Front.

The prisons in Berlin are said to be full of women who have offended against the Food Laws, and in consequence of this many deserving criminals are homeless.

A party of American literary and scientific gentlemen have obtained permission to visit Egypt on a mission of research. In view of the American craze for souvenir-hunting it is anticipated that a special guard will be mounted over the Pyramids.

"'I am being overwhelmed with letters offering services from all and sundry,' Mr. Chamberlain said yesterday.

'As I haven't even appointed a private secretary at present,' he added, 'it is obviously impossible for me even to open them.'"—Daily Sketch.

We suppose the Censor must have told him what they were about.

MUSCAT.

LONDON'S LITTLE SUNBEAMS.

THE TAXI-MEN.

What (writes a returned traveller) has happened to London's taxi-drivers? When I went away, not more than three months ago, they occasionally stopped when they were hailed and were not invariably unwilling to convey one hither and there. But now ... With flags defiantly up, they move disdainfully along, and no one can lure them aside. Where on these occasions are they going? How do they make a living if the flag never comes down? Are they always on their way to lunch, even late at night? Are they always out of petrol? I can understand and admire the independence that follows upon overwork; but when was their overwork done? The only tenable theory that I have evolved is that Lord NORTHCLIFFE (whose concurrent rise to absolutism is another phenomenon of my absence) has engaged them all to patrol the streets in his service.

Sometimes, however, a taxi-driver, breaking free from this bondage, answers a hail; but even then all is not necessarily easy. This is the kind of thing:—

You. I want to go to Bedford Gardens.

The Sunbeam (indignantly). Where's that?

You. In Kensington.

The Sunbeam. That's too far. I've got another job at half-past four (or My petrol's run out).

You. If I gave you an extra shilling could you just manage it?

The Sunbeam (scowling). All right. Jump in.

This that follows also happens so frequently as to be practically the rule and not the exception:—

You. 12, Lexham Gardens.

The Sunbeam. 12, Leicester Gardens.

You. No; LEXHAM.

The Sunbeam. 12, Lexham Road?

You (shouting). No; Lexham GARDENS!

The Sunbeam. What number?

You. TWELVE!

To illustrate the power that the taxi-driver has been wielding over London during the past week or so of mitigated festivity, let me tell a true story. I was in a cab with my old friend Mark, one of the most ferocious sticklers for efficiency in underlings who ever sent for the manager. His maledictions on bad waiters have led to the compulsory re-decorating of half the restaurants of London months before their time, simply by discolouring the walls with their intensity. Well, after immense difficulty, Mark and I, bound for the West, induced a driver to accept us as his fare, and took our places inside.

"He looks a decent capable fellow," said Mark, who prides himself on his skill in physiognomy. "We ought to be there in a quarter of an hour."

But we did not start. First the engine was cold. Then, that having consented and the flag being lowered, a fellow-driver asked our man to help him with his tail-light. He did so with the utmost friendliness and deliberation. Then they both went to the back of our cab to see how our tail-light was doing, and talked about tail-lights together, and how easy it was to jolt them out, and how difficult it was to know whether they had been jolted out or not, and how jolly careful one had to be nowadays with so many blooming regulations and restrictions and things.

Meanwhile Mark was becoming purple with suppressed rage, for the clock was ticking and all this wasted time should, in a decently-managed world, have belonged to us. But he dared not let himself go. It was a pitiful sight—this strong man repressing impulse. At any moment I expected to see him dash his arm through the window and tell the driver what he thought of him; but he did not. He did nothing; but I could hear his blood boil.

Then at last our man mounted the box, and just at that moment (this is an absolutely true story) it chanced that an errand-boy asked him the way to Panton Street, and he got down from the box and walked quite a little way with the boy to show him. And while he was away the engine stopped. It was then that poor Mark performed one of the most heroic feats of his life. He still sat still; but I seemed to see his hat rising and falling, as did the lid of WATT's kettle on that historic evening which led to so much railway trouble, from strikes and sandwiches to Bradshaw. Still he said nothing. Nor did he speak until the engine had been started again and we were really on our way and thoroughly late. "If it had only been in normal times," he said grimly, "how I should have let that man have it. But one simply mustn't. It's terrible, but they've got us by the short hairs!"

No doubt of that.

Mistress (to maid who has asked for a rise). "WHY, MARY, I CANNOT POSSIBLY GIVE YOU AS MUCH AS THAT."

Mary. "WELL, MA'AM, YOU SEE, THE GENTLEMAN I WALK OUT WITH HAS JUST GOT A JOB IN A MUNITION FACTORY, AND I SHALL BE OBLIGED TO DRESS UP TO HIM."

Gretchen. "WILL IT NEVER END? THINK