me now a scheme

To use auxiliary steam)

Desires to seek its stable,

Why, John—I have not mentioned John;

He is the man who sits upon

The front of the Pantechnicon—

Will take them off. And when they're gone,

And hush succeeds to Babel,

"A visit was paid to Exeter, yesterday afternoon, by Lieut.-General Sir Henry Crichton Selater, G.C.B., K.C.B., C.B."—Provincial Paper.

More fortunate than the LORD CHANCELLOR, the gallant General seems to have had three Baths allotted to him.

"The enemy is engaged vigorously in making his expected protest against the Peace Terms.... To show the depth of his emotion he has declared a week of mourning. Theatres may remain open, but must stage plays appropriate to the occasion."

It is rumoured that the first play chosen was Measure for Measure.

"The War Office says there is no authority whatever for the statement that General Townshend would shortly be appointed Commander-in-Chief in the Tower Hamlets, F.C."—Star.

Mr. Punch begs leave to say that this item of football news did not appear in his columns.

PROCRASTINATION.

A few mornings ago I found among my letters a tragic document—a bill. A first quick glance at it filled me with despair, because I was luxuriating in that Fools' Paradise produced by the illusion that one is all paid up. Of course one never is; there is always something that one forgets, and this must have been it; so that, instead of perfect freedom from liability, here I was apparently still owing no less a sum than £5 9s.

The figures looked familiar enough, although disconcerting, but I rubbed my eyes when I found that they were made up of two items that had never come my way; the first being one-and-a-half dozen essences, £3 15s., and the second, a dozen poudre assortie, £1 14s. It could not be for me. Essences and powders wholesale are not in my line, nor is my acquaintance so extensive among the Fair as these quantities would imply.

A moment later all my anxieties dispersed and tragedy turned to comedy when I realised that the bill was for the hairdresser with the same name as my own, who lives next door but one and gets so much of my correspondence.

I therefore put the bill on my desk, intending to take it into the shop when I went out; and forgot it.

The Russian Corps de Ballet at the Alhambra is an assemblage of charming and gifted people who are at last giving their admirers full measure. Now that they have a vast theatre of their own and perform three ballets every night the old frustrated feeling that used to tantalise us at the Opera and the Coliseum has vanished. But I have still a grievance, and that is that the programme is so rarely the programme that I myself would have arranged. In other words the three ballets that form it are seldom the Big Three that are nearest my heart. To be explicit, I want Petroushka, and instead I find myself not knowing where to look while Scheherazade unfolds its appalling freedoms; I want Les Sylphides, and instead am given Les Papillons, which is very lovely but not of an equal loveliness; and I want Carnaval, and instead am offered the perplexities of The Fire Bird. It happened, however, that one night recently the perfect programme was given—Carnaval, Les Sylphides and Petroushka; but there was not a seat in the house, and I therefore had to stand in great discomfort, so that half the joy evaporated.

"Meanwhile" (I seem to hear you say) "what of the hairdresser who has the same name as yourself and plies his trade next door but one? This story—which so far is a poor enough thing—was surely to have been about him." (So I seem to hear you say.)

Patience! It is about him, but it is also about the evils of procrastination. In short, it is a kind of tract.

On the morning after my disappointing evening at the Alhambra, while moving some papers on my desk, I brought to light the bill for the powder and the essences. "Good Heavens!" I murmured, "the poor fellow will be distracted not to have this;" and I took it in to him straightway.

I apologised for the delay.

"There is no hurry," he replied. "Accounts can wait; But I hope," he added, taking an envelope from a drawer, "that this letter for you is equally unimportant. It came, I'm afraid, four days ago, and I was always meaning to bring it in, but forgot."

Unimportant! It was merely an invitation from the most adorable woman in London to share her box at the Russian Ballet on the previous night, to see what she knew was my most desired performance, Carnaval, Les Sylphides and Pelroushka.

Either the hairdresser or I must move.

Or we must both take a course of memory training. I believe there is some system on the market.

"WE DON'T YET REALISE, MY BOY, ALL THE VAST CHANGES THIS WAR WILL MAKE."

"NO, SIR. BUT ISN'T IT RATHER A LOT OF BLITHER ABOUT BRIGHTER CRICKET?"

"Wanted, five unfurnished Rooms and bath (1 large for music studio)."—Local Paper.

We are glad to note the spread of the healthful habit of singing in the bath.

THE PERILS OF REVIEWING.

A most unfortunate thing has happened to a friend of mine called —— to a friend of —— to a friend of ——. Well, I suppose the truth will have to come out. It happened to me. Only don't tell anybody.

I reviewed a book the other day. It is not often I do this, because before one can review a book one has to, or is supposed to, read it, which wastes a good deal of time. Even that isn't an end of the trouble. The article which follows is not really one's own, for the wretched fellow who wrote the book is always trying to push his way in with his views on matrimony, or the Sussex downs, or whatever his ridiculous subject is. He expects one to say, "Mr. Blank's treatment of Hilda's relations with her husband is masterly," whereas what one wants to say is, "Putting Mr. Blank's book on one side we may consider the larger question, whether ——" and so consider it (alone) to the end of the column.

Well, I reviewed Mr. Blank's book, Rotundity. As I expected, the first draft had to be re-headed "A Corner of Old London," and used elsewhere; Mr. Blank didn't get into it at all. I kept promising myself a sentence: "Take Rotundity, for instance, the new novel by William Blank, which, etc.," but