hts with the broadsword on horseback, two to
fighting on foot at the barriers. Mr. LLOYD GEORGE will wrestle with
M. MILLERAND.

* * * * *

On the last day there will be a gorgeous masque, at which the PRIME
MINISTER will appear accoutred as Hercules, wearing a shirt of silver
damask, with a garland of green damask cut into vine and hawthorn
leaves on his head, and in his hand a club with fourteen spikes. His
Nemean lion skin will be of cloth of gold, and his buskins of the same
material. Fountains of French wine will play in the British marquee.
M. MILLERAND'S chief pavilion will have a magnificent dome, sustained
by one huge mast, covered with cloth of gold and lined with blue
velvet, with all the orbs of heaven worked on it in gold, and on the
top outside a hollow golden figure of St. Michael. All the Press, but
particularly those representing Lord NORTHCLIFFE'S papers, will be
not only allowed, but entreated and cajoled, to go everywhere and
see everything, to play about with the ropes of the tents and take
snippets of cloth of gold for souvenirs.

* * * * *

Oh, how different from Lympne (pronounced "mph")!

* * * * *

[Illustration: HIS OWN BUSINESS.

UNCLE SAM. "IF I WEREN'T SO PREOCCUPIED WITH IRELAND I MIGHT BE
TEMPTED TO GIVE MYSELF A MANDATE FOR THIS."]

* * * * *

[Illustration: _Magistrate (to incorrigible vagrant on his thirteenth
appearance)._ "I'M TIRED OF SEEING YOU, AND DON'T KNOW WHETHER TO SEND
YOU TO GAOL OR THE WORKHOUSE."

_Vagrant._ "MAKE IT GAOL, MY LUD, AS THERE YOU DO GET A ROOM TO
YERSELF, WHEREAS IN THE WORK'US YOU NEVER KNOW WHO YOU RUB SHOULDERS
WITH."]

* * * * *

HAMPSTEAD.

The trouble about Hampstead is that it is so very much further from
Kensington than Kensington is from it. Every day, I believe, there
pass between Kensington and Hampstead telephone conversations
something like this:--

_Kensington._ When are you coming to see us?

_Hampstead._ Why don't _you_ come _here_ instead?

_Ken._ It's such a fearfully long way.

_Hamp._ I like that. Do you know that a bus runs the whole way from
here to Kensington?

_Ken._ I don't blame it. But I'm jolly sure it doesn't go back again.

Then Hampstead rings off in a rage and nothing is done about it.

Mr. RUDYARD KIPLING must surely have known of this regrettable