Pirus.—­There are several varieties of this species.  The best known, however, comes from Cornwall and was raised by the late Sir W.S.  GILBERT, who introduced the Savoy cabbage.  It is called the Pirus of Penzance.

* * * * *

DANCING DEMOBILISED.

    [It is said that demobilised officers, anxious to dance, are
    finding it almost impossible to buy dress-shirts and evening
    pumps.]

  Now that I’ve been demobilised
    I’m going again to dances—­
  I do not care with whom or where,
    I’m taking any chances. 
  And evening dress, I’ve been advised,
    Will never become transitional;
  Yet once or twice I’ve been surprised
    To find my khaki pals disguised
  In new dress suits and old trench boots,
    Which scarcely seems traditional.

  I met my Colonel at a hop
    Jazzing in his goloshes,
  With a dress-tie pert on a cricket-shirt
    That had shrunk in various washes;
  And my Major was doing the Donkey-Drop
    Between a couple of rippers—­
  Yet his pink-and-white pyjama-top
    If anything seemed a shade de trop,
  And his faultless coat hardly echoed the note
    Of his worsted bedroom slippers.

  But the world long since went off its chump,
    And the cry of the man from France is,
  “I simply refuse to let shirts and shoes
    Prevent me from going to dances. 
  I’ll take the shine out of collar and pump,
    And their wearers will look silly
  When I once begin the Giraffe-Galump,
    The Chicken-Run and the Jaguar-Jump,
  The Wombat-Walk and the Buffalo-Bump,
    With a chamois vest on my manly chest,
  And football-boots and the smartest of suits
    They can cut in Piccadilly.”

* * * * *

THE GRAND TRUNK LINE.

    “The following are some alternative routes which could be used by
    people going home this evening from the City or West End:—­

    “Clapham Common.—­By Elephant, trams and ’buses.”—­Evening News.

LOCAL COLOUR.

I ran upstairs after lunch to-day to see old Harris.  He has the flat over mine, you know.  In addition to this Harris is an author.  Sometimes he even gets money for it.

“Doin’ a bit of work to-day, Harris?” I remarked casually.

“I’m doing a little flying story,” he informed me with dignity.

“Oh, yes,” I agreed carelessly, then woke up and stared hard.

“Flying?” I repeated.  “But what the—­I mean, what do you know about flying, anyway?”

Brutality is the only thing with Harris.  He was very hurt.  He gasped and glared at me in a most annoyed manner.

“I know a pretty good lot,” he announced with some asperity.  “I’ve talked to dozens of pilots about it and I’ve read books on flying—­and the newspapers—­”