an section of the Yugo-Slav Doukhobors.
It is understood that the local police have the matter well in hand, and
arrangements have been made, in case of emergency, for withdrawing all the
population within the precincts of the castle.

Great disappointment prevails at Llandudno owing to the refusal of Mr. EVAN
ROBERTS, the famous revivalist, to localise the materialisation of the
Millennium, which he has recently prophesied, at Llandudno during the
Easter holidays. By way of a set-off an effort was made to induce Sir
AUCKLAND GEDDES to give a vocal recital before his departure for America.
As his recent performance at a meeting of the London Scots Club proved, Sir
AUCKLAND is a singist of remarkable power, infinite humour and soul-shaking
pathos. Unfortunately his repertory is confined to Scottish songs, and on
this ground he has been obliged to decline the invitation, though the fee
offered was unprecedented in the economic annals of the variety stage.

* * * * *

[Illustration: MORE ADVENTURES OF A POST-WAR SPORTSMAN.

_P.-W.S. at a Hunt Meeting_ (_concluding a passage-at-arms with a member of
the ring_). "I'M NOT ONE OF THOSE TOFFS THAT YOU THINK YOU CAN IMPOSE UPON.
I'M A SELF-MADE MAN, I AM."

_Bookmaker._ "WELL, I WOULDN'T TALK SO LOUD ABOUT IT. IT'S A NASTY BIT O'
WORK."]

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks._)

Mr. FORREST REID is a writer upon whose progress I have for some time kept
an appreciative eye. His latest story, bearing the attractive title of
_Pirates of the Spring_ (UNWIN), proves, I think, that progress to be well
sustained. As you may have guessed from the name, this is a tale of
adolescence; it shows Mr. REID'S North-Ireland lads differing slightly from
the more familiar home-product, though less in essentials than in tricks of
speech, and (since these are day-school boys, exposed to the influence of
their several homes) an echo of religious conflict happily rare in the
experience of English youth. Mr. REID is amongst the few novelists who can
be sympathetic to boyhood without sentimentalising over it; he has
admirably caught its strange mingling of pride and curiosity, of reticence
and romance and jealous loyalty. The tale has no particular plot; it is a
record of seeming trifles, friendships made and broken and renewed,
sporadic adventures and deep-laid intrigues that lead nowhere. But yo