[Illustration:  BACK TO THE LAND.

Ex-Air-Mechanic (in difficulties). “SEEMS TO BE A RARE OLD BUS FOR NOSE-DIVING.”]

* * * * *

    “No, thank you; I hate publicity.—­Lord Jellicoe, in reply to a
    request for a farewell massage.”—­Provincial Paper.

We agree with the gallant Admiral that such operations are better conducted in private.

* * * * *

“It was stated that the cow took ill, and died on 23rd June last, and the purser now claimed the value of the animal, namely, L5O, and also a further sum of L5, being the loss which he sustained through the want of milk, butter, and cheese, supplied by said cow from the date of her death to the date of the raising of the action.”—­Scots Paper.

“Faithful unto death”—­and a bit over.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  SARTORIAL CONTRASTS.

THE DUKE OF WESSEX WELCOMES THE LEADING FINANCIAL MAGNATE OF A
FRIENDLY NATION ON HIS ARRIVAL AT VICTORIA STATION.

UPPER-CUT BILL OF STEPNEY, THE WEST OF EUROPE HEAVYWEIGHT, WELCOMES
BASHER SCROGGINS OF VALPARAISO ON HIS ARRIVAL AT LIVERPOOL.]

* * * * *

THE ART OF LEAVING.

If I had a son one of the first things I should teach him would be the art of leaving.  I would have him swift in all ways, but swiftest when the time came to go.  And when he went he should go absolutely.  For although the people who leave slowly are bad enough, they are as nothing compared with the people who make false exits and return with afterthoughts.

The other day the necessity came for me to visit a house agent.  Life has these chequered moments.  There is something of despatch and order wanting about most house-agents, possibly the result of their very odd and difficult business, which is for the greater part carried on with people who don’t know their own minds and apparently are least likely to take an eligible residence when they most profess satisfaction with it.  Be that as it may, house agents’ offices in general have a want of definiteness unknown to, say, banks or pawnbrokers’.  There is no exact spot for you to stand or sit; you are unaware as to which of the clerks is going to attend to you, and the odds are heavy that the one you approach will transfer you to another.  There is also a certain air of familiarity or friendliness:  not, of course, approaching the camaraderie of the dealer in motor cars, who leans against the wall with his hands in his pockets and talks to customers through a cigarette; but something much more human than the attitude of a female clerk in a post-office.

Being pressed for time and having only the very briefest transaction to perform, it follows that I was kept waiting for my turn with “our Mr. Plausible,” in whose optimistic hands my affairs at the moment repose.