went mad one day last week in Paris and fired
a number of revolver shots at the police. To judge by many of the
creations one sees there must be quite an epidemic of mental deficiency
just now among designers of modes.

* * *

"Bags," we read in a lady's paper, "are going out of fashion." Men will,
however, continue to wear them.

* * * * *

From a list of awards at the Horse Show:--

"Riding Jonies ... Shetland Jones ... Pairs of Pones ..."--_Morning
Post._

You see the animal they mean.

* * * * *

"Cutter wanted for ladies' and gentlemen's trade; city house; state
experience, salary."

An ordinary enough advertisement, but _The Irish Times_ imparts a
certain melancholy humour to it by inserting it in the section headed
"Yachts, Boats, etc."

* * * * *

"GRAND NIGHTS."

O benchers of the various ancient Inns
At whose so generous tables I have battened,
Where potions of the best and fruitiest bins
And fare on which LUCULLUS might have fattened
Tend to reduce the awe
Proper to laymen shadowed by the Law;

How good I find it, full of meat, to sit
(The while Oporto's juice of '87,
Served on the polished board with silver lit,
Heartens me to postpone the joys of Heaven)
And hear, _remotis curis_,
The legal jest, the apt _scintilla juris_.

But most I compliment, with thanks profuse,
The touch that gives your feasts their crowning savour,
Whose absence must have marred the duckling _mousse_,
Ruined the _neige au Kirsch_, and soured the flavour
Of Madame MELBA'S peaches--
I mean the pledge upon my card, "No Speeches."

There's only one I like, and that's "The KING"!
(I give the text in full--no superfluities);
Why should I have to hear some dodderer sing
Praise of the Government (whichever crew it is),
While some one else endorses
The obvious merits of our fighting forces?

If I have dined too well, to-morrow's cure
Shall be the fine for my excessive feasting;
But, at the night's tail-end, I can't endure
A punishment that bores me like a bee-sting,
Poisoning all the mirth
That should companion my distended girth.

For this relief from those who spoil the vine
(How oft have I refused, O