(Sings.) From “Greenlands” sunny garden,
And vista’d vitreous panes,
We mean to rival Hawarden,
In glories and in gains. 
I have produced, Sweet WILL-I-AM,
This Giant Strawber-ry,
In horticultural skill I am
A match for W.G.! [Left chortling.

* * * * *

THE VERY LAST ON THE ’BUS STRIKE.—­After the comparative quiet of last week, the streets of London will now be as ’bussy as ever.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  THE FRUIT OF THE SESSION.

W.H.  SM-TH (Head Gardener and Prize Exhibitor).  “HAD TO NIP OFF A LOT OF BLOOMS TO GET HIM UP TO THIS SIZE!!”

“At the Bimonthly Exhibition of the Royal Horticultural Society ...  Mr. W.H.  SMITH showed specimens of the same luscious fruit”—­strawberries—­“for which he received the thanks of the Society.”—­Daily Telegraph, Wednesday, June 10.]

* * * * *

[Illustration:  SHORT-LIVED PLEASURE.

PORTRAIT OF A LITERARY FRIEND, WHO, LIVING IN A MAIN THOROUGHFARE,
WAS AN ARDENT SUPPORTER OF THE ’BUS STRIKE, SUBSCRIBED TO ITS FUNDS,
ADD HOPED IT MIGHT LONG CONTINUE.  HE SAYS HE HASN’T HAD SUCH A QUIET
TIME WITH HIS BOOKS FOR YEARS.  BUT ALAS!  SINCE LAST SUNDAY HE HAS NOT
SMILED AGAIN.]

* * * * *

MRS. GINGHAM ON THE GREAT ’BUS QUESTION.

“The demand for ’Buses is immensely stimulated by their presence, and when they are no longer there, the people who thought them indispensable get on very well indeed without them....  Under the influence of penny fares, Londoners are rapidly forgetting how to walk.”—­The Times.

  Ah! it’s all very fine, my good Sir, whosomever you are as writes such,
  But of decent poor folk and their needs it is plain as you do not know
      much. 
  Which I ain’t quite so young as I was, nor as light, nor as smart on my
      feet,
  And you may not know quite what it is to be out late o’ night and dead
      beat,
  Out Islington way, arter ten, with a bundle, a child, and a cage,
  As canaries is skeery at night, and a seven mile walk, at my age,
  All along of no ’Bus to be had, love or money, and cabs that there dear,
  And a stitch in my side and short breath, ain’t as nice as you
      fancy,—­no fear! 
  Likeways look at my JOHN every morning, ah! rain, hail or shine, up to
      town,
  With no trams running handy, and corns!  As I sez to my friend Mrs. BROWN,
  Bless the ’Buses, I sez, they’re a boon to poor souls, as must travel
      at times,
  And we can’t all keep kerridges neither, wus luck!  Penny Fares ain’t
      no crimes,
  If you arsk me, as did ought to know.  Which my feelings I own it does rouge
  To hear big-wigs a-sneering at ’Buses.  There may be a bit of a scrouge,