lice-station.

* * *

Hair tonic, declares the Washington Chief of Police, is growing in
popularity as a beverage. The danger of this habit has been widely
advertised by the sad case of a Chicago man who drank three shampoo
cocktails and afterwards swallowed a hair in his soup.

* * *

The mystery of the City gentleman who has been noticed lately going up to
public telephones and getting immediate answers is now solved. It appears
that he is a well-known ventriloquist with a weakness for practical jokes.

* * * * *

[Illustration: "I NEVER ORDERED IT--AND I WON'T PAY FOR IT."]

* * * * *

"According to the latest census returns, the population of New York
City is now L5,621,000."--_Indian Paper._

In dollars, of course, it would be considerably more.

* * * * *

"The Royal Dutch Mail steamer Stuyvesant will leave on Monday at 5 a.m.
for Havre and Amsterdam. The tender leaves the Lighthouse Jetty at 8
a.m. punctually with passengers."--_West Indian Paper._

Rather a mean trick to play on them.

* * * * *

"The Chairman said the Council had never paid one penny for the oiling
and washing of the fire brigade."--_Local Paper._

It is understood that while the noble fellows do not object to washing at
reasonable intervals, they strongly deprecate oiling as unnecessarily
adding to the risks of their dangerous calling.

* * * * *

MR. SMILLIE'S LITTLE ARMAGEDDON.

Shall she, the England unafraid,
That came by steady courage through
The toughest war was ever made
And wiped the earth with WILLIAM TWO
(Who, though it strikes us now as odd,
Was, in his way, a sort of little god)--

Shall she that stood serene and firm,
Sure of her will to stay and win,
Cry "Comrade!" on her knees and squirm
To lesser gods of cheaper tin,
Spreading herself, a _corpus vile_,
Under the prancing heels of Mr. SMILLIE?

Humour forbids! And even they
Who toil beneath the so-called sun,
Yet often in an eight-hours' day
Indulge a quiet sense of fun--
These too can see, however dim,
The joke of starving just for SMILLIE'S whim.

And here I note what looks to be
A rent in Labour's sacred fane;
The priestly oracles disagree,
And, when a house is split in twain,
Ruin occurs--ay! there'