e Parliamentary precedents.

_MR. RAYMOND ASQUITH._ Yes, that's what he used to call Papa.

_MR. LLOYD GEORGE._ May I ask the Prime Minister if it is true that victims
of the Celtic pogrom are to be refused treatment by their panel doctors?

_MR. LAW._ As there will be no victims (shouts of "Found out" and "Afraid")
the question of medical treatment does not arise.

_MR. JOHN REDMOND._ Enough of this foolery. Enough of the deliberate
falsehood of Ministers. I go to Ireland at once, where half a million
resolute, dour, determined men are ready to defy this Government of
assassins.

(Loud Opposition cheers and waving of handkerchiefs, as Mr. REDMOND retires
from the House.)

* * * * *

[Illustration: "A SORT OF WAR."

PRESIDENT WILSON. "I HOPE YOU ARE NOT SHOOTING AT MY DEAR FRIENDS THE
MEXICANS?"

U.S.A. GUNNER. "OH, NO, SIR. WE HAVE STRICT ORDERS ONLY TO AIM AT ONE
HUERTA."]

* * * * *

[Illustration: OUR CRAFTY CATERERS.

Born in Odessa In 1901, and at 13 years of age thinking nothing of his 900
mile Walk to the Fair at Nijni-Novgorod, our hero--the "poularde de
Surrey"--at last arrives in London.

Now, how to make this treasure palatable to the British Public? First of
all we'll catch him (the British Public) in our cosy Appetiser Department.
Then Signor Sarsaparillo shall entertain him in the cloak-room.

We'll waft him up to the dining-room to the strains of the Blue Danubian
Band. We'll give him "La Boheme" before the "poularde"; and the Maxixe
during. A Terrible Turk shall give him coffee (with Coon accompaniment);
and we'll send him home with a silver-mounted sterilised tooth-pick and
presents for Madame and Baby. There!]

* * * * *

PER ASPARAGOS AD ASTRA.

Now we who sense the odorous Spring
Our various winter garments fling,
Cast off the heat promoting clout
That wise men keep till May is out,
And hail with joy and wear too soon
Suitings more fitly planned for June.

'Twas ever thus; and now we look
Askance on what arrides the cook,
Behold her boil and chop and strain
For us the cabbage all in vain.
She would have dished what most we scout,
But Brussels-sprouts at last are out.

And something else at last is in,
A something green and straight and thin.
Long looked for, long desired, its head
Well raised above its English bed,
It smiles at last and blesses