WEEK BY WEEK.

The attention of statisticians has lately been directed to a question of no little interest. To put it as shortly as possible, the point is to discover the number and size of the mayonnaises of lobster consumed in the course of one evening in the district bounded on the east by Berkeley Square, and extending westward as far as Earl's Court. It is well-known that no lobster ever walked backwards. Taking this as the basis of our calculations and assuming that π^n_1 is equal to the digestive apparatus of six hundred dowagers, we reach the surprising total of 932,146⅛ lobsters. No allowance is made for dressing or returned empties.

"A Poet" writes to us as follows:—"I have long been puzzled by the difficulty attending the proper construction of rhymed verse in English. Some words possess many rhymes, others only a few, others again none. Yet I find that the temptation to end a line with a non-rhyme-possessing word like 'month' is almost irresistible, and frequently gives rise to the most painful results. In the course of my emotional ballad entitled, 'The Bard's Daughter,' I was compelled on an average to kill half-a-dozen German bands every day, and to throw ten jam-pots at my butler for unseasonable interruptions. Can any of your readers help me?"

A flight of ducks was observed to settle on the Serpentine yesterday at four o'clock exactly. They had been moving in a westerly direction. The Park-keepers explain this curious incident by the well-known affection of these birds for water, combined with an occasional impulse to aërial navigation, but the explanation appears to us inadequate.

In Vienna the other day, a Cabman was observed to claim more than his fare from an elderly lady, whom he afterwards abused violently in the choicest Austrian for refusing to comply with his demands. After all, the nature of Cabmen all over the world varies very little. Elderly Ladies too, are much the same.

Mr. Stanley continues to attend dances, dinners and receptions at the usual hours. He has lately expressed himself in strong terms with regard to the action of a friendly Power on the continent of Africa. Mr. Stanley appears to think very lightly of the Foreign Office pigeon-holes, in which his treaties have been stored in the meantime.

A DOUBTFUL COMPLIMENT.

Sympathetic Spinster. "And is your other Boy at all like this one?"

Proud Mother. "Oh, no; quite a Contrast to him!"

Sympathetic Spinster. "How nice!"

IN THE KNOW.

(By Mr. Punch's Own Prophet.)

Ha! ha! I knew it, I knew it! All the grog-blossomed addle-pates in the world couldn't have induced me to back Surefoot. There they were cackling in their usual hugger-mugger Bedlamite, gin-palace, gruel-brained fashion, with Mr. J. at the head of them blowing a fan-fare upon his own cracked penny trumpet. But I had my eye on them all the time. For as the public must have discovered long before this, if there is one person in the world who sets their interests above everything, and swerves neither to the right nor to the left in the effort to save them from the depredations of the pilfering gang of pig-jobbers and moon-calves who chatter on sporting matters, that person, I say it without offence, is me.

What was it I said last week about Sainfoin? "Sainfoin," I said, "is not generally supposed to cover grass, but there are generally exceptions." A baby in arms could have understood this. It meant, of course, that Sainfoin never lets the grass grow under his feet, and that on the exceptional occasion of the Derby Day, he would win the race. And he did win the race. We all know that; all, that is, except Mr. J.'s lot, who still seem to think that they know something about racing. But I have made my pile, and so have my readers, and we can afford to snap our fingers at every pudding-headed barnacle-grabber in the world. So much for the Derby.

As for the Oaks, it would be impossible to conceive anything more scientifically, nay geometrically, accurate than my forecast. "Memoir," I said, "might do pour servir." Well, didn't she? And if anybody omitted to back her, all I can nay is, serve them right for a pack of goose-brained Bedlamites. For myself, I can only say that, having made a colossal fortune by my speculations, I propose shortly to retire from the Turf I have so long adorned.

A Biassed Author.—One whose MS. is written "on one side only."

ASK A WHITE MAN!

(Highly Humorous Song. Sung with Immense Success by King M'Tesa, of Uganda.)

"King M'Tesa inquired of Mr. Stanley what an 'Angel' was. He (Mr. Stanley) had not seen an angel, but imagination was strong, and M'Tesa was so interested in what he was told, that he slapped his thigh and said, 'There! if you want to hear news, or wish to hear words of wisdom, always ask a white man.'"—Mr. Stanley at the Mansion House.

"If you want to know, you know, ask a White Man."

Air—"Ask a Policeman!"

Chorus.

Chorus.

Chorus.