Volume 107 — A Case of Parallelism.
Reading edition
(Extracts from the Report of a recent Conference.)
"Dr. Stanley Boyd advocated the use of milk and lentil soup."
"Mrs. Stanley Boyd thought that all such novels as The Heavenly Twins, The Manxman, and The Wages of Sin, should be tabooed."
Sir Peter.—A well-written letter in the Times last week puts what maybe called "The Hard Case of Sir Peter Edlin"—and, indeed, he must be pretty well case-hardened at the Middlesex Sessions by this time—clearly and forcibly before the public. Sir Peter Edlin, it seems, has been doing treble the amount of work for a two-third's salary. This should be righted, and the Judge at the Middlesex Sessions should be independent of the would-be ubiquitous L. C. C. Such is the opinion of this Correspondent to the Times, and it is doubtless the opinion of a fair and just majority. As Joseph Surface observes in The School for Scandal, "Well, it will give Sir Peter great satisfaction to hear this."
Only Natural.—A shareholder at a recent company meeting complained, with some amount of feeling, that he found it next to impossible to obtain a "good penny bun." Can it be that so many people have "taken the bun" that there are none left?
THE LINKS. 'Tis a brilliant autumn day, And the breeze has blown away All the clouds that lowered gray, So methinks, As I've half an hour to spare, I will go and take the air, While the weather still is fair, On the Links. I admire the splendid view, The delicious azure hue Of the ocean and—when, whew! With a crack, Lo! there drops a little ball Which elects to break its fall By alighting on the small Of my back. In the distance some one cries Some remark about my eyes, None too pleasant, I surmise, From the tone; So away my steps I turn Till a figure I discern, Who is mouching by the burn All alone. He has lost a new "Eclipse," And a little word that slips Front his sulky-looking lips Tells me true That, besides the missing ball, Which is gone beyond recall, He has lost—what's worst of all— Temper too. I conclude it will be best If I leave him unaddressed, Such a melancholy quest To pursue; And I pass to where I spy Clouds of sand uprising high Till they all but hide the sky From the view. They proceed, I understand, From a bunker full of sand, Where a golfer, club in hand, Freely swears As he hacks with all his might, Till his countenance is quite As vermilion as the bright Coat he wears. I observe him for a while With a highly-tickled smile, For it is the queerest style Ever seen: He is very short and stout, And he knocks the ball about, But he never gets it out On the green. Still I watch him chop and hack, Till I hear a sudden crack, And the club-head makes a track In the light— There' s a startled cry of "FORE!" As it flies, and all is o'er!— I remember nothing more Till to-night, When I find myself in bed With a lump upon my head Like a penny loaf of bread; And methinks, For the future I'll take care, When I want a little air, That I won't go anywhere Near the Links.
STUDIES IN ANIMAL LIFE.
The Stork as he might have been.
THE DILEMMA OF THE HEADLESS SPECTRE. I've always done my best to please, Then wherefore do they scoff? A headless ghost, in days like these, Is very badly off. Some say, for Myers we ought to go, And some for Mr. Stead. I really can't profess to know, For I have lost my head. They come and ask me for a key To life's dark prison cell. Oh, what's the use of asking me? However can I tell? I do not understand the speech Of all these learned men. Wildly I wave my hand at each, Again and yet again. I feel that I have stayed too late, And yet I can't move on. I'm utterly inadequate, Because my head is gone. I wish I were I don't know what, I wish that I were dead. I don't know if I am or not, For I have lost my head!