Halfway through tea Miss Davies suddenly waved her teaspoon aloft.  We looked at her and saw a great light shining in her eyes.

“Hip—­hip—­hippopotamus!” she shrieked.

We all agreed that Miss Davies had won.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  “PLAY US A CHUNE, MISTER.”]

* * * * *

          MAGNANIMITY.

  There was once a satirical pup
  Who with newspaper rule was fed up,
    So he wrote bitter rhymes
    Which disparaged The Times
  But were praised in its weekly Lit.  Supp.

* * * * *

“The Canadian officials refused to allow her to land because she did not proopse to carry out her original intention tom arry Captain ——­, and the New Yorkaut horities declined to interfere with the Canadian decision.”—­Daily Paper.

But what we really want to know is where Tom and ’Arry come in.

* * * * *

    “NEW YORK, Sunday.

    The s.s.  Minnehaha left here yesterday for London with fifty crates of
    American birds and a great variety of animals.

    Three trunks were carried for the oppossum to build in and for the
    beavers to gnaw.”—­Daily Mirror.

Nothing is said about the other creatures’ luggage.

* * * * *

From the time-table of a Hampshire motor-service:—­

“The Fares between any points on any route will be found where the vertical line of figures under the name of one of the points meets the horizontal line of figures which terminates in the name of the other of the two points between which it is desired to travel.”

The Hampshire Hog needs to be a very learned pig.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Mother. “WELL, DARLINGS, WHAT ARE YOU PLAYING?”

Margaret. “WE’RE PLAYING AT WEDDINGS.  I’M THE BRIDE AND BETTY’S THE BRIDESMAID.”

Mother. “BUT WHERE’S THE BRIDEGROOM?”

Margaret. “OH, THIS IS A VERY QUIET WEDDING.”]

* * * * *

THE REEFS.

  All the grim rocks that stand guard about Scilly—­
  Wingletang, Great Smith and Little Granilly,
  The Barrel of Butter, Dropnose and Hellweather—­
  Started to boast of their conquests together,
  Of drowned men and gallant, tall vessels laid low
  While gulls wheeled about them like flurries of snow
  And green combers romped at them smashing in thunder,
  Gurgling and booming in caverns down under,
  Sending their diamond-drops flying in showers. 
  “Oh,” said the reefs, “what a business is ours! 
  Since saints in coracles paddled from Erin
  (Fishing our waters for sinners and herrin’)
  And purple-sailed triremes of Hamilco