Volume 146 — AMENDING A BILL.

As the drought wore on to its third day I began to perceive that siphoning the pinks with soda-water out of the dining-room window was insufficient to meet the crisis. I rang up the nearest fire station and told them in my most staccato tones that the garden was being burnt to a cinder and would they please—but they rang off suddenly without making a reply. It was then that I had a bright idea—so bright that the thermometer which was hanging near my head went up two degrees higher still.

"Araminta," I cried (she was out on the lawn tantalising a rose-bush with a kind of doll's-house watering-can),—"Araminta, where does one go to get hose?"

Araminta bridled.

"I didn't mean that," I said, hastily coming out of the French-window to explain. "I meant the kind of long wiggly thing you fix on to a tap at one end and it squirts at the other."

She unbridled prettily. "Oh, that!" she said. "Altruage's have them, I suppose. Altruage's have everything. But I shouldn't get one if I were you. I believe they're fearfully expensive, and I'm going to buy a proper watering-can this morning."

My mind, however, was made up. "Expense," I thought, "be irrigated!" I said nothing about it to Araminta, but I decided to act.

The sun was still blazing with abominable ferocity at half-past twelve when I crossed the threshold of the Taj Mahal Stores and button-holed the first peripatetic marquis I could find.

"I want," I said, mopping my brows with the disengaged hand, "to see some hose."

"Certainly, Sir," he replied with a beaming smile. "For wear on the feet, I presume?"

"Not at all," I replied as coolly as possible. "For shampooing the head."

He looked puzzled.

"I want it to water my pinks with," I explained.

A look of divine condescension overspread his features. "Ah, you require our horticultural department for that, Sir," he said. "Fourth to the left, fifth to the right, and ask again." And with an infinitely horticultured gesture of the hand he motioned me on.

After a long and adventurous Odyssey and fifteen fruitless appeals I sighted a kind of green island shore, where a young man stood in an attitude of hauteur, surrounded by a number of pink and grey snakes and brightly coloured agricultural machines.

Making my way to him I sank exhausted into a wheel-barrow and murmured my request again.

"About what size is your garden?" he asked me when I had partially recovered.

"Slim," I said, "slim and graceful, but not really tall. Petite I believe is the technical term. What sizes have you got in stock?"

"Perhaps about forty yards would do, Sir," he suggested, uncoiling a portion of one of the reptiles at his feet. "I can recommend this as a strong and thoroughly reliable article. Then you will want a union, I suppose, and a brass nozzle and a drum."

"We all want union nowadays so much in everything, don't we?" I agreed pleasantly, "but I'm not so sure about the drum. You see the baby makes a most infernal noise as it is with a——"

He interrupted me to explain the uses of these things. The union, it seemed, was a kind of garter to attach the hose to the tap, and the drum was where the snake wound itself to sleep at night. "And the little pepper-castor, of course," I said, "is what one puts at the end to make it sneeze. I understand completely. If you will have them all sent round to me to-morrow I will pay on delivery."

When I got out into the street I found that a great change had taken place. The sky overhead was black with imminent rain. A sharp shower pattered at my heels as I sprinted for the 'bus, and when I disembarked from it the gutters were gurgling with ill-concealed delight. As I walked up the garden I noticed that the majority of the pinks were lying in a drunken stupor upon their beds.

Araminta met me at the door. "Why, you must be wet through," she said. "Go up and change instantly. And aren't you glad now you haven't got a silly old hose after all?"

"I am indeed," I replied.

Whilst I changed I thought deeply, and after dinner I sat down and wrote politely to Messrs. Altruage as follows:

"Mr. Hopkinson regrets that through inadvertence he ordered a quantity of hose this afternoon in Messrs. Altruage's horticultural department instead of their foot-robing studio. If Messrs. Altruage will kindly cancel this order Mr. Hopkinson will call in the morning and select six pairs of woollen socks."

In a climate like ours, I reflected as I posted the letter, there is a good deal to be said for these mammoth stores.

Hodge."That's the best of comin' early, Maria. We've got the best seats in the 'ouse!"

IN THE PARK.

(Souvent femme varie.)

Little girls in June attire, Grumbling to your governesses, What is it that you desire— Chocolates or satin dresses, Jewels, or a tiny hound, All your own, to drag around? Governesses who betray Little love for your employment, If a fairy bade you say What would give you most enjoyment, Would your fancy not pursue Unsubstantial shadows too? "Fleeting joys have little use"— So, as teachers, you endeavour In your charges to induce Virtues which will last for ever; But, as women, you resent Anything so permanent!

"A half followed, which made Vardon dormy 3, and another half at the 16th, where he made a brilliant recovery after he had hit a spectator, gave him the match by 3 and 2."

Times.

The recovery of the spectator wouldn't matter so much.

"A man who gave the name of James DewTJnamedhiskmhmhfr mhafr awdih acsih frdw hurst was remanded at Doncaster to-day charged with attempting to pass a worthless cheque for 30s."—Liverpool Express.

As soon as the cashier saw the first eighteen inches of the name at the bottom of the cheque he had his suspicions.

THE LAW OF THE AIR.

"Suburbia" writes:

"My neighbour says the air is free and nobody can claim it. Granted. But what I say is—ought my neighbour, considering the narrowness of his garden, to be allowed to erect what is called a giant-stride for the amusement of his sons and their young friends? When will this dilatory Government take such matters in hand?"

THE YOUNG EVERYTHING.

Under this comprehensive title Messrs. Byett and Prusit have arranged for a new series of books for the youth of both sexes, the aim of which is to provide instruction in a number of the most desirable and profitable walks of life. The principle of the work is that it is never too soon to end. The General Editor will be that profound and encyclopædic scholar and publicist, Mr. Anthony Asquith, who will be assisted by some of the ablest pens in the country.

The Young Bankrupt, by Sampson Waterstock.

An exhaustive treatise on the right mismanagement of one's affairs, with hints on the best method of bringing about a meeting of creditors. Among the chapters are the following: "The Way to Carey Street;" "How to settle things on one's Wife;" "Eccentric Bankrupts who have subsequently paid in full, with Interest."

The Young Bookmaker, by Sharkey Hawker.

A complete guide to the Turf, than which few professions offer a more exciting opening to a boy. How to calculate odds; how to cultivate the voice; how to concentrate public attention on the wrong horse—these and other topics are dealt with by competent hands.

The Young Filbert, by Gilbert Hallam.

In this entertaining volume the complete art of youthful boredom and ornamental and expensive sloth is exploited. Where to get clothes; how much to owe for them; how soon to discard them and get others; what adjectives to use; and where, the best nut food may be obtained—all is told here.

The Young Centenarian, by S. W. Calceby.

Hints on regimen by one of the most lucid and distinguished salubrists of the day. Everything that can assist a boy or girl quickly to attain to the status of honourable and decrepit old age is here carefully set forth. The author guarantees that if his instructions are carried out the conditions of centenarianism can be reached in ten years. "Lobster salad for new-born babes" is one of his more original ideas.

The Young Author, by Brompton MacGregor.

This illuminating treatise contains the fullest directions yet given for the securing of a mammoth circulation and a corresponding revenue. How to exasperate Mrs. Grundy; how to secure testimonials from Bishops and Archdeacons; how to get banned by the libraries—these and other passports to fame and fortune are set forth with the utmost particularity in this marvellous manual.

The Young Composer, by Eric Kornstein.

This fascinating brochure gives in a succinct and animated form absolutely infallible instructions for storming the citadel of musical fame. The enormous importance of capillary attraction, sartorial extravagance and controversial invective are duly dwelt on, while the charming tone and temper of the work may be gathered from the headings of some of the chapters: "The Curse of Conservatoriums;" "The Tyranny of Tune;" "The Dethronement of Wagner;" "A bas Beethoven."

The Young American, by Dixie Q. Peach.

In this priceless work everything that is most characteristic of the great American nation is invitingly spread before the English youth, so that in a few weeks he will be so well equipped with Transatlantic details as (if he wishes) to be mistaken for a real inhabitant either of a big London hotel or a Bloomsbury boarding-house.