* * * * *

“At Bolton on Saturday the United Textile Factory Workers’ Association decided to put forward a demand for a 4-hours week, with the same rate of pay as for 55-1/2 hours.”—­Provincial Paper.

We trust this is a misprint and not an “intelligent anticipation” of what we are coming to.

* * * * *

“The teachers of ——­ are not satisfied with the scale of salary fixed by the Education Committee, and yesterday morning a deputation waited upon the Special Salaries Committee to state their case.  The Education Committee decided to increase the salary of the borough Director of Education from L450 to L500.”

    Provincial Paper.

And if that don’t satisfy ’em—­Bolshevism, my dear Sir, Bolshevism!

* * * * *

[Illustration:  The General (showing his nieces round Club).  “THERE’S BEEN A LOT OF ARM-CHAIR FIGHTING DONE IN THIS ROOM.” School-Girl. “HOW TOPPING!  THAT BEATS PILLOW-FIGHTING.  BUT ISN’T IT RATHER DANGEROUS?”]

       * * * * *
  OLD HEN-PECK.

  Captain Edwin Peck, E.N.,
  Had the habits of a hen. 
  Edwin’s nose was like a bone,
  And his teeth were not his own;
  Neither, I regret to tell,
  Did they fit him very well. 
  It was not his fault, no doubt,
  That they tried to tumble out,
  And in fact he seldom dropped them,
  For he almost always copped them
  Just as they became unstuck
  By ejaculating, “Cluck.”

  Yoked to this elusive plate,
  Did our Edwin curse his fate? 
  No, he was content to live,
  For he was inquisitive. 
  If he saw a speck of grit
  He must needs examine it,
  Not as any other might,
  Standing at his proper height,
  But with body slightly slanted
  And his head obliquely canted,
  While with small unblinking eye
  He surveyed it wickedly.

  One fine Sunday Captain Peek
  Stalked along the lower deck,
  Pausing now and then to stare,
  Poking here and scratching there,

  Like a pullet in her prime
  Clucking softly all the time. 
  Presently the Captain spied
  One small scuttle open wide. 
  “Cluck!” he said, and likewise.  “Tut!

  “Every scuttle should be shut;”
  And with a malignant snort
  Poked his head out through the port.

  That was easy, but, alack! 
  When he tried to get it back
  There was heard an angry cluck—­
  Captain Edwin Peck was stuck!

  Strange at first as it appears,
  He had overlooked his ears;
  But it’s not so queer, perhaps,
  When you ask, “Have hens got flaps?”

  Silence!  You’d have heard a pin
  Fall upon the deck within,
  Till the Bloke was heard to shout,
  “Stick it, Sir!  We’ll get you out!”