ack Despairs. At any moment some Terrible Magyar may wrest
the bantam championship from us. You must learn to distinguish between
WELLS, the reconstructor of the universe, and Knock-out WELLS. You
must be acquainted with the doings and prospects of Dreadnought Brown
and Mulekick Jones. You must know the F. E. Smithian repartees of JACK
JOHNSON.

Let us talk of golf. No, on second thoughts, let us notably refrain
from talking about golf. Only if you don't know who defeated TRAVERS
(_plus_ lumbago) and who eclipsed America's Bright Boy, you must hide
your head in shame.

We come to rowing. Once one could stay, "Ah, Leander," and with
an easy shrug of the shoulders pass from the subject. But when
international issues are involved, and the win of a Canadian or
American or German crew may cause _The Daily Mail_ to declare (for the
hundredth time) that England is played out, a man simply has to keep
abreast of the results.

There are a score of other things. Name for me, if you can, the
Great American Four, the hydro-aeroplane champion, the M.P. champion
pigeon-flyer, and the motor-bike hill-climbing champion.

And the Olympic games are coming! Who are England's hopes in the
discus-throwing and the fancy diving? What Britisher must we rely on
in the javelin hop-skip-and-jump?

Your brain reels at the prospect. We must decide to ignore all
future championships. We must decline to be aggravated if a Japanese
Badminton champion appears. We must cease to be interested if
Britain's Hope beats the Horrible Peruvian at Tiddly-winks.

There are three admirable reasons for this.

The first is that we must play some games ourselves.

The second, that, unless a check be put to championships, the
Parliamentary news will be crowded out of the papers and we shall find
ourselves in an unnatural state of peace and goodwill.

The third, which one puts forward with diffidence, is that somebody,
somewhere, somehow, sometime must do a little work.

* * * * *

[Illustration: _Wife (with some sadness)._ "AH, WELL, HENRY, I SUPPOSE
IT'S A BIT TOO LATE FOR YOU TO THINK OF THAT NOW."]

* * * * *

TO THE MEMORY
OF
JOSEPH CHAMBERLAIN.

BORN 1836. DIED JULY 2ND, 1914.

Ere warmth of Spring had stirred the wintry lands--
Spring that for him had no renewing breath--
He went apart to wait with folded hands
The lingering feet of Death.