Volume 103 — THE PLEA OF THE POSTMAN.

All work and no play Makes a dull boy; so they say, Proverb-mongers, pretty bards. "All play," may be, worse I'll bet 'em! If they doubt my word, then let 'em Try my hand at (Christmas) Cards!

Punch in reply.

True for you! You growl with reason. Hearts are trumps, and at this season, Pray remember, Goldylocks, When your cards arrive in flocks, Postman earns his Christmas Box!

"Rede me Aright!"—Sir Edward Reed, M.P., is anything but a "bruised reed." On the contrary. More correct would it be to describe him as A Bruiser Reed, for his plucky encounter with his adversaries, over whom he triumphed by "A Vast Majority."

"Tinned Dinners."

À propos of an interesting article in the Daily Telegraph last Thursday on this subject, the problem that most naturally suggests itself is, "How about the dinner, if you haven't any tin?" "No Song, No Supper" is pleasantly alliterative, but is not of universal application. "No tin, no dinner," may pass into a proverb, but, anyhow, it's a fact.

"Ah!" exclaimed our dear old Mrs. R., "I'm fond of high-class music. For many years I've heard my musical friends talking about 'Shoolbred's Unfinished Symphony.' Why doesn't he get it finished? When was it ordered? But there—I know geniuses are always unpunctual."