id="pgepubid00008">Spring Fashions for Men.

"Lord ——, who managed to be present, wore a festive air with a button-hole of lilies of the valley."—Ramsey Courier.

"LOST, between Huddersfield and Saddleworth, on the 7th inst, Two Swing Doors."—Provincial Paper.

What became of the rest of the storey?

The SULTAN has presented the GERMAN KAISER with a sword of honour—"Same I massacred the Armenians," as Rawdon Crawley would have said.

"The launching of the first great Allied offensive of this year has fallen at such a time in the week that it is unfortunately impossible to deal with it at all thoroughly in the present number."—Land and Water.

Sir DOUGLAS HAIG ought to be more considerate.

A RATIONAL QUESTION.

Dear Mr. Punch,—Seeing from your cartoon that you have views of your own on Food Control, may I put a puzzling case to you? The other evening, after the theatre, I wished to give some supper to a hungry young soldier friend who any day now may be summoned to France. It was a quarter past eleven and I led him to a restaurant near Piccadilly Circus which was still open and busy. But the door-keeper refused to admit him. I might go in—oh, yes—but not a soldier. Now I am an elderly civilian, doing very little for my country except carrying on my own business and paying my way and my taxes; but this boy is a fighter, prepared to die for England if need be. Yet it is I who am allowed to eat at night, and not he, however much in need of food he may be! Surely there is some want of logic here?

"April came in yesterday with none of the mildness eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeelllllll xfifl vbg emf shr tao hr which is proverbially associated with that month."—Glasgow Evening Times.

We can almost hear the printer's teeth chattering.

Mother. "SO YOU'RE THE BOTTOM BOY OF YOUR CLASS. AREN'T YOU ASHAMED OF YOURSELF?"

Peter. "BUT, MOTHER, IT'S NOT MY FAULT. THE BOY WHO'S ALWAYS BOTTOM IS AWAY ILL."

FIRST LINES.

After having spent an hour or so with WORDSWORTH'S sonnets I found my head so full of his sonorous adjuratory music that when in the middle of the night I woke as usual—from three to four is the worst time—my wooing of reluctant sleep took on a new fashion, and instead of repeating verses I made them. But I only once proceeded farther than the first line. Anybody who finds pleasure in poetic pains may add the other thirteen; to me such a task would savour of bad luck. Here, however, are some of my brave Rydalesque beginnings, with titles:—

To the ASSISTANT CONTROLLER of FOOD, wishing him success.

JONES, who wouldst keep potatoes for the poor—

To the Ex-PREMIER, now in very active retirement.

ASQUITH, till recently our honoured head—

To a prominent K.C. who has become First Lord of the Admiralty.

CARSON, who latterly hast taken salt—

To an Ex-Minister for Foreign Affairs, on a bed of sickness.

GREY, who wouldst Represent Proportionally—

To a Second-in-Command.

BONAR, who speakest for the absent GEORGE—

To the PRIME MINISTER, on a notable innovation.

GEORGE, who receivest Yankee journalists—

To the KAISER.

WILHELM, who dost thy damnedst every day—

To the CROWN PRINCE.

Namesake of mine, but O how different!

To an Ex-Colonel.

WINSTON, whose fighting days, alas! seem o'er—

To an assiduous Watcher of the literary skies.

SHORTER, who tellest readers what to think—

I then essayed two lines:—

With this effort I fell asleep.

Dawn of Humour in Scotland.

"Summer time begins at 2 a.m. on Sunday morning. Clocks should be put back an hour on Saturday night."—Ross-shire Journal.

The Secret of Longevity.

"The death occurred on Friday of Mr. ——, at the age of 94. Deceased had liver through the reigns of George IV., William IV., Victoria, Edward VII."—Provincial Paper.

From a picture-dealer's advertisement:—

"Corot got originally 500 francs for his painting of 'The Angelus,' which ultimately brought 800,000 francs."—The British Magazine (Buenos Aires).

Poor MILLET, it appears, got nothing.

WEIGHED IN THE BALANCE.

PART I.

Angelo Armstrong was a man of thirty. He had no capital, but by dint of honest and meritorious toil he found himself eventually earning a moderate salary as clerk in a London Insurance Office. He had been rejected for the Army on account of a defective knee-cap. Outside his work his tastes lay in the direction of botany and bibliomancy, which latter, according to the dictionary, is "Divination performed by selecting passages of Scripture at hazard." He also indulged in good works and was President of the Society for the Preservation of the Spiritual Welfare of the Deputy Harbour Masters at our English Seaports. Thus he was worthy of the name of Angelo by which his mother had insisted that he should be christened, after seeing a picture of the famous historical incident of "Non Angli sed Angeli."

Strangely enough he had never yet come under the influence of love. The three diversions given above had filled his spare hours, and woman was to him a sealed book. One morning he found a letter on his breakfast-table from an old family friend; it read as follows:—

"DEAR MR. ARMSTRONG,—Do tear yourself away from grimy London and come and spend the Christmas holidays with us. Only a small party and one of War-workers. We are all workers nowadays, aren't we? You must come!

N.B.—Our house is a long way from the Crematorium!

This settled it; he decided to go.

PART II.

The Pogson-Delaberes' party at "Ton Répos" consisted of four guests: Col. Maxton, from Aldershot, commanding the 106th Battalion of the Drumlie Highlanders; Miss Agatha Simson, a middle-aged munition-worker; our hero, and, oh! the lovely Miss Sylvia Taunton, another War-worker, aged 22. The result may be easily guessed. For two days the young people were left, naturally, very much together. They quickly fell into an easy intimacy, and on the third and last day of the holiday Angelo was profoundly in love. Gone were the botanizers, gone the bibliomants, gone the Deputy Harbour Masters.