This will be a blow to some of our “bantams.”

* * * * *

    “Whether the rest of the journey be long or short, he would follow
    the same paths and continue to stand up for righteousness and
    liberty for the memocracy of this country.”—­Scotsman.

Is this another name for the woman’s vote?

* * * * *

    “The Telegraph Department notify that the delay in ordinary
    traffic to Madras is now normal.”—­Indian Paper.

In confirmation of the accuracy of the above statement an Indian correspondent writes that telegrams now reach their destination nearly as soon as letters.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  WAR-TIME COMRADESHIP.

Charlady ("obliging” for the afternoon in the absence of all other domestic help).  “WELL, I’M OFF NOW.  GOOD NIGHT, ALL.”]

* * * * *

A CONFESSION.

TO THE RESIDENTS OF CHISWICK MALL.

  There is a race of gentle folk
    Who dwell in Chiswick, well content
  In houses aged as the oak,
    But not unpleasing at the rent;
  They look across the sunny stream
    As Dr. JOHNSON used to look,
  And all their lives are one long dream,
    Though none of them has got a cook,
  And there are whispers in the camp,
  “It’s jolly, but it is so damp.”

  But they are not exciting.  No;
    And you would find that Chiswick Mall
  At half-past nine at night or so
    Is far from being Bacchanal;
  For, though there come from Chiswick Eyot
    Soft sounds of something going on
  Where the wild herons congregate
    And revel madly with the swan,
  You might suppose the people dead. 
  You mustn’t; they have gone to bed.

  No extra forces of police
    Were needed here at Armistice;
  No little European Peace
    Could tamper with a peace like this. 
  Yet on the Eve of this New Year
    A strange degrading thing occurred;
  A startled Chiswick woke to hear
    Such noise as she has never heard,
  The sound of dance and singing at
  About eleven.  O my hat!

  Yes, it was bad.  But what is worse
    They know not yet who broke the code,
  And the dread Chiswick Fathers’ curse
    Still hovers sadly, unbestowed
  Nay, there are wild false tales about
    And hideous accusations made;
  Men say old Piper led the rout
    With that young fellow from “The Glade,”
  While old maids murmur with a tear,
  “I’m told it was the Rector, dear.”

  And since I would not see this shame
    Be fastened on to guiltless men,
  And hear that there are those who blame
    The Editor at Number 10,
  As having found the evil ones
    And harboured them in his abode
  And, after stimulants and buns,
    Dragooned them, shouting, down the road
  And carried on till two or three—­
  I say, O spare him; it was ME!