***

It is interesting to note that to-day is the anniversary of the day that was not a Flag-day last year.

* * * * *

Another sex-problem.

    “Information Wanted as to the whereabouts of James ——­ (nee Liza
    ——­), ship agent.  Last heard of 30 years ago.”—­Glasgow Paper.

* * * * *

The preliminary Dove:  Its prospects.

  Within a little week or two,
    So all our sanguine prints declare,
  The Dove (or Bird of Peace) is due
    To spread its wings and take the air,
      Like Mr. Thomas when he flew
      Across the firmamental blue
      To join the Premier in communion
      Touching the Railway Workers’ Union.

  We’ve waited many a weary week
    With bulging eyes and fevered brow,
  While Wilson pressed upon its beak
    His League-of-Nations’ olive bough,
      Wondering what amount of weight
      Its efforts could negotiate,
      How much, in fact, the bird would stand
      Without collapsing on the land.

  And, even though it should contrive
    To keep its pinions on the flap,
  And by a tour de force survive
    This devastating handicap,
      Yet are there perils in the skies
      Whereon we blandly shut our eyes,
      But which are bound to be incurred,
      And, notably, the Bolshy-bird.

  This brand of vulture, most obscene,
    May have designs upon the Dove;
  Its carrion taste was never keen
    On the Millennial reign of Love;
      And I, for one, am stiff with fear
      About our little friend’s career,
      Lest that disgusting fowl should maul
      And eat it, olive-branch and all.

  I mention this to mark the quaint
    Notion of “Peace” the public has,
  That wants to smear the Town with paint,
    To whoop and jubilate and jazz;
      And while our flappers beat the floor
      There’s Russia soaked in seas of gore,
      And Lenin waxing beastly fat;
      Nobody seems to think of that.

O.S.

* * * * *

Perfectly unauthentic anecdotes.

which may be reproduced (with the permission of Mr. Punch) in any forthcoming volume of Anybody’s Reminiscences.

“You do things so sketchily and casually,” said Frith to Whistler one day.  “Now when I paint a picture I take pains.  ‘The Derby Day’ cost me weeks and months of sleeplessness.  I did nothing else; I gave my whole mind to it.”  “Oh,” said Whistler, “that’s where it’s gone to, is it?”

* * * * *

When Mr. Bernard Shaw made his tour of the ports in order to popularise Socialism in the Navy, he was courteously received at Portsmouth by Sir HEDWORTH MEUX.  The talk happened to turn on the theatre, and the Admiral was candid enough to confess himself somewhat at sea with regard to the merits of contemporary writers.  “Now, Mr. Shaw,” he said in his breezy way, “I wish you would tell me who is the most eminent of the playwrights of to-day?” “Ay, ay, Sir,” said Mr. Shaw promptly.