stream,

What time a sad repentant Mea culpa

Was all my musing's theme.

"Mr. —— asserted that the Russian people would be permitted 'untrammelled to pork out their own salvation.'"

—Canadian Paper.

And why not the Irish people too?

THE MAN WHO WOULD GET TO THE SEASIDE.

Trains full.

Charabanks full.

Aeroplanes full.

The Last Resource.

Sea, Sand and Hotels full.

THE COUNTER-IRRITANT

Most men have a hobby. Timbrell-Timson's is to bear on his narrow shoulders the burden of Middle Europe. He calls it Mittel-Europa. Lately he has been sharing his burden with me.

"You know," he said, frowning—he always frowns, because of the burden—"I am rather uneasy about the Czecho-Slovaks."

"I'm not too comfortable about them myself," I said truthfully.

"There seems to be a certain lack of stability about their new constitution," said T.-T., "a—a—a—what shall I say?"

"A—er—um—a," I put in.

"Exactly; just so," said T.-T. He then got into his stride and gave me twenty minutes' Czecho-Slovakism when I was dying to discover whether Hobbs had scored his two-millionth run.

As T.-T. talked my mind wandered away into regions of its own—Aunt Jane's rheumatic gout, my broken niblick, the necessity for getting my hair cut. But sub-consciously I reserved a courteous minimum of attention for T.-T., and said, "H'm" and "Ha" with decent frequency. He went on and on, shedding several ounces of the burden. I decided that Aunt Jane ought to have a shot at Christian Science.

"... very much the same plight as the Poles," said T.-T., emerging from a cloud of Czecho-Slovakism and pausing to clear his meagre throat.

I felt it was up to me. "Of course," I said, "the Poles don't strike one as being—er—very—that is—"

"Precisely. They are not," said T.-T., as I knew he would. "But I am very relieved to see that M. Grabski...."

This was something new and sounded amusing. "Grabski?" I said. "What's happened to dear