[Illustration: "I NEVER ORDERED IT--AND I WON'T PAY FOR IT."]
"According to the latest census returns, the population of New York City is now £5,621,000."--_Indian Paper._
In dollars, of course, it would be considerably more.
"The Royal Dutch Mail steamer Stuyvesant will leave on Monday at 5 a.m. for Havre and Amsterdam. The tender leaves the Lighthouse Jetty at 8 a.m. punctually with passengers."--_West Indian Paper._
"The Chairman said the Council had never paid one penny for the oiling and washing of the fire brigade."--_Local Paper._
It is understood that while the noble fellows do not object to washing at reasonable intervals, they strongly deprecate oiling as unnecessarily adding to the risks of their dangerous calling.
Shall she, the England unafraid, That came by steady courage through The toughest war was ever made And wiped the earth with WILLIAM TWO (Who, though it strikes us now as odd, Was, in his way, a sort of little god)--
Shall she that stood serene and firm, Sure of her will to stay and win, Cry "Comrade!" on her knees and squirm To lesser gods of cheaper tin, Spreading herself, a _corpus vile_, Under the prancing heels of Mr. SMILLIE?
Humour forbids! And even they Who toil beneath the so-called sun, Yet often in an eight-hours' day Indulge a quiet sense of fun-- These too can see, however dim, The joke of starving just for SMILLIE'S whim.
And here I note what looks to be A rent in Labour's sacred fane; The priestly oracles disagree, And, when a house is split in twain, Ruin occurs--ay! there's the rub Alike for Labour and Beelzebub.
And anyhow I hope that, where At red of dawn on Rigi's height He jodels to the astonished air, LLOYD GEORGE is bent on sitting tight; Nor, as he did in THOMAS' case, Nurses a scheme for saving SMILLIE'S face.
Why should his face be saved? indeed, Why should he have a face at all? But, if he _must_ have one to feed And smell with, let the man install A better kind, and thank his luck That _all_ his headpiece hasn't come unstuck.
As I entered the D.E.F. Company's depôt, Melancholy marked me for her own. Business reasons--not my own but the more cogent business reasons of an upperling--had just postponed my summer holiday; postponed it with a lofty vagueness to "possibly November. We might be able to let you go by then, my boy." November! What would Shrimpton-on-Sea be like even at the beginning of November? Lovely sea-bathing, delicious boating, enchanting picnics on the sand? I didn't think. Melancholy tatooed me all over with anchors and pierced hearts, to show that I was her very own, not to be taken away.