***

“Is the Kaiser Highly Strung?” asks a weekly paper headline.  We shall be able to answer this question a little later.

***

The report that an early bather was seen executing the Jazz-dance on the beach at Ventnor on Easter Monday seems to have some foundation.  It appears that his partner was a large crab with well-developed claws.

***

We hear that visitors at a well-known London hotel, who have patiently borne the extension of the gratuity nuisance for a considerable time, now take exception to the notice, “Please tip the basin,” which has been prominently placed in the lavatory.

***

On many golf-links nowadays the caddies are expected to keep count of the number of strokes taken for each hole.  One beginner whom we know is seriously thinking of employing a chartered accountant for this purpose.

***

What cricket needs, says a sporting contemporary, is bright breezy batting.  The game should no longer depend for its sparkle on impromptu badinage between the umpire and the wicket-keeper.

***

People who think they have heard the cuckoo before the first of May, declares a well-known ornithologist, are usually the victims of young practical jokers.  The conspicuous barring of the bird’s plumage should, however, make any real confusion impossible.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Absent-minded physician sent by his wife to buy “Two good sound Birds.”]

       * * * * *
    “Striking testimony as to the popularity of the Cataract Cliff
    Grounds—­when it is remembered that the period embraces the complete
    term of the war—­is the fact that during the past five years an
    aggregate of 428,390 persons was bitten by a snake.”

    Tasmanian Paper.

The snake may be fairly said to have done his bit.

* * * * *

Peace at the Seaside.

    [The public are being passionately warned against the threatened
    crush at watering-places in August of this year of Peace.]

  Stoutly we bore with April’s icy blizzards;
    “The worst of Spring,” we said, “will soon be through;
  Summer is bound to come and warm our gizzards
    And we shall gambol by the briny blue.”

  But even as we put the annual question,
    “Where shall we water? on what golden strand?”
  Warnings appear of terrible congestion,
    Of lodgers countless as the local sand.

  Lucky the man, the hardened strap-suspender,
    Who with a first-class ticket, there and back,
  Finds a precarious seat upon the tender,
    A rocky berth upon the baggage-rack.

  Should he arrive, the breath of life still in him,
    His face will be repulsed from door to door;
  He’ll get no lodging, not the very minim,
    Save under heaven on the pebbly shore.