ur of a Cuckoo.

"The summer-like weather which set in during the week-end has been
marked by the arrival of the cuckoo, which was heard at Shanklin on
Saturday and on Sunday morning at Staplers, bursting into full flower
of plum and pear trees, and general activity in the gardens and
fields."--_Local Paper._

* * * * *

"He (Mr. Asquith) could only say 'O Sanctas Simplicitas.' (Laughter.)"

_Irish Paper._

"I can only say: 'O sanctus simplicitus!'"

_Yorkshire Paper._

Neither version seems to us quite worthy of an ex-Craven Scholar.

* * * * *

AT THE PLAY.

"UNCLE NED."

As the final curtain fell on the Fourth Act there was talk of celebrating
the conversion of the villain in a bottle of the best (1906). But this did
not mean that the good wine of the play had been kept to the end. Indeed it
had been practically exhausted about the middle of the Third Act, and the
rest was barley-water, sweet but relatively insipid. So long as Mr. HENRY
AINLEY was just allowed to sparkle, with beaded bubbles winking all round
the brim of him, everything went well and more than well; the trouble began
when the author, Mr. DOUGLAS MURRAY, remembered that no British audience
would be contented with mere irresponsible badinage, however fresh and
delicate; that somehow he must provide an ending where virtue prevailed and
sentiment was satisfied.

So, when _Uncle Ned's_ humour had failed to move the brutal egoism of his
brother, beating upon it like the lightest of sea-foam on a rock of basalt,
he was made to fall back upon the alternative of heavy denunciation. And it
was significant that this commonplace tirade drew more applause than all
the pretty wit that had gone before it. Seldom have I been so profoundly
impressed with the difficulties of an art which depends for its success
(financial, that is to say) on the satisfaction of tastes that have nothing
in common beyond the crudest elements of human nature.

Mr. AINLEY had things all his own way. Between him, the romancer of the
light heart and the free fancy, and his brother, the millionaire tradesman
of the tough hide, there was the clash of temperaments but never the clash
of intellects. ("Nobody with a sense of humour," says _Uncle Ned_, "ever
made a million pounds.") That the man with the iron will should be beaten
at the last with his own weapons, and brought