(FROM A MATHEMATICAL TORY.)

  Take forty-two, and carry eight
  (Eight hours, I mean), then mind your eye;
  Bring all your items up to date,
  And do your best to multiply
  Your sheep by next subtracting votes
  From over-suffraged Tory goats. 
  By Registration Law perplexed,
  Take “qualifying periods” next,
  And at one swoop reduce with glee
  Twelve months, or more, to only three. 
  Add labour to your motley crew,
  Subtract (from life) a church or two. 
  Produce, with geometric skill,
  The lines of many a promised bill. 
  But state—­the Unionists to vex—­
  That Home Rule always equals x. 
  Raise, in a rash, disastrous hour,
  Campaigning Ireland to a power. 
  And thus, to prayers and protests deaf,
  Bisect the Empire. Q.E.F.

* * * * *

PRETENCE VERSUS DEFENCE.

    SCENE—­Whitehall.  Time—­The Present.  Enter Universal
    Inspector-General, accompanied by Mr. Admiralty Official.

Universal Inspector-General. So you are going to have Naval Manoeuvres after all, Mr. Admiralty Official?

Mr. Adm.  Official. Yes, General, we are.

Un.  Ins.-Gen. And are you going to do anything new this time?

Mr. Ad.  Off. Nothing more than the usual meaningless cruising.

Un.  Ins.-Gen. I read something about the landing of the wounded?

Mr. Ad.  Off. Ah—­that is new!  We are going to “assume” a number of wounded.  To quote from the Regulations—­“Before the ships leave for the ports, officers in command of fleets and squadrons are to communicate to each Commander-in-Chief, by telegraph, the aggregate number of assumed wounded that may be expected to reach his port.”

Un.  Ins.-Gen. Tell me what do we want with these pointless Manoeuvres?  Wouldn’t it have answered everyone’s purpose if there had been a lecture in lieu of them at the Royal United Service Institution?

Mr. Ad.  Off. I should not be surprised.

Un.  Ins.-Gen. Then why run into this unnecessary expense?

Mr. Ad.  Off. You really must ask my successor!

    [Exeunt severally.

* * * * *

THE OTHER SIDE OF THE CANVASS.

(A PURELY IMAGINARY SKETCH.)

[Illustration:  “You know ’ow to do it!”]

SCENE—­A Portico in Portman Square.  Mr. BENJAMIN GULCHER (an ardent Radical Artisan, canvassing the district on behalf of a “pal” of his, who is putting up as a Labour Candidate), discovered on the doorstep.

Mr. Gulcher (to himself—­after knocking).  Some might think it was on’y waste of time me callin’ at a swell ‘ouse o’ this sort—­but them as lives in the ’ighest style is orfen the biggest demmycrats.  Yer never know!  Or p’raps this Sir NORMAN NASEBY ain’t made his mind up yet, and I can tork him over to our way o’ thinking. (The doors are suddenly flung open by two young men in a very plain and sombre livery.) Two o’ the young ’uns, I s’pose. (Aloud.) ’Ow are yer?  Father in, d’yer know?