George," I said at length, "what did that paragraph produce?"

"I got stacks of letters, mostly humorous, that will require answering."

"No presents?"

"One," answered George reluctantly, "from Emeline."

This was intriguing. George's manner with regard to it was discouraging, not to say morose. But I am not easily put off.

"What sort of present?" I persisted.

"Oh, handsome enough. A silver frame, quite good in its way, with a family group of herself and her husband and three kids inside it. I shall take that out."

"Any inscription?"

The moment I had said it I saw that I had found the trouble.

"Only three words," answered George evasively. He hesitated. "But there, Emeline never did know how to express herself."

"George," I demanded sternly, "what were those three words?"

"A Thank Offering," said George.

GLEANINGS FROM GRUB STREET.

(By our Special Parasite.)

A brilliant reception is being prepared for Professor Hjalmar Stormbarner, the Finnish novelist, on the occasion of his first visit to England in June. An address of welcome, composed by Mr. C. K. Shorter and Sir Robertson Nicoll, with lyrics by Mr. Max Pemberton and Lord Burnham, will be presented to him at the Grafton Gallery, and Dr. Clifford is arranging what he happily calls a "pious orgy of congratulation" at the Caxton Hall, at which Sir Alfred Mond, Baron de Forest, and Mr. Thornton, the new manager of the Great Eastern Railway, will deliver addresses. A demonstration in Hyde Park in honour of our guest is also being organised by his English publishers, Messrs. Dodder and Dodder, at which their principal authors will speak at thirteen different platforms, and a resolution will be simultaneously moved by blast of trumpet that Professor Stormbarner is the greatest novelist in the world.

Professor Stormbarner is of course best known in this country as the author of the famous romances, Letters from Limbo, The Devil's Ducats, Narcotic Nelly and The Sarcophagus, but his versatility and accomplishments in other departments of mental activity will come as a surprise to his English admirers. He has penetrated the Arctic circle in a bath-chair drawn by reindeer; he plays with great skill on the balalaika, and he has translated most of the works of Mr. Edmund Gosse into Mæso-Gothic. At the present moment he is undoubtedly the first favourite for the Nobel Prize, though Willie Ferrero runs him close in virtue of the patronage of Mr. Andrew Carnegie and the Dowager-Empress of Russia.

Perhaps the finest and most convincing tribute to the overwhelming genius of the great Finnish romancer is the quatrain recently written in his honour by Mr. Edmund Gosse:—

We understand that during his visit to London Professor Stormbarner will stay with Mr. David Dodder at Hampstead, but will spend a week-end with Mr. Lloyd George at Walton Heath.

Mrs. Ray Clammer, whose novels in praise of Blackpool, written at the commission of the municipal council, have gained her equal cash and kudos, has gone to Australia for a visit, but hopes to return in time to spend August at the famous health resort which her genius has done so much to adorn. Her only regret is that she has had to leave at home her Persian cat Abracadabra, called "Abe" for short. "Abe," by the way, figures prominently in a bright personal article about Mrs. Ray Clammer which Miss Marjorie Moult contributes to The Penwiper for May.

Lady Canvasser. "I've called to ask you to give us something for the O.P.Q.S. The——"

Old Gentleman. "My dear lady, I already give away one-tenth of my income."

Lady Canvasser. "Oh, just this year, couldn't you make it an eleventh?"

Another Impending Apology.

"Meanwhile Dick Smith is matched with Carpentier, and will receive £200 as the loser's end of a £1,200 purse offered by the Liverpool Stadium."—Daily Mail.

If it is as certain as this we shall put our money on Carpentier.

Evidently an accident to the heavy tragedians.

"Nurse, superior, or Help wanted, immediately: go to seaside: experienced infant."

Advt. in "The Manchester Guardian."

The infant: "Let her come. I think I shall know how to deal with her."

"WRONGLY ATTRIBUTED."

You've heard of Willy Ferrero, the Boy Conductor? A musical prodigy, seven years old, who will order the fifth oboe out of the Albert Hall as soon as look at him. Well, he has a rival.

Willy, as perhaps you know, does not play any instrument himself; he only conducts. His rival (Johnny, as I think of him) does not conduct as yet; at least, not audibly. His line is the actual manipulation of the pianoforte—the Paderewski touch. Johnny lives in the flat below, and I hear him touching.

On certain mornings in the week—no need to specify them—I enter my library and give myself up to literary composition. On the same mornings little Johnny enters his music-room (underneath) and gives himself up to musical composition. Thus we are at work together.

The worst of literary composition is this: that when you have got hold of what you feel is a really powerful idea you find suddenly that you have been forestalled by some earlier writer—Sophocles or Shakspeare or George R. Sims. Then you have to think again. This frequently happens to me upstairs; and downstairs poor Johnny will find to his horror one day that his great work has already been given to the world by another—a certain Dr. John Bull.

Johnny, in fact, is discovering "God Save the King" with one finger.

As I dip my pen in the ink and begin to write, Johnny strikes up. On the first day when this happened, some three months ago, I rose from my chair and stood stiffly through the performance—an affair of some minutes, owing to a little difficulty with "Send him victorious," a line which always bothers Johnny. However, he got right through it at last, after harking back no more than twice, and I sat down to my work again. Generally speaking, "God Save the King" ends a show; it would be disloyal to play any other tune after that. Johnny quite saw this ... and so began to play "God Save the King" again.

I hope that His Majesty, the Lord