“You’d bring the Cook,” says she, “to book
    By just a look?” “I should.” 
  “By something terse you’d make the Nurse
    Feel even worse?” “I would.” 
  “You’d say to weep was merely cheap
    And, what was more, they knew it?”
  “I should,” say I; and her reply
    Is:  “Come along and do it.”

  How doth the Barrister delight
    In any low resort,
  And hurry from the losing fight
    To seek another Court.

* * * * *

“Mme. Tetrazzini had not been heard in London for five years and some little ooooooo aaaaaaaay shd cf cwyyy might have been busy on her voice.  Well, it has scarcely.”—­South African Paper.

Her many admirers will be glad to know this.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  BEHIND THE SCENES IN CINEMA-LAND.

“HAND OVER YOUR MONEY!”

“CERTAINLY, MY GOOD MAN.  NOW I DON’T WANT TO BE PERSONAL, BUT YOU’VE
GOT THE VERY FACE I WANT FOR MY NEW FILM, ’THE BAD MAN OF CRIMSON
CREEK.’  I’LL GIVE YOU FIFTY POUNDS A WEEK FOR AN EXCLUSIVE CONTRACT. 
CAN I TEMPT YOU?”]

* * * * *

THE BOAT-RACE AGAIN.

In June, 1914, I took a house on the Thames, in order to make sure of a good view of the Boat-Race; then a man threw a bomb at Serajevo and ruined my plans.  But now it is going to happen again.  And instead of fighting with a vast crowd at Hammersmith Bridge I shall simply walk up into the bathroom and look out of the window.  It is wonderful.

Yet meanwhile I have lost some of my illusions about this race.  I have a boat myself; I myself have rowed all over the course in my boat.  It is only ten feet long, but it is very, very heavy.  Still, I have rowed in it all over the course—­with ease.  Yet people talk as if it was a marvellous thing for eight men to row a light boat over the same water.  Why is that?  It is because the ignorant land-lubber regards the river Thames as a pond; or else he regards it as a river flowing always to the sea.  He forgets about the tide.  The Boat-Race is rowed with the tide; they deliberately choose a moment when the tide is coming in, and hope nobody will notice; and nobody does notice.  The tide runs about three miles an hour, sometimes more; if they just sat still in the boat they would reach Mortlake eventually, and the crowd would get a good look at them, instead of seeing them for ten seconds.  The race ought to be rowed against the tide.  Then it really would be a feat of strength; then it really would take ten years off their lives—­perhaps more.  Then perhaps small boys would drop things on them from the bridges, as they do on me.  I wonder they don’t try to do that now.  There is a certain quiet satisfaction in dropping things on people, especially if they are labouring under Hammersmith Bridge against the tide, and I should imagine that the temptation to drop things on a University crew would be almost irresistible.  It is not everyone who can look back and say, “In 1890 I hit the Oxford stroke in the stomach with a stone.”  As it is, though, I suppose they go too fast for that kind of thing.