High Majesty o'erlook

My rash presumption; may the memory die

Of how I won the match (and further took

The liberty of mopping up the bye);

Remember just a happy morning's round,

Also the fact that this alleged old fogey

Played at the last hole like a book and downed

The barely human feat of Colonel Bogey.

IF WE ALL TOOK TO MARGOTRY.

[Mrs. Asquith's feuilleton, which for so many people has transformed Sunday into a day of unrest, sets up a new method of autobiography, in which the protagonist is, so to speak, both Johnson and Boswell too. Successful models being always imitated we may expect to see a general use of her lively methods; and as a matter of fact I have been able already, through the use of a patent futurist reading-glass (invented by Signer Margoni), to get glimpses of two forthcoming reminiscent works of the future which, but for the chronique égoïstique of the moment might never have been written, and certainly not in their present interlocutory shape.]

I.

From "First Aid to Literature."

By Edmund Gosse.

... Not the least interesting and delicate of my duties as a confidential adviser were connected with a work of reminiscences which created some stir in the nineteen-twenties. How it came about I cannot recollect, but it was thought that my poor assistance as a friendly censor of a too florid exuberance in candour might not be of disservice to the book, and I accepted the invitation. The volume being by no means yet relegated to oblivion's dusty shelves I am naturally reluctant to refer to it with such particularity as might enable my argus-eyed reader to identify it and my own unworthy share therein, and therefore in the following dialogue, typical of many between the author and myself, I disguise her name under an initial. Quis custodiet? It would be grotesque indeed if one whose special mission was to correct the high spirits of others should himself fail in good taste.

Mrs. A. (laying down the MS. with a bang). I see nothing but blue pencil marks, and blue was never my colour. Why are you so anxious that I should be discreet? Indiscretion is the better part of authorship.

Edmund (earnestly). It is your fame of which I am thinking. If you adopt my emendations you will go down to history as the writer of the best book of reminiscences in English.

Mrs. A. (with fervour). I don't want to go down to history. I want to stay here and make it. And you (with emotion)—you have cramped my style. I can't think why I asked you to help.

Edmund. Everyone asks me to help. It is my destiny. I am the Muses' amicus curiæ.

Mrs. A. Oh, blow Latin! (Lighting two cigarettes at once) What's the good of reminiscences of to-day, by me, without anything about L.G.?

Edmund. Dear lady, it would never have done. Be reasonable. There are occasions when reticence is imperative.

Mrs. A. Reticence! What words you use!

(Cætera desunt.)

II.

From "A Week in Lovely Lucerne."

By D. Lloyd George.

... I do not say that the mountains hereabout are not more considerable than those of our own beloved Wales, but as material to be employed in perorations they are far inferior. There is not the requisite mist (which may symbolise ignorance or obstinacy or any temporary disturbance or opposition), later to be dispelled by the strong beams of the sun (representing either progress generally or prime-ministerial genius or pure Coalitionism). Other local features I felt, however, I might find rhetorically useful, such as Thorwaldsen's Lion, so noble, so—so leonine, but doomed ever to adhere to the rock, how symbolic of a strong idealist unable to translate his ameliorative plans into action! The old bridge too, uniting the two sides of the city, as one can attempt to link Radicalism and Coalitionism—how long could it endure? And so on. One's brain was never idle.

It was while we were at Lucerne that Lord Riddell and I had some of our most significant conversations. I set them down just as they occurred, extenuating nothing and concealing nothing.

Lord Riddell (with emotion). You are in excellent form to-day. Lucerne now has two lions—one of them free.

David (surprised). I free? (Sadly) You forget that Giolitti is coming.

Lord Riddell. But that is nothing to you. Try him with your Italian and he will soon go.

David. You are a true friend. You always hearten me.

Lord Riddell (with more emotion). But you are so wonderful, so wonderful! And now for to-day's amusements. Where shall we go? Up Mount Pilatus or to William Tell's Chapel?

David. There is something irresistible to a Welshman in the word chapel. Let us go there. And William Tell, was he not a patriot? Did he not defy the tyrant? I am sure that in his modest conventicle I can think of a thousand eloquent things. Let us go there.

Lord Riddell. My hero! my dauntless hero!

E.V.L.

"Even with a round of 73 in the morning Ray fell behind Vardon, who accomplished a remarkable round of 17 to lead the field."—Provincial Paper.

This is believed to be the first occasion on which any golfer has accomplished two holes in one shot.

"THE LION OF LUCERNE."

Mr. Lloyd George (having jodelled heavily). "NOT A SINGLE DISSENTIENT ECHO! THIS IS THE SORT OF PEACE CONFERENCE I LIKE." (Continues to jodel.)

Mabel (in barefaced attempt to detain Mother when saying "Good-night"). "Oh, Mummy, I would like to tell you a story about three little boys."

Mother. "No, no; go to sleep. There's no time to tell a story about three little boys."

Mabel. "Well, then, let me tell you a story about two little boys."

THE RABBITS GAME.

"Don't forget to say 'Rabbits' to-morrow," said Angela. Angela is aged nine and my younger sister; I am thirteen and my name is Anne.

We both looked inquiringly at Father, and, as he didn't seem to remember, Angela in pained surprise began to explain. "If you say 'Rabbits' before you say anything else on the first day of a month you get a present during the month, but you mustn't say anything else first, or you won't."

It all came out in one breath and, though it looks clear enough now, Father was very stupid.

"I dislike rabbits," he said, "and I am very busy; your Mother will probably be glad of them for the servants."

The rebuke in Angela's eyes was severe. "We haven't got any rabbits," she said; "we are only going to say 'Rabbits' to-morrow morning when we wake up and we thought you might like to do the same."

"Oh,