Volume 150 — THE BOOKLOVER.
Reading edition
By Charing Cross in London Town There runs a road of high renown, Where antique books are ranged on shelves As dark and dusty as themselves. And many booklovers have spent Their substance there with great content, And vexed their wives and filled their homes With faded prints and massive tomes. And ere I sailed to fight in France There did I often woo Romance, Searching for jewels in the dross, Along the road to Charing Cross. But booksellers and men of taste Have fled the towns the Hun laid waste, And within Ypres Cathedral square I sought but found no bookshops there. What little hope have books to dwell 'Twixt Flemish mud and German shell? Yet have I still upon my back, Hid safely in my haversack, A tattered Horace, printed fine (Anchor and Fish, the printer's sign), Of sage advice, of classic wit; Much wisdom have I gained from it. And should I suffer sad mischance When Summer brings the Great Advance, I pray no cultured Bosch may bag My Aldus print to swell his swag. Yet would I rather ask of Fate So to consider my estate, That I may live to loiter down By Charing Cross in London Town.
The Reward of "Frightfulness."
"Amsterdam, Sunday.—Admiral von Tirpitz has been offered the degree of doctor hororis."
—Provincial Paper.
Taking it Badly.
"AUSTRIAN DEFENCES GRUMBLING BEFORE THE RUSSIANS."
Scotch Paper.
"What is Port?" asks an evening paper. According to Admiral von Scheer it is "A very present help in time of trouble."
The Chameleon.
From a feuilleton:—
"The black sheep had flushed crimson, but the hot colour soon died down leaving him very pale."
—The Daily Mirror.
"Experienced nurses wanted immediately; temporary £1 to 15s. weekly. Also excellent situations for ladies' first babies, £40 to £28."
Daily Paper.
The demand for juvenile labour is surely being overdone.