“[NOTE:  The above is obviously from the pen of Mr. L.J.  Maxse, the editor of the National Review, who, as recently announced, has become associated with the editorial direction of the Pope.]”—­Manchester Evening Chronicle.

In pursuance of this arrangement His Holiness will in future take the style of Pontifex Maxsemus.

* * * * *

JOURNALISTIC CANDOUR.

“M.  Kerensky has announced that all leaders of the revolt will be tried by court-martial, and has indicated that a determined end will be put to the present state of affairs by the most drastic means.  Add Russian Fudge matter. utikwtStdheto”—­Adelaide Register.

We have lately read a good deal of “Russian Fudge matter.”

* * * * *

“PROMENADE CONCERTS, QUEEN’S HALL. 
Sir Henry J. Wood, Conductor.

Mondays—­Wagner. ——?——?—?——­
Tuesdays—­Russian. cymfwypo——­
Wednesdays—­Symphony. cmfwypemfwvfg
Thursdays—­Popular. cmfwypemfwycppwf
Fridays—­Beethoven. cmfwypemfwyy
Saturdays—­Popular. cmfwypemf——­”

                                              The Star.

A sporting effort to reproduce the effect of the barrage obbligato.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Footpad.  “I HEAR A CYCLIST COMING.  I’LL UPSET HIS BIKE, AND THEN—­”

BUT IT WAS MR. TUBER-CAINE, THE ALLOTMENT ENTHUSIAST, RETURNING FROM HIS LABOURS.]

* * * * *

TO AN INFANT GNU.

  Thomas (that may not be thine actual name
    But it will serve as well as any other),
  There be coarse souls to whom all flesh is game,
    Who do not hail thee as a new-born brother
  But merely as a thing at which to aim
    Their fratricidal guns; they simply smother
  The sense, which I for one cannot eschew,
  Of soul relationship ’twixt man and gnu.

  ’Tis not, O surely not, for such as these
    Those baby limbs are flung in lightsome capers;
  Those puny bleatings were not meant to please
    Facetious writers for the daily papers;
  Let baser beasts inspire the obvious wheeze,
    Wombats and wart-hogs, tortoises and tapirs;
  These lack the subtle spell thy presence flings
  About the spirit tuned to higher things.

  Well could I picture thee, a dusky sprite,
    With Dryad hoofs on Thracian ledges drumming,
  When day is slipping from the arms of night
    And all the hushed leaves whisper, “Pan is coming!”
  And thou before him, leaping with delight,
    Stirring all birds to song, all bees to humming
  And buds to blossoming—­but lo! at hand
  A tablet reads, “C.  Gnu.  Nyassaland.”