GOLDWIRE AND POPPYSEED.

Who's that fat man, Dad?Small Boy. "Who's that fat man, Dad?"Dad. "Don't know. He looks like a profiteer."Small Boy. "Don't you think he must be one of the excess profiteers?"

Small Boy. "Who's that fat man, Dad?"Dad. "Don't know. He looks like a profiteer."Small Boy. "Don't you think he must be one of the excess profiteers?"

Small Boy. "Who's that fat man, Dad?"

Dad. "Don't know. He looks like a profiteer."

Small Boy. "Don't you think he must be one of the excess profiteers?"

"Lady Clerk wanted for office work, with an engineering firm, a few miles out of Leeds; also able to cook and serve a luncheon for the principals."—Yorkshire Paper.

If you want a cook nowadays you must employ a little diplomacy.

"During a discussion on over-crowded motor 'buses a member declared that on one occasion 110 persons were found 'clinging like bees' to a car certified to hold 0."—Provincial Paper.

Some of these might have been accommodated in the bonnet.

"In Nepal His Highness shot what is believed to be the record tigress. She was a most magnificent specimen, with a total length of 9 feet 7 inches—her body alone measuring 9 feet 5 inches."—Indian Paper.

The record, of course, consisted in the brevity of her two-inch tail.

From Smith Minor's Scripture-paper:

"Abraham was the man who was very keen to go into the land of Israel but he did not obey the word of the Lord, and the Lord's punishment to him was to forbid him to go into this land. There he sat on the heights of Abraham looking down on this land."

And crying "Wolfe, Wolfe!"

(A Chinese Poem.)

I make a bow; and thenI seize my brush (or pen)And paint in hues enamel-brightScenes of Cathay for your delight.Two buzzards by a stream,So still that they might seemPart of a carving wrought in boneTo decorate a royal throne.Two lovers by a mill,A picture sweeter still:Will Chen-ki-Tong in this pursuitEvade Pa-pa's avenging boot?Lotus and mirror-lakeÆsthetic contact make;No interfering dragon wagsHis tail across their travelling bags.Blue terraces of jade;Sherbet and lemonadeRegale the overloaded guests;They loose the buttons on their chests.Birds'-nests and shark-fin soup:I join the festive group;My simple spirit merely begsA brace of fifteenth-century eggs.Pa-pa with heavy whipWaits near the laden ship.The cloud that hides the ivory moonIs singularly opportune.Clamour of gilded gongsAnd shout of wedding songs.I do not fail to notice thatThe ophicleides are playing flat.Peacock and palanquin,Lacquered without, within.This is the jasmine-scented brideResting her fairy toes inside.Joss-sticks and incense sweet.The perfume of her feetCreates around her paradise.I also find it rather nice.A Chinese tale, you know,Works upward from below.The sense of mine is none the worseIf taken backward, verse by verse.

I make a bow; and thenI seize my brush (or pen)And paint in hues enamel-brightScenes of Cathay for your delight.

I make a bow; and then

I seize my brush (or pen)

And paint in hues enamel-bright

Scenes of Cathay for your delight.

Two buzzards by a stream,So still that they might seemPart of a carving wrought in boneTo decorate a royal throne.

Two buzzards by a stream,

So still that they might seem

Part of a carving wrought in bone

To decorate a royal throne.

Two lovers by a mill,A picture sweeter still:Will Chen-ki-Tong in this pursuitEvade Pa-pa's avenging boot?

Two lovers by a mill,

A picture sweeter still:

Will Chen-ki-Tong in this pursuit

Evade Pa-pa's avenging boot?

Lotus and mirror-lakeÆsthetic contact make;No interfering dragon wagsHis tail across their travelling bags.

Lotus and mirror-lake

Æsthetic contact make;

No interfering dragon wags

His tail across their travelling bags.

Blue terraces of jade;Sherbet and lemonadeRegale the overloaded guests;They loose the buttons on their chests.

Blue terraces of jade;

Sherbet and lemonade

Regale the overloaded guests;

They loose the buttons on their chests.

Birds'-nests and shark-fin soup:I join the festive group;My simple spirit merely begsA brace of fifteenth-century eggs.

Birds'-nests and shark-fin soup:

I join the festive group;

My simple spirit merely begs

A brace of fifteenth-century eggs.

Pa-pa with heavy whipWaits near the laden ship.The cloud that hides the ivory moonIs singularly opportune.

Pa-pa with heavy whip

Waits near the laden ship.

The cloud that hides the ivory moon

Is singularly opportune.

Clamour of gilded gongsAnd shout of wedding songs.I do not fail to notice thatThe ophicleides are playing flat.

Clamour of gilded gongs

And shout of wedding songs.

I do not fail to notice that

The ophicleides are playing flat.

Peacock and palanquin,Lacquered without, within.This is the jasmine-scented brideResting her fairy toes inside.

Peacock and palanquin,

Lacquered without, within.

This is the jasmine-scented bride

Resting her fairy toes inside.

Joss-sticks and incense sweet.The perfume of her feetCreates around her paradise.I also find it rather nice.

Joss-sticks and incense sweet.

The perfume of her feet

Creates around her paradise.

I also find it rather nice.

A Chinese tale, you know,Works upward from below.The sense of mine is none the worseIf taken backward, verse by verse.

A Chinese tale, you know,

Works upward from below.

The sense of mine is none the worse

If taken backward, verse by verse.

"Frederick ——, 14, was summoned for failing to display a white front light on a bicycle and pleaded guilty.Policewoman —— stated the facts, and was fined 5s."—Local Paper.

"Frederick ——, 14, was summoned for failing to display a white front light on a bicycle and pleaded guilty.

Policewoman —— stated the facts, and was fined 5s."—Local Paper.

Most discouraging.

"Florists by the thousand for cutting. They are also nice for borders round grass-plots, along hedges, round shrubs, etc."—Dutch Bulb Catalogue.

We should not dare to treat a British florist like this.

Does the ball come to me now?Bright Beginner(as opponent is serving). "Does the ball come to me now?"

"The English comedians are great," Mr.Douglas Fairbanksis reported to have told an interviewer. He has already accepted an invitation, we understand, to visit the Law Courts and hear Mr. JusticeDarlingask, "Who isMary Pickford?"

A turkey with four legs has been born in Purley. This attempt to divert attention from the visit of MissMary Pickfordseems to have failed miserably.

"The increased wages in the catering trade," says an employer, "will be borne by the public." How he came to think out this novel plan is what mystifies the man in the street.

There is one reason, we read, why tea cannot be sold cheaper. If "The Profiteer" is not the right answer, it's quite a good guess.

No burglar seems to visit the houses of the profiteers, says a Labour speaker. Perhaps they have a delicacy about dealing with people in the same line of business.

For the seventh successive time, says a news item, there are no prisoners for trial at Stamford Quarter Sessions. We can only remind the Court that bulldog perseverance is bound to tell in the end.

It is fairly evident that the Americans fully realised the physical impossibility of having American bacon and Prohibition in their own country at the same time.

Western Texas, says a cable message, is being eaten bare by a plague of grasshoppers. Before Prohibition set in a little thing like that would never have been noticed in Texas.

Some of the new rich, says a gossip, only wear a suit once. There are others like that, only it is a much longer once.

"A healthy boy's skin should be well tanned after a holiday," says a health-culture writer. Surely not, unless he has done something to deserve it.

"But why a Ministry of Mines?" asks a contemporary. The object, of course, is to put the deep-level pocket-searching operations of theChancellor of the Exchequeron a national basis.

Special arrangements have been made for expediting fish traffic on all railways. Meanwhile it is to be regretted that, owing to the nation's persistent neglect of scientific research, the self-delivering haddock is still in the experimental stage.

New Jersey has a clock with a dial thirty-eight feet across. In any other country this would be the largest clock in the world. In America it is just a full-size wrist-watch.

According to a medical writer, hearing can often be restored by a series of low explosions. The patient is advised to stand quite close to a man who has just received his tailor's bill.

Baby tortoises are being sold for two-pence-halfpenny each in Kentish Town, says a news item. One bricklayer declared that he wouldn't know what to do for exercise without his to lead about.

An extraordinary report reaches us from a village in Essex. It appears that in spite of the proximity of several letter-boxes, a water-pump and a German machine-gun, a robin has deliberately built its nest in a local hedgerow.

I.O.U.I.O.U.German Delegate(at Spa Conference). "WE HAVE NO MONEY; BUT, TO PROVE THAT WE ARE ANXIOUS TO PAY YOU BACK, LET ME PRESENT YOU WITH OUR BERNHARDI'S NEW BOOK ON THE NEXT WAR."

German Delegate(at Spa Conference). "WE HAVE NO MONEY; BUT, TO PROVE THAT WE ARE ANXIOUS TO PAY YOU BACK, LET ME PRESENT YOU WITH OUR BERNHARDI'S NEW BOOK ON THE NEXT WAR."

Monday, June 28th.—Less than thirty years ago the prophets of ill foresaw ruin for the British shipping trade if the dock labourers got their "tanner." The "tanner" has now become a florin, and this afternoon the Peers passed without a dissentient voice the Second Reading of a Bill to enable Port and Harbour authorities to pay it.

They were much more critical over the Increase of Rent Bill, and at the instance of LordMidletondefeated by a two to one majority the Government's proposal to deprive landlords of the power to evict strikers in order to provide accommodation for men willing to work. But the Government got a little of their own back on the clause authorising an increase of rent on business premises by forty per cent. LordSalisburywanted seventy-five per cent. and haughtily refused LordAstor'ssporting offer of fifty, but on a division he was beaten by 25 to 23.

In the Commons SirFrederick Hallcomplained that slate and slack were still being supplied to London consumers under the guise and at the price of coal. What was the Government going to do about it? Mr.Bridgemanreplied that control having been removed the Government could do nothing, and consumers must find their own remedy—a reply which drove SirFrederickinto such paroxysms of indignation that theSpeakerwas obliged to intervene.

Mr.Kiley'sgloomy vaticinations as to the disastrous effect of the Plumage Bill on British commerce met with no encouragement from SirRobert Horne. In his opinion, I gather, our foreign trade is quite safe, and the Bill will not knock a feather out of it.

To ViscountCurzon'sinquiry whether the Allies were going to proceed with the trial of theex-KaiserthePrime Ministerat first replied that he had "nothing to add." On being twitted with his election-pledge he added a good deal. When he gave that pledge, it seems, he did not contemplate the possibility that Holland would refuse to surrender her guest, and he had no intention of using force to compel her.William Hohenzollern, he considered, was not worth any more bloodshed. In that case the Government would save a good deal of Parliamentary time if they were definitely to write him off with their other bad debts.

Among other methods of brightening village life the Ministry of Agriculture has lately circulated "rules for the mutual insurance of pigs and cows." The intellectual development of our domestic animals evidently proceeds apace. We have all heard of the learned pig, but that the cow also should be deemed capable of conducting actuarial calculations does, I confess, surprise me.

Who was chief mourner?"Who was chief mourner?""I," said the Wren,"I, Wedgwood Benn,I was chief mourner."

"Who was chief mourner?"

"I," said the Wren,"I, Wedgwood Benn,

"I," said the Wren,

"I, Wedgwood Benn,

I was chief mourner."

Having heard the latest feat of the Sinn Feiners in kidnapping a British General, the House evidently considered that it had better hurry up with the Government of Ireland Bill. Clauses 51 to 69 were run through in double-quick time. Only on Clause 70, providing for the repeal of the Home Rule Act of 1914, did any prolonged debate arise. CaptainWedgwood Bennpleasantly described this as the only clause in the Bill that was not nonsense, and therefore moved its omission. He was answered by thePrime Minister, who declared that no Irishman would now be content with the Act of 1914, and defended the present Bill on the curious ground that it gave Ireland as much self-government as Scotland had ever asked for. SirEdward Carson'splea that it was a case of "this Bill or an Irish Republic" was probably more convincing. In a series of divisions the "Wee Frees" never mustered more than seventeen votes. The author of the Act of 1914, Mr.Asquith, was not present at the obsequies.

Tuesday, June 29th.—The establishment of a "National home" for the Jewish race in Palestine aroused the apprehensions of LordSydenhamand other Peers, who feared that the Moslem inhabitants would be exploited by the Zionists, and would endeavour to re-establish Turkish rule. LordCurzondid his best to remove these impressions. Authority in Palestine would be exercised by Great Britain as the Mandatory Power, and the Zionists would not be masters in their "national home," but only a sort of "paying guests." The confidence felt in SirHerbert Samuel'sabsolute impartiality as between Jews and Arabs was such that a high authority had prophesied that within six months the High Commissionerwould be equally unpopular with both races.

In the Commons Mr.Baldwinexplained that the Inland Revenue Authorities were taking all possible steps to collect income-tax in Ireland despite the obstacles placed in their way by the local authorities. Whereupon SirMaurice Dockrell, in his richest brogue, summarised the Irish situation as follows: "Is not the difficulty that they do not know which horse to back?"

A Bill "to continue temporarily the office of Food Controller" was read a first time. The House would, I think, be sorry to part with Mr.McCurdy, whose replies to Questions are often much to the point. He was asked this afternoon, for example, to give the salaries of three of his officials, and this was his crisp reply: "The Director of Vegetable Supplies serves the Ministry without remuneration; the post of Deputy-Director of Vegetable Supplies does not exist, and that of Director of Fish Supplies has lapsed."

Mr.Bonar Lawshattered two elaborately-constructed mare's-nests when he announced that the appointment of a British Ambassador to Berlin was made in pursuance of an agreement arrived at in Boulogne on the initiative of the French Government, and that LordD'Abernon'sname was suggested by theForeign Secretary. I am not betraying any confidence when I add that it will be no part of LordD'Abernon'snew duties to establish a Liquor Control Board on the Spree.

The Overseas Trade (Credits and Insurance) Bill was skilfully piloted through its Second Reading by Mr.Bridgeman. The House was much pleased to hear that only nine officials would be required to administer the twenty-six millions involved, and that their salaries would not exceed seven thousand pounds a year—although two of them were messengers.

But this temporary zeal for economy quickly evaporated when the Pre-War Pensions Bill made its appearance. Member after Member got up to urge the extension of the Bill to this or that deserving class, until SirL. Worthington-Evanspointed out that, if their demands were acceded to, the Bill, instead of costing some two millions a year, would involve three or four times that amount.

Wednesday, June 30th.—The Lords discussed, in whispers suitable to the occasion, the Official Secrets Bill. As originally drawn it provided that any person retaining without lawful authority any official document should be guilty of a misdemeanour. But, thanks to the vigilance of LordsBurnhamandRiddell, this clause, under which every editor in Fleet Street might have found himself in Holloway, was appreciably softened. Even so, the pursuit of "stunts" and "scoops" will be a decidedly hazardous occupation.

The Press Lords were again on the alert when the Rents Bill came on, and objected to a clause giving theLord Chancellorpower to order proceedings under the measure to be held in private. This time theLord Chancellorwas less pliant, and plainly suggested that the newspapers were actuated in this matter by regard for their circulations. Does he really suppose that the disputes of landlords and tenants will supply such popular "copy" as to crowd out the confessions of Cabinet Ministers?

HALF MEASURES.HALF MEASURES.Sir Robert Horne, President of the Board of Trade, and Sir Eric Geddes, Minister of Transport(speaking together). "That's a rummy get-up. But perhaps he couldn't afford anything better."

HALF MEASURES.

Sir Robert Horne, President of the Board of Trade, and Sir Eric Geddes, Minister of Transport(speaking together). "That's a rummy get-up. But perhaps he couldn't afford anything better."

Constant cross-examination on the Amritsar affair, involving the necessity of framing polite replies to thinly-veiled suggestions thatMontagurhymes withO'Dwyer, is making theSecretary of State for Indiaa little restive. The tone in which he expressed his hope that the promised debate would not be much longer delayed distinctly suggested that his critics would then be "for it."

Two days ago theMinister of Transportexpounded in a White Paper his elaborate plan for redistributing and co-ordinating the activities of the railway companies—the North Eastern excepted—and directing them all from an office in Whitehall. By the Ministry of Mines Bill it is proposed to treat the mines in much the same way. SirEric Geddes'scheme has yet to run the gauntlet of Parliamentary criticism. SirRobert Horne'shad its baptism of fire this afternoon, and a pretty hot fire it was. Miners like Mr.Bracecursed it because it did not go all the way to Nationalisation; coal-owners like SirClifford Cory, because it went too far in that direction. The voice of the mere consumer, who only wants coal cheap and plentiful, was hardly heard. The second reading was carried, but by a majority substantially less than the normal.

Thursday, July 1st.—Unfortunately the House of Lords does not contain a representative of Sinn Fein and therefore had no opportunity of learning the opinion of the dominant party in Ireland regarding LordMonteagle'sDominion of Ireland Bill. Other Irish opinion, as expressed by LordsDunravenandKillanin, was that it would probably cause the seething pot to boil over. LordAshbournemade sundry observations in Erse, one of which was understood to be that "Ireland could afford to wait." The Peers generally agreed with him, and, after hearing from theLord Chancellorthat of all the Irish proposals he had studied this contained the most elements of danger, threw out the Bill without a division.

"A sinecure, whose holder is in receipt of a salary of five thousand pounds per annum," was Mr.Bonar Law'sdescription of his office as Lord Privy Seal. The House rewarded the modesty of its hard-working Leader with laughter and cheers. None of his predecessors has excelled him in courtesy and assiduity; as regards audibility there is room for improvement. Mr.Lawrarely plays to the Gallery; but he might more often speak in its direction.

Four bricks over"There—that's what comes o' arguing along o' you; I've laid four bricks over me three 'undred!"

"There—that's what comes o' arguing along o' you; I've laid four bricks over me three 'undred!"

"The funniest game in the world is chicket."—Provincial Paper.

We should like to hear more of this humorous pastime.

A daily paper describes the contest at Henley for the "Silver Giblets." It is rumoured that the Goose that laid the Golden Eggs has become a bimetallist.

"If these men are types, how London has changed!" I said to myself. But can they be? I fear not; I fear that "exceptional" is the only word to use. Yet it was very remarkable to meet them all on the same day, Friday, June 25th.

The first was on an omnibus. A big man with a grey beard who was alone on the seat. Several other seats had only one passenger; the rest—mine among them—were full. At Westminster came up a youth and a girl who very obviously were lovers. Owing to the disposition of the seats they had to separate, the girl subsiding into the place beside the big man immediately in front of me. At first he said nothing, and then, just as we were passing the scaffolding of the Cenotaph, he did something which proved him to be very much out of the common, a creature apart. Reaching across and touching the youth on the shoulder, he said, "Let me change places with you. I expect you young people would like to sit together."

That was exceptional, you will agree. He was right too; the young people did like to sit together. I could see that. And the more the omnibus rocked and lurched the more they liked it.

The second exceptional man was a taxi-driver. I wanted to get to a certain office before it shut, and there were very few minutes to do it in. The driver did his best, but we arrived just too late; the door was locked.

"That's a bit of hard luck," he said. "But they're all so punctual closing now. It's the daylight-saving does it. Makes people think of the open-air more than they used."

As I finished paying him—no small affair, with all the new supplements—he resumed.

"I'm sorry you had the journey for nothing," he said. "It's rough. But never mind—have something on Comrade for the Grand Prix" (he pronounced "Prix" to rhyme with "fix") "in France on Sunday. I'm told it's the goods. Then you won't mind about your bad luck this afternoon. Don't forget—Comrade to win and one, two, three."

After this I must revise my opinion of taxi-drivers, which used not to be very high: especially as Comrade differed from most racehorses of my acquaintance by coming in first.

The third man perhaps was more unexpected than exceptional. His unexpectedness took the form not of benevolence but of culture. He is a vendor of newspapers. A pleasant old fellow with a smiling weather-beaten face, grey moustache and a cloth cap, whom I have known for most of the six years during which he has stood every afternoon except Sundays on the kerb between a lamp-post and a letter-box at one of London's busiest corners. I have bought his papers and referred to the weather all that time, but I never talked with him before. Why, I cannot say; I suppose because the hour had not struck. On Friday, however, we had a little conversation, all growing from the circumstance that while he was counting out change I noticed a fat volume protruding from his coat pocket and asked him what it was.

It was his reply that qualified him to be numbered among Friday's elect. "That book?" he said—"that'sBarchester Towers."

I asked him if he read much.

He said he loved reading, and particularly stories.Marie Corelli,Ouida, he read them all; butTrollopewas his favourite. He liked novels in series; he liked to come on the same people again.

"But there's another reason," he added, "why I likeTrollope. You see we were both at the Post Office."

Some day soon I am going to try him with one of Mr.Walkley'scriticisms.

E.V.L.

Standing on my foot"A—ah! D'you k—know you're s— standing on my foot?""Well, wot yer goin' to do abaht it?"

"A—ah! D'you k—know you're s— standing on my foot?""Well, wot yer goin' to do abaht it?"

"A—ah! D'you k—know you're s— standing on my foot?"

"Well, wot yer goin' to do abaht it?"

From an article on the Lawn Tennis Championship, purporting to be written by Mlle.Suzanne Lenglen:—

"Quelle journées ils était!""Mon dieu, comme était beau!""C'est le partie le plus disputé."Sunday Paper.

"Quelle journées ils était!"

"Mon dieu, comme était beau!"

"C'est le partie le plus disputé."

Sunday Paper.

We can only hope that the Entente is now strong enough to survive even these shocks.

IT'S ALL IN THE GAME.IT'S ALL IN THE GAME.

"There was a lot of men in the boat," said Priscilla from behind the table, where she sat daubing with little energetic grunts.

"Oh, there were, were there?" I answered from behindThe Times.

Confident of arousing my enthusiasm in the end, she continued to issue tantalising bulletins about the progress of the great work.

"It was an all-colour boat," she told me, "purple and yellow and green."

"A very nice kind of boat too," I agreed.

"And the biggest man of all hadn't gotanybody at all."

I suggested weakly that perhaps the biggest man of all had left his body behind on the table at home. The suggestion was scorned.

"No, he hadn't never had any body at all,thisman," she replied. And then, as my interest seemed to be flagging again, "They all hadveryrosy faces; and do you know why they had?"

"I don't, I'm sure."

"Because they'd eaten up all their greens."

Vanquished at last, I went over to visit the eupeptic voyagers. Seven in all, they stood in their bright boat on a blue sea beneath a round and burning sun. Their legs were long and thin, their bodies globular (all save one), and their faces large. They were dressed apparently in light pink doublets and hose, and on his head each wore a huge purple turban the shape of a cottage loaf, surmounted by a ragged plume. They varied greatly in stature, but their countenances were all fixed in the same unmeaning stare. Take it all in all, it was an eerie and terrible scene.

"I don't quite see how the boat moves along, Priscilla," I said; "it hasn't any oars or sail."

It was a tactless remark and the artist made no reply. I did my best to cover my blunder.

"I expect the wind blew very hard on their feathers," I said, "and that drove them along."

"What colour is the wind?" inquired Priscilla.

She had me there. I confessed that I did not know.

"It was a brown wind," she decided, impatient at my lack of resource, and slapped a wet typhoon of madder on the page. There was no more doubt about the wind.

"And is the picture finished now?" I asked her.

"No, it isn't finished. I haven't drawn the pookin yet."

The pookin is a confusion in the mind of Priscilla between a pelican and a toucan, because she saw them both for the first time on the same day. In this case it consisted of an indigo splodge and a long red bar cutting right through the brown wind and penetrating deeply into the yellow sun.

"It had averylong beak," observed Priscilla.

"It had," I agreed.

I am no stickler for commonplace colours or conventional shapes in a work of art, but I do like things to be recognisable; to know, for instance, when a thing is meant to be a man and when it is meant to be a boat, and when it is meant to be a pookin and when it is meant to be a sun. The art of Priscilla seems to me to satisfy this test much better than that of many of our modernmaestri. Strictly representational it may not be, but there are none of your whorls and cylinders and angles and what nots.

But I also insist that a work of art should appeal to the imagination as well as to the eye, and there seemed to me details about this picture that needed clearing up.

"Where were these men going to, Priscilla?" I asked.

"They was going to Wurvin," she answered in the tone of a mother who instructs her child. "And what do you think they was going to do there?"

"I don't know."

"They was going to see Auntie Isabel."

"And what did they do then?"

"They had dinner," she cried enthusiastically. "And do you know what they did after dinner?"

"I don't."

"They went on the Front to see the fire-escape."

It seemed to me now that the conception was mellow, rounded and complete. It had all the haunting mystery and romance of the sea about it. It was reminiscent of theAncient Mariner. It savoured of the books of Mr.Conrad. It reminded me not a little of those strange visitations which come to quiet watering-places in the novels of Mr.H.G. Wells. When I thought of those seven men—one, alas, disembodied—so strangely attired yet so careful of elementary hygiene, driven by that fierce typhoon, with that bird of portent in the skies, arriving suddenly with the salt of their Odyssey upon their brows at the beach of the genteel and respectable Sussex town, and visiting a perhaps slightly perturbed Auntie Isabel, and afterwards the fire-escape, I felt that here was the glimpse of the wild exotic adventure for which the hearts of all of us yearn. It left the cinema standing. It beat the magazine story to a frazzle.

"And who is the picture for, Priscilla?" I asked, when I had thoroughly steeped myself in the atmosphere.

"It's for you," she said, presenting it with a motley-coloured hand; "it's for you to take to London town and not to drop it."

I was careful to do as I was told, because I have a friend who paints Expressionist pictures, and I wished to deliver it at his studio. It seems to me that Priscilla, half-unconsciously perhaps, is founding a new school of art which demands serious study. One might call it, I think, the Pookin School.

Evoe.

It is said that Mr.Charles Chaplin, a prominent citizen of Los Angeles, Cal., has employed the greater part of the last few days in mopping his brow, sighing with relief and exclaiming "Gee!"

Mr.Chaplindeclares that missing the boat for England recently was the narrowest escape from death he has ever enjoyed. But for having been thus providentially prevented from visiting his native land in the company of MissMary Pickfordand Mr.Douglas Fairbanks(better known as "Mary" and "Doug." respectively) he would have come back to the dear homeland all unprepared for what would surely have happened to him no less than it happened to his illustrious colleagues in the film world.

Since his promised visit to our shores cannot long be delayed, he has already begun elaborate preparations for travelling in safety. He is growing a large beard and is learning to walk with his toes turned in. A number of his teeth will be blackened out during the whole of his European tour, and his hair will be kept well-ironed and cropped short.

He has engaged a complete staff of plain-clothes pugilists to travel with him everywhere and to stand on guard outside his bathroom door. They will also surround him during meal-times to prevent admirers from grabbing his food to hand down to their children as heirlooms.

He is being measured for a complete outfit of holeproof clothing, and his motor will be a Ford of seventeen thicknesses, with armoured steel windows, and fitted with first-aid accessories, including liniment, restoratives and raw steak. His entourage will include a day doctor, a night doctor, a leading New York surgeon and a squad of stretcher-bearers.

It has been suggested to him that a further precaution would be not to advise the Press of the date of his arrival; but that he considers would be carrying his safety-first measures to a foolish extreme.

STOP-PRESS NEWS.STOP-PRESS NEWS.Observant Visitor."I say—excuse me, but your hat is knocked in."Farm Hand."Whoi, I've knowed that for the last seven year."

STOP-PRESS NEWS.Observant Visitor."I say—excuse me, but your hat is knocked in."Farm Hand."Whoi, I've knowed that for the last seven year."

Observant Visitor."I say—excuse me, but your hat is knocked in."

Farm Hand."Whoi, I've knowed that for the last seven year."

It was a super-poet of the neo-Georgian kindWhose fantasies transcended the simple bourgeois mind,And by their frank transgression of all the ancient rulesWere not exactly suited for use in infant schools.But, holding that no rebel should shrink from fratricide,His gifted brother-Georgians he suddenly defied,And in a manifesto extremely clear and terseAnnounced his firm intention of giving up free verse.The range of his reaction may readily be guessedWhen I mention that for Browning his devotion he confessed,Enthroned above theSitwellsthe artless Muse of "Bab,"And said thatMarinettiwas not as good asCrabbe.At first the manifesto was treated as a joke,A boyish ebullition that soon would end in smoke;But when he took to writing in strict and fluent rhymeHis family decided to extirpate the crime.Two scientific doctors declared he was insane,But likely under treatment his reason to regain;So he's now in an asylum, where he listens at his mealsTo a gramophone recital of the choicest bits fromWheels.

It was a super-poet of the neo-Georgian kind

Whose fantasies transcended the simple bourgeois mind,

And by their frank transgression of all the ancient rules

Were not exactly suited for use in infant schools.

But, holding that no rebel should shrink from fratricide,His gifted brother-Georgians he suddenly defied,And in a manifesto extremely clear and terseAnnounced his firm intention of giving up free verse.

But, holding that no rebel should shrink from fratricide,

His gifted brother-Georgians he suddenly defied,

And in a manifesto extremely clear and terse

Announced his firm intention of giving up free verse.

The range of his reaction may readily be guessedWhen I mention that for Browning his devotion he confessed,Enthroned above theSitwellsthe artless Muse of "Bab,"And said thatMarinettiwas not as good asCrabbe.

The range of his reaction may readily be guessed

When I mention that for Browning his devotion he confessed,

Enthroned above theSitwellsthe artless Muse of "Bab,"

And said thatMarinettiwas not as good asCrabbe.

At first the manifesto was treated as a joke,A boyish ebullition that soon would end in smoke;But when he took to writing in strict and fluent rhymeHis family decided to extirpate the crime.

At first the manifesto was treated as a joke,

A boyish ebullition that soon would end in smoke;

But when he took to writing in strict and fluent rhyme

His family decided to extirpate the crime.

Two scientific doctors declared he was insane,But likely under treatment his reason to regain;So he's now in an asylum, where he listens at his mealsTo a gramophone recital of the choicest bits fromWheels.

Two scientific doctors declared he was insane,

But likely under treatment his reason to regain;

So he's now in an asylum, where he listens at his meals

To a gramophone recital of the choicest bits fromWheels.

"The bride's mother was handsomely attired in heliotrope stain."—Canadian Paper.

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

Whatever else may be said about Mr.Arthur Compton-Rickettas a novelist, it can at least be urged for him that he displays no undue apprehension of the too-facile laugh. For example, the humorous possibilities (or perils) in the plot ofThe Shadow of Stephen Wade(Jenkins) might well have daunted a writer of more experience.Stephen Wadewas an ancestor, dead some considerable time before the story opens, and—to quote the old jest—there was no complaint about a circumstance with which everybody was well satisfied. The real worry overStephenwas twofold: first, that in life he had been rightly suspected of being rather more than a bit of a rip, and secondly that his grandson,Philip, the hero of the story, had what seemed to him good cause for believing thatStephen'smore regrettable tendencies were being repeated in himself. Here, of course, is a theme capable of infinite varieties of development; the tragedies of heredity have kept novelists and dramatists busy since fiction began. The trouble is that, all unconsciously, Mr.Compton-Ricketthas given to his hero's struggles a fatally humorous turn.Philip'sinitial mistake appeared to be the supposition that safety could be secured by flight. But it has been remarked before now that Cupid is winged and doth range.Philipdashed into the depths of Devonshire, only to discover that even there farmers have pretty daughters; seeking refuge in the slums he found that the exchange was one from the frying-pan to the fire. In short,there was no peace for him, till the destined heroine.... Well, you can now see whether you are likely to be amused, edified, or bored by a well-meaning story, told (I should add) with a rather devastating solemnity of style.

M.Henri Domelier, the author ofBehind the Scenes at German Headquarters(Hurst and Blackett), must also be accounted among the prophets, for he foretold the invasion of Belgium. Before the War he edited a newspaper in Charleville, and when the Ardennes had been "inundated by the enemy hordes" and the local authorities had withdrawn to Rethel, he stayed in Charleville and acted as Secretary to the Municipal Commission. This organisation was recognised by the Germans, but to be secretary of it was still a dangerous post, and M.Maurice Barrèsin eloquent preface tells us of some of the sufferings that M.Domelierhad to endure while trying to carry out his difficult duties. The French who remained in Charleville had more than ample opportunities of seeing both theex-Kaiserand his eldest son, and M.Domelierwrites of them with a pen dipped in gall. No book that I have read puts before one more poignantly the miseries which the inhabitants of invaded France had to bear during "the great agony." For the most part they bore them with a courage beyond all praise; but some few, giving way under stress of physical suffering or moral temptation, forgot their nationality; and these M.Domeliermakes no pretence to spare. I think that even those of us who have definitely made up our minds regarding the Hun and want to read no more about him will welcome this book. For if it is primarily an indictment of Germans and German methods, it is hardly less a tribute to those who held firm through all their misery and never gave up hope during the darkest days.

I have before now met (in books) heroes who wore dungaree and had as setting an engineer-shop or a foundry, but never one who equalledJim Robinson(Hutchinson) in the strictness of his attention to business.Jimis the managing director ofCupreouscine, Limited, a firm which deals in a wonderful copper alloy which he himself has invented, and the book tells the story of his long and losing fight against the other directors, who are all in favour of amalgamation with another and much larger concern. Sketched in so few words the book's subject sounds unattractive, but MissUna L. Silberradhas a genius for making "shop" as interesting in her novels as it usually is in real life, andJim'splans and enterprises and the circuitous ways of the other directors provide material for quite an exciting story. When I say "other directors,"Mary Gore, representing a brother on the board ofCupreouscineand backingJimthrough thick and thin to the limit of her powers, must be excepted. In spite of her gracious reserve and self-possession, it is plain thatMaryloves the busy managing director; butJim'sfeelings are more difficult to fathom. In fact he is so long in mentioning his passion that it is quite a relief when, on the last page but one, what publishers call the "love interest" suddenly strengthens and their engagement is announced, very suitably and to her entire satisfaction, to the charwoman at the foundry.

Open the Doorwon the two hundred and fifty pounds prize offered by Messrs.Melrose, and without troubling to inquire into the merits of its rivals I wholeheartedly commend the award. For some curious reason its length (one hundred and eighty thousand words—no less) is insisted upon by the publishers, but as a matter of fact MissCatherine Carswell'snovel would have been even more remarkable if it had been of a less generous bulk. Her style is beyond reproach and she has nothing whatever to learn in the mysteries of a woman's heart. The principal scenes are placed in Glasgow, and theBannermannfamily are laid stark before us.Mrs. Bannermannwas so intent on the next world that for all practical purposes she was useless in this. Having been left a widow with two sons and two daughters, she was incapable of managing the easiest of them, let alone such an emotional complexity asJoanna. It is uponJoannathat MissCarswellhas concentrated her forces; but she is not less happy in her analysis of the many lovers who fell into the net of this seductive young woman. Indeed I have not for many a day read a novel of which the psychology seemed to me to be so thoroughly sound.

I hope "MissM.E. Francis" will take it as a compliment when I say thatBeck of Beckford(Allen and Unwin) should form part of the holiday equipment of all of us whose brows are not too exalted to enjoy it. In her unostentatious way MissFrancisknows how to provide ample entertainment, and she has nothing to learn in point of form. When we are introduced to theBecksthey are proud and poor, having impoverished themselves in the process of removing a blot from their escutcheon.Sir Johnis a working farmer, andLady Beckdoes menial duties with an energy that most servants of to-day would not care to imitate. The apple of their old eyes is their grandson,Roger, and the story turns on his struggle between pride and love. No true Franciscan need be told that he comes through his struggle, with flying colours. So quietly and easily does the tale run that one is apt to overlook the art with which it is told. But the art is there all the time.

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