again complacent,
  the Philosopher.  To pen and ink and paper hastened,
                              And, in a letter to the Field,
                              Told how the Wasp, though halved, was healed,
                              And how, despite a treatment rigorous,
                              It left consoled—­and even vigorous! 
  Moral.  The Moral—­here this poem stops—­is
                              ’Tis ne’er too late for mending Wopses!

* * * * *

A “CUTTING” OBSERVATION.—­This is from the Daily Graphic:—­

    GENERALS.—­TWO WANTED to do the work of a small house; L14-L18;
    for two in family; easy place, early dinners; very little company.

How sad!  At how low an ebb has our Army arrived under recent mal-administration!  In time we may have even “Our Only General” himself advertising for a place, or answering an advertisement like the above.  Not much “company drill”; so, if easy, it will be dull.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  A SALE OF YEARLINGS.—­THE VERY LAST OF THE SEASON.]

* * * * *

[Illustration:  A PERILOUS TUG OF WAR.]

“The labouring men, as a class, are rapidly approaching to a footing of full equality with the capitalist, and it is even possible they may become the stronger of the two....  They must be content to have their class interests, whatever they are, judged in the light of the public interests....  Labour and capital may have separate interests, yet their separate interests are little, in the long run, as compared with those in which they are united.”—­Mr. Gladstone at West Calder.

“Till the war-drum throbb’d no longer, and the battle-flags were furled, In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world”:  So the youthful Poet Laureate pictured it in limpid verse; Now the Federations fight each other!  Better is’t, or worse?  See, the battle-flags are flying freely as on War’s red field.  And the rival hosts are lugging, straining—­neither means to yield.  For the war-drums, are they silent?  Nay—­they’re not of parchment now, But, with printers’ ink and paper, you can raise a loud tow-row; Be it at a Labour Congress, Masters’ Meeting, Club, or Pub, Public tympana are deafened with their ceaseless rub-a-dub!

  Tug of War!  It is a Tug, and not, alas! mere friendly war,
  As when rival muscles tussle, Highland lad or British tar,
  ’Tis a furious fight a outrance, knitted, knotted each to each,
  Heels firm-planted, hands tense-clenching, till the knobby knuckles bleach. 
  Federated Masters straggle, Federated Toilers strain,
  Each intent on selfish interest, each on individual gain,
  And a chasm yawns between them, and a gulf is close behind!