* * *

Our heart goes out to the veteran philosopher who, when caught
climbing apple-trees in a farmer's orchard, pleaded that he had been
tampering with a thyroid gland.

* * *

Five million typhoid germs, the property of Mr. JOHN GIBBON, are said
to be at large in Philadelphia, according to _The Daily Express_. One
of them is said to have got away disguised as a measle.

* * *

According to _The Daily Mail_ a panic was recently caused in a
Manchester tea-room by a rat which took refuge in the leg of a
gentleman's trousers. This may not mean that the need of a new style
of rat-proof trouser has attracted the interest of Carmelite House
publicity agents, but we have our apprehensions.

* * *

"Hard work will kill no one," declares a literary editor. Most people,
of course, prefer an occupation with a spice of danger about it.

* * * * *

[Illustration: _Son._ "MUVVER, TELL ME 'OW FARVER GOT TER KNOW YER."

_Mother._ "ONE DYE I FELL INTO THE WATER AN' 'E JUMPED IN AN' FISHED
ME AHT."

_Son_ (_thoughtfully_). "H'M, THET'S FUNNY; 'E WON'T LET ME LEARN TER
SWIM."]

* * * * *

"Madame ----, Dressmaker, Milliner, and Ladies' making paths, tree
lifting; planting; would suit nursery."--_Provincial Paper._

But would she do plain sowing?

* * * * *

=THE STANDARD GOLF-BALL.=

I do not want a standard ball,
So many to the pound;
Whether its girth is trim and svelte
Or built to take an out-size belt,
I hardly seem to care at all
So long as it is round.

But it appears to my poor wit
That we might well contrive
A means by which the merest babe
Would hold his own with MITCHELL (ABE),
If we could have a standard _hit_
(Especially the drive).

I want a limit made to bar
The unrestricted whack
(A hundred yards I think should be
The length on which we might agree),
And if you pushed the ball too far
You'd have to bring it back.

And I should love a standard _lie_.
A ball inside a cup
Or latent under sand or whin
Hampers my progress toward the pin;
It would improve my game if I
Could lift and tee it up.

But most, when tongues of golfers wag,
Talking their dreadful shop
Of rotten luck and stymies laid
And chip-approaches, TAYLOR-made--
Oh, then I want a stand