* * * * *

    “Ex-P.C. and wife will take care of your residence during holidays
    or other period; p.c. will receive prompt attention.”—­Sheffield
    Telegraph.

But what about p.c.’s wife?

* * * * *

    “The bride’s going-away dress was a silver cigarette
    case.”—­Dover Telegraph.

We don’t like this new fashion for brides.  It is too suggestive of “weeds.”

* * * * *

    “Ale and beer—­Brew your own, 4½ gallons for 1s.; intoxicative;
    no malt; legal; two trade recipes, 1s.”—­Cork Examiner.

In England we do not require to brew this “intoxicative” with “no malt” for ourselves.  Every public-house sells it.

* * * * *

SIRENS AND THEIR SUCCESSORS.

    [A writer in an evening paper has been discussing the book that
    might be written on Sirens’ Songs.]

  What were the songs the Sirens sang
    Three thousand years ago or more,
  When their silvery voices rose and rang
    Over the ocean’s wine-dark floor,
  And brought a strange perturbing pang
    To the heart of the wisest man of yore?

  Music and words have passed away,
    But a modern rhymer is free to guess
  What lent such wizardry to their lay,
    What gave it glamour and tenderness,
  And lured the hardy seaman astray
    From the paths of duty and toil and stress.

  They sang of the Zephyr’s scented breeze,
    Of amber eve and star-strewn night,
  Of the moan of doves, the murmur of bees,
    Of water trickling from the height,
  And all that ministers to our ease
    And puts dull carking care to flight.

  They sang of banquets in gorgeous halls,
    Of raiment tinct with saffron dyes;
  Of ivory towers and crystal walls
    And beauty in many a wondrous guise,
  And all that fascinates and enthralls
    The saint and the sinner, the fool and the wise.

  Wily Ulysses at heart was sound—­
    At least he was quite a family man;
  He faced the fatal music, but found
    An antidote to the risks he ran,
  For he sealed the ears of his crew, and bound
    Himself to the mast ere the song began.

  But the Siren who sang and slew is now
    The fable outworn of an age remote,
  And the women to whom to-day we bow
    Have long abjured her sinister note;
  She heals, she helps, she follows the plough,
    And her song has fairly earned her the vote.

* * * * *

WHAT THE KINGFISHER KNEW.

The wind ruffled the grey water of the stream under the old stone bridge.

“Ssshhh, ssshhh,” whispered the young willows, “what will become of us? what will they make of us?  Ssshhh, ssshhh.”  But no one replied, chiefly because no one knew, excepting the kingfisher, and he was away on a fishing expedition.