* * * * *

[Illustration:  Observant Lady (to gentleman alighting from ’bus). “I THINK YOU’VE DROPPED A PENNY!”]

* * * * *

“The Berlin critics have been accusing Mr. Bernard Shaw of having committed in his ‘Pygmalion,’ produced in Germany the other day, a plagiarism from Smollett’s novel, ’Peregrine Pickle.’  Mr. Shaw denies that he has ever read the novel in question, and, in an interview in the London ‘Observer,’ remarks:  ’The suggestion of the German papers that I had Pygmalion produced in Germany lest I should be detected in my own country of plagiarism, shows an amusing ignorance of English culture.’”—­Yorkshire Evening Post.

It does.  Why even our most cultured countryman, Mr. BERNARD SHAW, has never read Peregrine Pickle.

* * * * *

“Mr. Spademan, of Woodnewton, Northants, placed a dozen eggs under a hen some time ago, and there were hatched out thirteen chickens, one of the eggs being double-yolked.  All the young birds are doing well.

    Burroughes and Watts’ billiard tables for
    accuracy.”—­Birmingham Daily Mail.

They are, in fact, a lesson to Mr. STADEMAN’s hens.

* * * * *

LACONICS.

“As a matter of fact,” said the doctor, “you ought not to speak at all.  But that’s asking too much.  So let it go at this—­not a word more than is necessary.  Good-bye.”,

He left the room and I lay back pondering on his instructions.  How many words were really necessary?

The nurse soon after entered.

“So the doctor’s gone,” she said.

Obviously it wasn’t necessary to say Yes, since the room was empty save for me and her; so I made no reply.

She went to the window and looked out.  The sky was blue and the sunshine was brilliant.

“It’s a fine day,” she said.

No, I thought, you don’t catch me there; and said nothing.  But I reflected that yesterday I might myself have made the same inane remark as she.

“Would you like the paper?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said, and then almost regretted it, for having waited nearly fifty years for yesterday’s news surely I could wait longer.  Still, the paper would help to pass the time.

While she was fetching it I remembered a dream of last night which I had intended to tell her this morning.

But why do so?  A dream is of no account even to the dreamer.  Still, the recital might have made her laugh.  But why should laughter be bothered about?

The nurse brought the paper and I signified Thank you.

“I’ll leave you for a while now,” she said; “The fire’s all right.  Your drink’s by the bed.  You’ll ring if you want anything.”

All these things I knew.  My drink is always beside the bed; the bell is the natural communication between me and the house.  What a foolish chatterbox the woman was!  I nodded and she went out.