class="x-ebookmaker-pageno" title="6"/> killed by kindness, this news frankly shocks us, and we are sorry that it should have been passed by the Censor.

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Mr. Rudyard Kipling entered his fiftieth year last week. He did it quietly, without an ode from the Poet Laureate.

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The Vorwärts reports that there is a shortage of braces among the German soldiers at the Front. Ostend, evidently, is not "so bracing" after all.

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The Sultan of Turkey has issued a rescript announcing that the Sultan of Egypt will be tried by a court-martial of the 4th Army Corps, which is now operating against Egypt. They were wrong who alleged that the Turks are wanting in humour.

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The French Government has prohibited the exportation of butter. Curiously enough the day after the prohibition our provision merchant informed us that he was quite unable to supply us with our "real Devonshire butter" as usual.

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The latest recruiting poster at Hastings runs:—

"FALL IN! SOUTHDOWNS." But this does not necessarily mean cheaper mutton.

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"Reuter's New York correspondent wires that Mr. Eugene Zimmerman, whose death was announced the other day, was the railway magnate, and not the noted caricaturist popularly known as 'Zim.'" This news, when conveyed to the latter, was very well received.

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"NEW YEAR'S HONOURS.

P.C. FOR LABOUR LEADER."

At first we hoped that the police had come for Keir Hardie.

"CAPTURING THE ENEMY'S TRADE."

From Craven House, Northumberland street, W.C., there has been issued a pamphlet entitled 'British Trade with Russia,' compiled from consular reports, by Mr. Malcolm Burr, M.A., D.Sc., etc., the object of the work, which is published at sixpence, being to indicate the colossal potentialities of the Russian market, and to supply some data to the British merchant or manufacturer who contemplates entering it."—Kentish Mercury.

We have no fault to find with the above, except that it is placed under the general heading "Literature and Art," being actually neither.

PAYING GUESTS.

I came across Crawshaw in the road unexpectedly. I would rather meet a rate-collector than Crawshaw. He is the most dangerous beggar in England. He could induce a blind crossing-sweeper to guarantee half-a-crown a week to a Belgian Relief Fund. If only he were Chancellor of the Exchequer people would almost like paying income-tax.

"Good morning, old man," I said, trying to dash past him.

"Just the man I was looking for," said Crawshaw. "I want you."

"My dear fellow," I began, "I can't possibly afford——"

"I don't want your money," interrupted Crawshaw.

"Well, you've got all my spare blankets, underclothing and old novels."

"I want you to come to a little dinner I'm giving on Monday. Just a bachelor festival."

I looked at him suspiciously. "You intend to entice me into your house and produce a subscription list."

"My dear fellow, I'll do nothing of the sort. It's just that I want a few of my friends to have a good time. Look in about 7.30. You'll come? That's good."

I found a genial company assembled when I arrived.

"Now we're all here," said Crawshaw. "Come in to dinner, you men."

Two or three guests confided to me on the way that Crawshaw owed us a good dinner after