good counsellor. Nothing has happened at Timbuctoo. I doubt very much whether anything could happen there.

Hush!

On the other hand, keep your eye on a spot not a thousand miles away from Clubland. Something will certainly happen there some day, and, when it does, bear in mind that I warned you.

Amazing Discovery.

Mr. ROOSEVELT'S discovery that, unknown to himself, he has been blind in one eye for over a year, is surely surpassed by the experience of Mr. Caractacus Crowsfeet, the popular M.P. for Slushington, who has just learnt, as the result of a cerebral operation, that he possesses no brain whatever. "It is indeed remarkable," said Mr. C. to me the other day, "for I can truthfully assert that in all my arduous political labours of the past ten years I have never felt the need or even noticed the absence of this organ." He coughed modestly. "I have always maintained that in politics it is the man, not the mind, that counts."

She Has One!

Mrs. Zebulon Napthaliski proposes to spend the winter on her Brighton estate. "Yes—I have received my sugar card," she told me, in answer to my eager query. "More than that I cannot say."

Fare and Foliage.

That charming fashion of decorating the dinner-table with foliage will be all the rage this winter. Well-known London hostesses, basket on arm, may daily be seen in Mayfair garnering fallen leaves from lawn, path or roadside. Some very daring Society women are dispensing altogether with a cloth, the table being covered with a complete layer of leaves. I doubt, however, whether this will become popular, guests showing a tendency to mislay their knives and forks in the foliage.

A Bon Mot.

Have you heard the latest bon mot that is going the round of the clubs? Mrs. Savory Beet, of Pacifist fame, has, as you will recall, announced her intention of taking up war work. "Ah!" was the comment of a cynical bachelor, "it was a case of her taking up something or being taken up herself!" His audience simply screamed with laughter.

Watch Out!

Don't be surprised if you hear of some sensational political developments in the near future. The Minister who said recently that the inevitable sequel to war was peace, was, in the opinion of those competent to judge but, by reason of their official position, unable to criticise, hinting at proposals which, if the signs and portents of the time go for anything, would have far-reaching effects on the question of Electoral Representation. I will say no more. Time alone will disclose my meaning.

Urchin (with an inborn terror of the Force). "OO, MUVVER! IT WON'T, WILL IT?"

OMINOUS.

"——went every morning to a firm of sausage-makers by whom he was employed as a horse-dealer."—Irish Paper.

"Rome, Saturday.

"The announcement is made to-day of the award by the King [of Italy] of gold medals to Lieutenant Giuseppe Castruccio and I sentence him to three months' hard."—Manchester Evening Chronicle.

When will British journalists learn not to interfere with the internal affairs of friendly nations?

THE LAST MATCH.

OUR SAMSONS.

"Wanted at once.—Reliable Man for carrying off motor lorry."—Clitheroe Advertiser.

"To-day the man possesses a second tumb, serviceable for all ordinary purposes."—Belfast Evening Telegraph.

In these days of restricted rations it seems a superflous luxury.

"Diamond Brooch, 15 cwt., set with three blue white diamonds; make a handsome present; £9 9s."—Derby Daily Telegraph.

It seems a lot for the money; but personally we would sooner have the same weight of coals.

THE WAY DOWN.

SYDNEY SMITH, or NAPOLEON or MARCUS AURELIUS (somebody about that time) said that after ten days any letter would answer itself. You see what he meant. Left to itself your invitation from the Duchess to lunch next Tuesday is no longer a matter to worry about by Wednesday morning. You were either there or not there; it is unnecessary to write now and say that a previous invitation from the PRIME MINISTER—and so on. It was NAPOLEON'S idea (or Dr. JOHNSON'S or MARK ANTONY'S—one of that circle) that all correspondence can be treated in this manner.

I have followed these early Masters (or whichever one it was) to the best of my ability. At any given moment in the last few years there have been ten letters that I absolutely must write, thirty which I ought to write, and fifty which any other person in my position would have written. Probably I have written two. After all, when your profession is writing, you have some excuse on returning home in the evenings for demanding a change of occupation. No doubt if I were a coal-heaver by day, my wife would see to the fire after dinner while I wrote letters. As it is, she does the correspondence, while I gaze into the fire and think about things.

You will say, no doubt, that this was all very well before the War, but that in the Army a little writing would be a pleasant change after the day's duties. Allow me to disillusion you. If,