited.

Suddenly, without any warning, the two little animals rose on their hind legs and violently clutched each other by any part of the body on which they could get a grip. Before the astounded gaze of the onlookers they swayed, nearly fell, then went round in circles, at the same time executing every sort of conceivable contortion.

A great cheer burst from the audience. From all sides a rush was made for the platform, and the Professor was carried shoulder-high round the room.

The Jazz germ had been discovered at last.

AND YOU MAY THANK YOUR STARS I'VE GOT A MUZZLE ON!Pekinese (who has been accidentally pushed into the gutter by gigantic bloodhound)."AND YOU MAY THANK YOUR STARS I'VE GOT A MUZZLE ON!"

Pekinese (who has been accidentally pushed into the gutter by gigantic bloodhound)."AND YOU MAY THANK YOUR STARS I'VE GOT A MUZZLE ON!"

A Friendly Offer."A French Gentleman would like to make acquaintance with and English one to improve the English language."—French Provincial Paper.

"A French Gentleman would like to make acquaintance with and English one to improve the English language."—French Provincial Paper.

"Ste. Geneviève (422-572), born just outside Paris, spent a long life in the city."—Daily Paper.

Wherever it was spent, it was clearly a long life.

"—— College is the chosen home, the favoured haunt of educational success. Our staff is composed of lineal descendants of poets, seers, or savants, and it is the intention of this formidable phalanx of intellectuals to drive the whole world before them! We, of course, will say that these classes will be famous, and well worth attending. In Carlyle especially, the undersigned, with due modesty, expects to constitute himself a Memnon, and to receive the sage of Chelsea's martial pibroch from Hades, transmit it to the listeners, and to thrill them to the very marrow of their bones!"—Advt. in Indian Paper.

We should like to hear what the sage's martial pibroch has to say about the advertiser's "due modesty."

Among the many privileges which I propose to claim as a set-off for what are called advancing years is a greater laxity in quotation. When I have made a quotation I mean that that shallbethe quotation, and I don't intend to be driven either to the original source or to cyclopaedias of literature for verification. DANTE, for instance, is a most prolific fount of quotations, especially for those who do not know the original Italian. If I have quoted the words "Galeotto fu il libro e chi lo scrisse" once, I have quoted them a hundred times, always with an excellent effect and often giving the impression that I am an Italian scholar, which I am not. But surely it is not usual to abstain from a quotation because to use it would give a false impression? I am perfectly certain, for instance, that there are plenty of Italians who quoteHamlet, but know no more of English than the words they quote, so I dare say that brings us right in the end.

Then there is the quotation about "a very parfitt gentil knight," or words to that effect. At the moment of writing it down I felt that my version was so correct that I would go to the scaffold for it; but at this very instant a doubt insinuates itself. Is "parfitt" with two "t's" the right spelling?

It is related somewhere that TENNYSON and EDWARD FITZGERALD once conspired together to see which of them could write the most Wordsworthian line, and that the result was:—

"A Mr. Wilkinson, a clergyman."

But there was no need for TENNYSON to go beyond his own works in search of such an effect. He had already done the thing; and this was his effort, which occurs inThe May Queen:—

"And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace."

This sounds as if it could not be defeated or matched, but matched it certainly was inEnoch Arden. After describingEnoch Arden'sdeath and the manner in which he "roll'd his eyes" uponMiriam, the bard informs us:—

"So past the strong heroic soul away.And when they buried him the little portHad seldom seen a costlier funeral."

"So past the strong heroic soul away.

And when they buried him the little port

Had seldom seen a costlier funeral."

But I feel that I have strayed beyond my purpose, which was to claim a certain mitigated accuracy in quotation for those who suffer from advancing years.

"——, chambermaid at the —— Hotel, ——, was charged yesterday with stealing two diamond rings and a diamond and sapphire broom worth £80."—Daily Paper.

Yet Mr. CHAMBERLAIN refuses to impose a Luxury Tax.

From a list of the German Peace-delegates:—"Baron von Lersner, chief of the preliminary mission and ex-secretary of the German Embassy in Washington. He was also formerly attached to the German Embassy in Wales."—Belfast News Letter.

This sounds like another injustice to Ireland.

DO YOU KNOW, CHILDREN, THAT AT ONE TIME, LONG AGO, WE USED TO HAVE FIVE TOES ON EACH HAND, AND LIVE IN TREES?Scientific Uncle. "DO YOU KNOW, CHILDREN, THAT AT ONE TIME, LONG AGO, WE USED TO HAVE FIVE TOES ON EACH HAND, AND LIVE IN TREES?"Niece. "WE WON'T TELL ANYBODY, UNCLE."

Scientific Uncle. "DO YOU KNOW, CHILDREN, THAT AT ONE TIME, LONG AGO, WE USED TO HAVE FIVE TOES ON EACH HAND, AND LIVE IN TREES?"

Niece. "WE WON'T TELL ANYBODY, UNCLE."

The 23rd. To-day, my son,Two turgid years ago,Your father battled with the HunAt five A.M. or so;This was the day (if I excludeA year of painful servitudeUnder the Ministry of Food)I struck my final blow.Ah, what a night! The cannon roared;There was no food to spare;And first it froze and then it poured;Were we dismayed? We were.Three hundred yards we went or more,And, when we reached, through seas of gore,The village we were fighting for,The Germans were not there.But miles behind a 9·2Blew up a ration dump;Far, far and wide the tinned food flewFrom that tremendous crump:And one immense and sharp-toothed tinCame whistling down, to my chagrin,And caught me smartly on the shin—By Jove, it made me jump.A hideous wound. The blood that flowed!It was a job to dress;I hobbled bravely down the roadAnd reached a C.C.S.;Nor was I so obsessed with gloomAt leaving thus the field of doomAs one might easily assumeFrom stories in the Press.Though other soldiers as they fell—Or so the papers say—Cried, "GEORGE for England! Give 'em hell!"(It was ST. GEORGE'S Day),Inspiring as a Saint can be,I should not readily agreeThat anyone detected meBehaving in that way.Such is the tale. And, year by year,I shall no doubt relateFor your fatigued but filial earThe history of this date;Yet, though I do not now enhanceThe crude events of that advance,There is a wild fantastic chanceThat they will grow more great.So be you certain while you mayOf what in fact occurred,And if I have the face to sayOn some far 23rdThat on this day the war was won,That I despatched a single Hun,Or even caught a glimpse of one—Don't you believe a word.A.P.H.

The 23rd. To-day, my son,

Two turgid years ago,

Your father battled with the Hun

At five A.M. or so;

This was the day (if I exclude

A year of painful servitude

Under the Ministry of Food)

I struck my final blow.

Ah, what a night! The cannon roared;There was no food to spare;And first it froze and then it poured;Were we dismayed? We were.Three hundred yards we went or more,And, when we reached, through seas of gore,The village we were fighting for,The Germans were not there.

Ah, what a night! The cannon roared;

There was no food to spare;

And first it froze and then it poured;

Were we dismayed? We were.

Three hundred yards we went or more,

And, when we reached, through seas of gore,

The village we were fighting for,

The Germans were not there.

But miles behind a 9·2Blew up a ration dump;Far, far and wide the tinned food flewFrom that tremendous crump:And one immense and sharp-toothed tinCame whistling down, to my chagrin,And caught me smartly on the shin—By Jove, it made me jump.

But miles behind a 9·2

Blew up a ration dump;

Far, far and wide the tinned food flew

From that tremendous crump:

And one immense and sharp-toothed tin

Came whistling down, to my chagrin,

And caught me smartly on the shin—

By Jove, it made me jump.

A hideous wound. The blood that flowed!It was a job to dress;I hobbled bravely down the roadAnd reached a C.C.S.;Nor was I so obsessed with gloomAt leaving thus the field of doomAs one might easily assumeFrom stories in the Press.

A hideous wound. The blood that flowed!

It was a job to dress;

I hobbled bravely down the road

And reached a C.C.S.;

Nor was I so obsessed with gloom

At leaving thus the field of doom

As one might easily assume

From stories in the Press.

Though other soldiers as they fell—Or so the papers say—Cried, "GEORGE for England! Give 'em hell!"(It was ST. GEORGE'S Day),Inspiring as a Saint can be,I should not readily agreeThat anyone detected meBehaving in that way.

Though other soldiers as they fell—

Or so the papers say—

Cried, "GEORGE for England! Give 'em hell!"

(It was ST. GEORGE'S Day),

Inspiring as a Saint can be,

I should not readily agree

That anyone detected me

Behaving in that way.

Such is the tale. And, year by year,I shall no doubt relateFor your fatigued but filial earThe history of this date;Yet, though I do not now enhanceThe crude events of that advance,There is a wild fantastic chanceThat they will grow more great.

Such is the tale. And, year by year,

I shall no doubt relate

For your fatigued but filial ear

The history of this date;

Yet, though I do not now enhance

The crude events of that advance,

There is a wild fantastic chance

That they will grow more great.

So be you certain while you mayOf what in fact occurred,And if I have the face to sayOn some far 23rdThat on this day the war was won,That I despatched a single Hun,Or even caught a glimpse of one—Don't you believe a word.

So be you certain while you may

Of what in fact occurred,

And if I have the face to say

On some far 23rd

That on this day the war was won,

That I despatched a single Hun,

Or even caught a glimpse of one—

Don't you believe a word.

A.P.H.

Another Impending Apology."Miss —— looked sweetly pretty in an emerald-green satin (very short) skirt, white blouse, and emerald handkerchief tied over her head—an Irish Colleen, and a bonie one too!"—Colonial Paper.

"Miss —— looked sweetly pretty in an emerald-green satin (very short) skirt, white blouse, and emerald handkerchief tied over her head—an Irish Colleen, and a bonie one too!"—Colonial Paper.

"According to a Vienna message, the Government has introduced a Bill dealing with the former reigning Mouse of Austria."—Provincial Paper.

Alas, poor KARL!Ridiculus mus.

"Wanted one hour daily from ten to eleven morning at convenience an English Talking Family for practice of talking. Remuneration twenty rupees per mensem."—Times of India.

We know one or two "talking families" that we should be glad to export.

"In finding the defendant £3, Mr. Price told the defendant that he would get into serious trouble if he persisted in his conduct."—Evening Paper.

And he may not meet such a generous magistrate next time.

"Englishman, well educated, desires afternoon engagement; experienced in the care of children; good needlewoman; or would assist light housework."—Canadian Paper.

We hope we shall hear no further complaints from Canada that Englishmen are not adaptable.

I was sitting in the Club, comfortably concealed by sheets of a well-known journal, when two voices, somewhere over the parados of the deep arm-chair, broke in upon my semi-consciousness.

"... Then poor old Tubby, who hasn't recovered from his 1918 dose of shell-shock, got a go of claustrophobia and felt he simply had to get out of the train."

The speaker paused and I heard the clink of glass.

"Well?" said the other voice.

"So, before we could flatten him out, he skipped up and pulled the communicator thing and stopped the train; consequently we ran into Town five minutes behind time. There was the deuce of a buzz about it."

"What's five minutes in this blissful land of lotus-eaters? Why, I've known the Calais-Wipers express lose itself for half-a-day without a murmur from anyone, unless the Brigadier had run out of bottled Bass."

"But, my dear fellow," the first voice expostulated, "this was the great West of England non-stop Swallowtail; runs into Town three minutes ahead of time every trip. Habitués of the line often turn an honest penny by laying odds on its punctuality with people who are strangers to the reputation of this flier."

"A pretty safe thing to bet on, eh?" said the other voice. Again there was the faint clink of glass and then the voices drifted into other topics, to which, having re-enveloped myself in my paper, I became oblivious.

A few days later I was called away from London, with Mr. Westaby Jones, to consult in a matter of business. Mr. Westaby Jones is a member of the Stock Exchange and, amongst other trivial failings, he possesses one which is not altogether unknown in his profession. He cannot resist a small wager. On several occasions he has gambled with me and shown himself to be a gentleman of considerable acumen.

Our business was finished and we were on the way back to Town by the great West of England non-stop Swallowtail. We had lunched well and discussed everything there was to discuss. It was a moment for rest. I unfolded my paper and proceeded to envelop myself in the usual way.

I seemed to hear the chink of glasses ... a voice murmured, "A pretty safe thing to bet on."

Then in a dreamy sort of manner I realised that Fate had delivered Westaby Jones into my hands. When we were within twenty miles of London I opened the campaign. I grossly abused the line on which we were travelling and suggested that anybody could make a fortune by assuming that its best train would roll in well after the scheduled time.

Westaby Jones, having privily ascertained that the engine-driver had a minute or so in hand, immediately pinned me down to what he thought (but wisely did not say) were the wild inaccuracies of an imbecile. He did it to the extent of twenty-five pounds, and I sat back with the comfortable feeling of a man who will shortly have a small legacy to expend. At the moment which I had calculated to be most auspicious I suddenly threw off the semblance of boredom, rose up, lurched across the carriage and pulled the communication cord. (For the benefit of those who have not done this I may say that the cord comes away pleasantly in the hand and, at the same time, gives one a piquant feeling of unofficial responsibility.) Westaby Jones was, for a stockbroker, obviously astonished.

"What on earth are you doing?" he exclaimed.

"Sit down," I said; "this is my improved exerciser."

"But you'll stop the train," he shouted.

"Never mind," I replied; "what's a fine of five pounds compared to physical fitness? Besides," I added significantly, "it may be a good investment after all."

For perhaps twenty seconds there was the silent tension of expectation in the air and then I realised with a shock that the train did not show any signs of slackening speed. It was, if anything, going faster. I snatched frantically at the cord and pulled about half-a-furlong into the carriage. We flashed past Ealing like a rocket, and I desperately drew in coils and coils of the communicator until I and Westaby Jones resembled the Laocoon. It was no good. Smoothly and irresistibly we glided into the terminus and drew up at the platform three minutes ahead of time.

I have paid Westaby Jones, who was unmannerly enough to look pleased. I have also corresponded with the railway company, claiming damages on the grounds of culpable negligence. Unfortunately they require more evidence than I am prepared to supply of the reasonable urgency of my action.

From a theatre programme:—

"The name of the actual and responsible Manager of the premises must be printed at least once during every performance to ensure its being in proper order."

So that explains the noise going on behind the scenes.

The Cuckoo has arrived and will sing as announced.

One of the results of the arrival of the Cuckoo is the prevalence of notices, for those that have eyes to see, drawing attention to the ineligible character of nests. These take a variety of forms—such as "All the discomforts of home," "Beware of mumps," "We have lost our worm cards," "Serious lining-shortage"—but the purpose of each is to discourage the Cuckoo from depositing an egg where it is not wanted.

From all parts of the country information reaches us as to the odd nesting-places of wrens and robins. A curious feature is the number of cases where letter-boxes have been chosen, thus preventing the delivery of letters, and in consequence explaining why so many letters have not been answered. Even the biggest dilatory correspondent is not ashamed to take advantage of the smallest bird.

The difficulty of obtaining muzzles is very general and many dog-owners have been hard put to it to comply with the regulation. From these, however, must be excepted those who possess wire-haired terriers, from whose coats an admirable muzzle can be extracted in a few minutes.

The statement of a telephone operator, that "everything gives way to trunks," is said to have caused great satisfaction in the elephant house at the Zoo.

Please be careful where you tread,The fairies are about;Last night, when I had gone to bed,I heard them creeping out.And wouldn't it be a dreadful thingTo do a fairy harm?To crush a little delicate wingOr bruise a tiny arm?They 're all about the place, I know,So do be careful where you go.Please be careful what you say,They're often very near,And though they turn their heads awayThey cannot help but hear.And think how terribly you would mindIf, even for a joke,You said a thing that seemed unkindTo the dear little fairy folk.I'm sure they're simply everywhere,Sopromiseme that you'll take care.R.F.

Please be careful where you tread,

The fairies are about;

Last night, when I had gone to bed,

I heard them creeping out.

And wouldn't it be a dreadful thing

To do a fairy harm?

To crush a little delicate wing

Or bruise a tiny arm?

They 're all about the place, I know,

So do be careful where you go.

Please be careful what you say,They're often very near,And though they turn their heads awayThey cannot help but hear.And think how terribly you would mindIf, even for a joke,You said a thing that seemed unkindTo the dear little fairy folk.I'm sure they're simply everywhere,Sopromiseme that you'll take care.

Please be careful what you say,

They're often very near,

And though they turn their heads away

They cannot help but hear.

And think how terribly you would mind

If, even for a joke,

You said a thing that seemed unkind

To the dear little fairy folk.

I'm sure they're simply everywhere,

Sopromiseme that you'll take care.

R.F.

'TISN'T 'COS I LOVE YOU--IT'S 'COS YOU SMELL SO NICE.Harold (after a violent display of affection)."'TISN'T 'COS I LOVE YOU—IT'S 'COS YOU SMELL SO NICE."

Harold (after a violent display of affection)."'TISN'T 'COS I LOVE YOU—IT'S 'COS YOU SMELL SO NICE."

(By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks.)

The Great Man is, I suppose, among the most difficult themes to treat convincingly in fiction. To name but one handicap, the author has in such cases to postulate at least some degree of acquaintance on the part of the reader with his celebrated subject. "Everyone is now familiar," he will observe, "with the sensational triumph achieved by the work of X——;" whereat the reader, uneasily conscious of never having heard of him, inclines to condemn the whole business beforehand as an impossible fable. I fancy Mr. SOMERSET MAUGHAM felt something of this difficulty with regard to the protagonist of his quaintly-calledThe Moon and Sixpence(HEINEMANN), since, for all his sly pretence of quoting imaginary authorities, we have really only his unsupported word for the superlative genius ofCharles Strickland, the stockbroker who abandoned respectable London to become a Post-impressionist master, a vagabond and ultimately a Pacific Islander. The more credit then to Mr. MAUGHAM that he does quite definitely make us accept the fellow at his valuation. He owes this, perhaps, to the unsparing realism of the portrait. Heartless, utterly egotistical, without conscience or scruple or a single redeeming feature beyond the one consuming purpose of his art,Stricklandis alive as few figures in recent fiction have been; a genuinely great though repellent personality—a man whom it would have been at once an event to have met and a pleasure to have kicked. Mr. MAUGHAM has certainly done nothing better than this book about him; the drily sardonic humour of his method makes the picture not only credible but compelling. I liked especially the characteristic touch that showsStricklandescaping, not so much from the dull routine of stockbroking (genius has done that often enough in stories before now) as from the pseudo-artistic atmosphere of a flat in Westminster and a wife who collected blue china and mild celebrities.Mrs. Stricklandindeed is among the best of the slighter characters in a tale with a singularly small cast; though it is, of course, by the central figure that it stands or falls. My own verdict is an unhesitatingstet.

If there be any who still cherish a pleasant memory of the Bonnie Prince CHARLIE of the Jacobite legend, Miss MARJORIE BOWEN'SMr. Misfortunate(COLLINS) will dispose of it. She gives us a study of the YOUNG PRETENDER in the decade following Culloden. Figures such as LOCHIEL, KEITH, GORING, the dour KELLY, HENRY STUART, LOUIS XV., with sundry courtiers and mistresses, move across the film. I should say the author's sympathy is with her main subject, but her conscience is too much for her. I find myself increasingly exercised over this conscience of Miss BOWEN'S. She seems to me to be deliberately committing herself to what I can only describe as a staccato method. This was notably the case withThe Burning Glass, her last novel. Her narratives no longer seem to flow. She will give you catalogues of furniture and raiment, with short scenes interspersed, for all the world as if she were transcribing from carefully taken notes. Quite probably she is, and I am being authentically instructed and should be duly grateful, but I find myself longing for the exuberance of her earlier method. I feel quite sure this competent author can find a way of respecting historical truth without killing the full-blooded flavour of romance.

There is a smack of the Early Besantine about the earnestscion of a noble house who decides to share the lives and lot of common and unwashed men with an eye to the imminent appearance of the True Spirit of Democracy in our midst. Such a one is the hero of Miss MAUD DIVER'S latest novel,Strange Roads(CONSTABLE); but it is only fair to say thatDerek Blunt(néBlount), second son of theEarl of Avonleigh, is no prig, but, on the contrary, a very pleasant fellow. For a protagonist he obtrudes himself only moderately in a rather discursive story which involves a number of other people who do nothing in particular over a good many chapters. We are halfway through beforeDerektakes the plunge, and then we find, him, not in the slums of some industrial quarter, but in Western Canada, where class distinctions are founded less on soap than on simoleons. At the end of the volume the War has "bruk out," and our hero, apart from having led a healthy outdoor life and chivalrously married and been left a widower by a pathetic child with consumption and no morals, is just about where he started. I say "at the end of the volume," for there I find a publisher's note to the effect that in consequence of the paper shortage the further adventures of our hero have been postponed to a subsequent volume. It is to be entitledThe Strong Hours, and will doubtless provide a satisfactoryraison d'êtrefor all the other people who did nothing in particular in Vol. I.

If you had numberedElizabeth, the heroine ofA Maiden in Malaya(MELROSE), among your friends, I can fancy your calling upon her to "hear about her adventures in the East." I can see her delightedly telling you of the voyage, of the people she met on board (including the charming young man upon whom you would already have congratulated her), of how he and she bought curios at Port Said, of her arrival, of her sister's children and their quaint sayings, of Singapore and its sights, of Malaya and how she was taken to see the tapping on a rubber plantation—here I picture a gleam of revived interest, possibly financial in origin, appearing in your face—of the club, of dinner parties and a thousand other details, all highly entertaining to herself and involving a sufficiency of native words to impress the stay-at-home. And perhaps, just as you were considering your chance of an escape before tea, she would continue "and now I must tell you all about the dreadful time I had in the rising!" which she would then vivaciously proceed to do; and not only that, but all about the dreadful time (the same dreadful time) that all her friends had in the same rising, chapters of it, so that in the end it might be six o'clock or later before you got away. I hope this is not an unfairrésuméof the impression produced upon me by Miss ISOBEL MOUNTAIN'S prattling pages. To sum up, if you have an insatiable curiosity for the small talk of other people's travel,A Maiden in Malayamay not prove too much for it. If otherwise, otherwise.

I wish Col. JOHN BUCHAN could have been jogging Mrs. A.C. INCHBOLD'S elbow while she was writingLove and the Crescent(HUTCHINSON), All the essential people in hisGreenmantle, which deals, towards the end at any rate, with just about the same scenes and circumstances as her story, are so confoundedly efficient, have so undeniably learnt the trick of making the most of their dashing opportunities. In Mrs. INCHBOLD's book the trouble is that with much greater advantages in the way of local knowledge and with all manner of excitement, founded on fact, going a-begging, nothing really thrilling or convincing ever quite materialises. The heroine, Armenian and beautiful, is as ineffective as the hero, who is French and heroic, both of them displaying the same unfortunate tendency to be carried off captive by the other side and to indulge in small talk when they should be most splendid. And the majority of the other figures follow suit. On the face of it the volume is stuffed with all the material of melodrama; but somehow the authoress seems to strive after effects that don't come naturally to her. What does come naturally to her is seen in a background sketch of the unhappy countries of Asia Minor in the hands of the Turk and the Hun, which is so much the abler part of the book that one would almost rather the too intrusive narrative were brushed aside entirely. Personally, at any rate, I think I should prefer Mrs. INCHBOLD in essay or historical form.

Madame ALBANESI, inTony's Wife(HOLDEN AND HARDINGHAM), has provided her admirers with a goodly collection of sound Albanesians, but she has also given them a villain in whom, I cannot help thinking, they will find themselves hard-pressed to believe.Richard Savilewas deprived of a great inheritance byTony'sbirth, and as his guardian spent long years in nourishing revenge. He was not, we know, the first guardian to play this game, but that he could completely deceive so many people for such a long time seems to prove him far cleverer than appears from any actual evidence furnished. If, however, this portrait is not in the artist's best manner, I can praise without reserve the picture ofLady Féo, a little Society butterfly, very frivolous on the surface, but concealing a lot of nice intuition and sympathy, and I welcome her as a set-off to the silly caricatures we commonly get of the class to which she belonged. Let me add that in the telling of this tale Madame ALBANESI retains her quiet and individual charm.

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