ained, with shield unstained,
Prince ARTHUR, the good Prince Charming.

* * * * *

"Mrs. Hawke would be glad to employ a Wren for domestic work."

_Advt. in Daily Paper_.

Will she have to "live in"?

* * * * *

"If it be true, as SHELLEY said, that 'a thing of beauty is
a joy for ever,' the good people of Roydon are to be
congratulated on the new bridge over the River Stort."

_Local Paper_.

But, supposing KEATS, for instance, said it, will that make any
difference?

* * * * *

[Illustration: _Enlightened Minister_. "I CANNA UNDERSTAND YOUR
OBJECTION TO DANCING, MR. MCTAVISH. WE HAVE BIBLICAL AUTHORITY FOR IT.
DAVID HIMSELF DANCED."

_Elder_. "AY, BUT NO WI' A PAIRTNER."]

* * * * *

PRISCILLA FAILS TO QUALIFY.

"So it runned out of its little grassy place and went all round the
garden," said Priscilla, emerging suddenly in pink from under the
table.

"What are you playing at now, Priscilla?" I inquired.

"I'm a little pussy-cat."

"And what is this?" I asked, pointing to the waste-paper basket which
she had planted beside my chair.

"It's the pussy-cat's basket of milk. It's to drink when she's
firsty," she explained.

I sighed. It did not appear to me that the child's education was
proceeding upon proper lines. I had been reading portions of the diary
of Miss OPAL WHITELEY, written when she was seven years old, a work
which has just lifted for America the Child-authoress Cup. I had hoped
to find in Priscilla some faint signs that the laurels lost by Miss
DAISY ASHFORD might be wrested back. The latest feature in nursery
autobiography, so far as I could gather, was to have a profound
objective sympathy with vegetables and a faculty for naming domestic
animals after the principal figures in classical mythology. If you
have these gifts you get published by _The Atlantic Monthly_, with a
preface by Viscount GREY. But I doubted whether Priscilla had them. I
thought I would try.

"Priscilla," I said, "be a little girl again and tell me what flower
you like best."

"Woses."

"What do the roses say to each other when you aren't there?"

"Oh, they don't _say_ anyfing," she said with great contempt.

This was bad.

"Priscilla," I continued, "what do you call the dog next-door?"

"Bill," she said; "but it's runned away."

"There you are!"