all the means in my power to soothe her and to ascertain the reason of her unhappy state. But it was only after a considerable time and the expenditure of no little ingenuity on my part that she revealed the secret.

"I knew how it would be, John," she said between her sobs, "I knew from the first. I felt sure that, when baby came you wouldn't care for her. And—and you don't."

I at once took the child in my arms and guggled to it. The child, I am happy to tell you, Sir, responded at once to my paternal attention and guggled happily in reply. I felt patriotic pride in the part I had taken in adding to the womanhood of my beloved country.

A few days later I found my wife sobbing violently. Carrying the child with me—it was still guggling—I crossed to her and again used my best endeavours, not only in consolation, but to ascertain the cause of her fresh unhappiness. Again it was long before I obtained a reply. But at last she said: "I knew how it would be, John," her sobbing was as violent as before, "I knew from the first. I felt sure that when baby came you would only care for her and neglect me."

Now, Sir, what shall I do?

Your inquiring admirer,

Matthew Haile.

P.S.—My wife is sobbing again as I write. I have at last ascertained her trouble. It is that I don't care for the baby.

"The other night a rabbit ran for a quarter-of-a-mile in the flare of a lighted motor-car on the Eggleston road."—Teesdale Mercury.

"I hope," puffed the rabbit, well within record at the end of the fourteenth lap, "I hope it won't burn itself out before I've finished."

"To accomplish this distance at an average speed of 20 miles per hour would take 28-1/2 hours. To this time, however, had to be added the Channel crossing both ways, which takes, roughly, about eight hours."—Motor Cycling.

"Roughly" is good, alas!

It is difficult to order our emotions as we would have them be. Try as we will, we cannot read aloud the following extract from The Birmingham Weekly Post with the solemnity which properly it should call forth:—

"A feature of the programme was the opening chorus. During this a lady gardener in male attire arrived on the stage with a wheelbarrow full of vegetables, and caused amusement by throwing these among the audience. Presently the missiles commenced to hit persons, one victim, being the vicar, who, struck in the eye by a turnip, was compelled to retire."

ORANGES AND LEMONS.

II.—On the way.

"Toulon," announced Archie, as the train came to a stop and gave out its plaintive dying whistle. "Naval port of our dear allies, the French. This would interest Thomas."

"If he weren't asleep," I said.

"He'll be here directly," said Simpson from the little table for two on the other side of the gangway. "I'm afraid he had a bad night. Here, garçon—er—donnez-moi du café et—er——"But the waiter had slipped past him again—the fifth time.

"Have some of ours," said Myra kindly, holding out the pot.

"Thanks very much, Myra, but I may as well wait for Thomas, and—garçon, du café pour—I don't think he'll be—deux cafés, garçon, s'il vous—it's going to be a lovely day."

Thomas came in quietly, sat down opposite Simpson, and ordered breakfast.

"Samuel wants some too," said Myra.

Thomas looked surprised, grunted and ordered another breakfast.

"You see how easy it is," said Archie. "Thomas, we're at Toulon, where the ententes cordiales come from. You ought to have been up long ago taking notes for the Admiralty."

"I had a rotten night," said Thomas. "Simpson fell out of bed in the middle of