Century_ makes no mention, curiously enough, of the WOLFF Bureau. We
look in vain, too, among the Yuletide publications for a book of Fairy
Tales by WILLIAM HOHENZOLLERN. This does not speak well for the
alertness of our publishers.

* * * * *

Messrs. JACK, we see, have produced a _Life of Nelson_. It is now, we
consider, up to Messrs. NELSON to produce a volume with some such title
as _We All Love Jack_.

* * * * *

At last the Germans are reported to have scored a little success in the
United States. An American coon is said to have been so much impressed
by the achievements of the Germans that he has sent a song to the
KAISER, the opening words of which are "My Hunny!"

* * * * *

The War is responsible for a splendid boom in the study of geography. An
English lady who visited some of the Belgian wounded at a certain London
hospital the other day asked one of them where he was hit, and on
receiving the reply, "_Au pied_," is said to have spent hours trying to
find the place on the map.

* * * * *

Which reminds us that, owing to the new names which the various
belligerents are giving to towns which they have conquered (like
Lemberg) or temporarily occupied (like Ostend), several map-makers are
reported to be suffering from nervous breakdown.

* * * * *

The Kaiser's Thanks.

"The Archbishop of York and Germany."

_Heading in "Edinburgh Evening Despatch."_

Other pluralists, like the Bishop of SODOR AND MAN, are not at all
jealous, nor are we at all surprised.

* * * * *

"They drank the full-flavoured soup with scarcely a sound."--_The
Story-Teller._

Another example of true British refinement.

* * * * *

THE OLD SEA-ROVER SPEAKS.

[Referring to our victory off the Falkland Islands, the _Taegliche
Rundschau_ remarks: "On board our North Sea ships our sailors will
clench their teeth and all hearts will burn with the feeling,
'England the enemy! Up and at the enemy!'" The gallant bombardment
of defenceless towns on our East Coast would appear to be the
immediate outcome of this intelligent attitude.]

Behind your lock-gates stowed away,
Out of the great tides' ebb and flow,
How could you guess, this many a day,
Who was your