ummer. Find out
whether this is true, and, if true, explain its bearing on the thirst
of the swallower.

"Find out on your map the distance from Madrid to Jaffa, and state
what would be the cost of a cargo of Spanish onions and Jerusalem
artichokes delivered in the London Docks.

"What is the minimum time necessary for the incubation of a Scarlet
Pimpernel?

What are the statutory dimensions of a gigantic gooseberry? Have you
ever seen one, and if not why not?"

* * * * *

OUR YOUTHFUL HEROES.

"C.Q.M.S.E.A. ----, brother of Mr. W.M. ----, Falmouth, spent
his third birthday in the trenches on the 8th inst."--_Royal
Cornwall Gazette_.

* * * * *

"One or two of the Councillors are on war service, and their
places will be kept warm for them.... Councillors ---- and
J.R. ---- have not once been able to sit since they donned
khaki."--_Southern Times_.

We infer that the Councillors in question are training for the
cavalry.

* * * * *

"The British fleet bombarded Skarvika and Semuntoltos, south
of Orfano. Marshall's 7, Martyn's 2. Wakefield (3), Stone
(2), Cripps, and Turbyfield scored for the
winners."--_Gloucestershire Echo_.

We like this idea of recording the names of the successful marksmen at
once, without waiting for the formal despatches.

* * * * *

A DREAM SHIP.

Oh I wish I had a clipper ship with carvings on her counter,
With lanterns on her poop-rail of beaten copper wrought;
I would dress her like a lady in the whitest cloth and mount her
With a long bow-chasing swivel and a gun at every port.

I would sign me on a master who had solved MERCATOR'S riddle,
A nigger cook with earrings who neither chewed nor drank,
Who wore a red bandanna and was handy on the fiddle,
I would take a piping bos'un and a cabin-boy to spank.

Then some fine Summer morning when the Falmouth cocks were crowing
I would set my capstan spinning to the chanting of all hands,
And the milkmaids on the uplands would lament to see me going
As I beat for open Channel and away to foreign lands,

_Singing_--

Fare ye well, O lady mine,
Fare ye well, my pretty one,
For the anchor's at the cat-head and the voyage is begun,
The wind is in the mainsail, we're slipping from the land