with her little speech all right.  As a matter of fact she read it straight off a sheet of paper, having finally decided that her memory was too treacherous.  We both set to work and bought an incredible amount of things.  After half an hour I found myself in possession of six bonnets made by Miss PENFOLD, three knitted waistcoats, four hand-painted screens, two tea-tables also hand-painted, a lady’s work-basket, three fancy shawls, a set of glass studs and a double perambulator, which I won in a raffle.  Mother got three dog-collars, a set of shaving materials (won in a raffle), two writing cases, five fans, two pictures by a local artist, four paper-knives, two carved cigar-boxes, a set of tea things, and five worked table-covers.

When we got back, we found that Carlo had nearly gnawed his way through the bed-room door, and was growling horribly at the boots and the chambermaid through the keyhole.  Charming dog!

* * * * *

SIMIAN TALK.

  Professor GARNERS, in the New Review
  Tells us that “Apes can talk.” That’s nothing new;
  Reading much “Simian” literary rot,
  One only wishes that our “Apes” could not!

* * * * *

THE NEW TALE OF A TUB; OR, THE NOT-AT-HOME SECRETARY AND THE LAUNDRESSES.

[Illustration:  “CAN’T SEE YOU NOW, I’M WASHING—­MYSELF.”

“The Women are crying out for the protection of the Factory Acts, which has hitherto been denied them, and which the Home Secretary declines to pledge the Government to support.”—­Daily Telegraph, Friday, June 12th.]

London Laundry-woman, to her Tub-mate, loquitur:—­

  They tell us the Tub is humanity’s friend, and that Cleanliness is of
      closest kin
  To all things good.  By the newest gospel ’tis held that Dirt is the
      friend of Sin. 
  Well, I’m not so sure that the world’s far wrong in that Worship of
      Washing that’s all the rage;
  But we, its priestesses, sure might claim a cleanly life and a decent
      wage!

  Listen, BET, from your comfortless seat on the turned-up pail,—­if
      you’ve got the time;
  Isn’t it queer that Society’s cleansers must pass their lives amidst
      muck and grime? 
  Spotless flannels no doubt are nice—­and snowy linen is “swell” and sweet,
  But steaming reek is around our heads, and trickling foulness about our
      feet.

  If the dainty ladies whose linen we lave, we laundress drudges, could
      look in here,
  Wouldn’t their feet shrink back with sickness, and wouldn’t their faces
      go pale with fear? 
  White, well-ironed, all sheen and sweetness, that linen looks when it
      leaves our hands;
  But they little think of the sodden squalor that marks the den where
      the laundress stands.