l his measures run,
And still abides the British Press,
Which men must credit, more or less,
To tell how things are done.
So by all bards with hearts of fire
Cheerfully be it sung,
That still our people may not tire
In doing well, but yet aspire;
Let these renew TYRTAEUS' lyre,
Let others hold their tongue.

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

(_BY MR. PUNCH'S STAFF OF LEARNED CLERKS_.)

A volume called _Curious Happenings_ (MILLS AND BOON) can boast at
least a highly attractive, open-and-see title; to which is added, in
the present instance, a wrapper-picture of the most intriguing brand.
Perhaps not quite all the contents of Miss MARJORIE BOWEN'S book
of short stories fully live up to the promise of its outside (what
stories could?), but they have amongst them one, from which both title
and picture are taken, of very unusual and haunting quality. So, if
you should only be able to snatch so much time from work of National
importance as suffices to read a single tale, begin at the start, and
be assured of having the best. Not that the others are without their
attractions, though one is rather gratuitously revolting. Laid in the
picturesque eighteenth century, they all exhibit Miss BOWEN'S very
pretty gift for costume-drama at its happiest. The trouble is that,
with a volume of such short tales, stories of situation, one gets too
familiar with the method--as, for example, in "The Folding Doors,"
where a lady's husband and lover had played out their scene before the
closed doors (with an alleged cut finger for the husband), and I
knew only too well in what state the flinging open of the doors would
reveal the lady herself. But perhaps I am exceptionally cursed in this
matter; and, anyhow, a volume that contains even one story so good as
"The Pond" is a thing for gratitude and rejoicing.

* * * * *

I may have been wrong in turning to a novel for mental relief; anyhow,
I have just come through one of the toughest bouts of relaxation I can
remember, and my only solace for the slight weariness of such repose
is the thought how much more tired the author, Mr. BASIL CREIGHTON,
must be. With such a hail-storm of metaphor and epigram constantly
dissolving in impalpable mist of mere words has he assaulted _The
History of an Attraction_ (CHATTO AND WINDUS) that the poor thing,
atomised, vaporised and analysed to the bone, lies limp and lif