Though you may haunt the bar till ten and confidently mutter “Scotch,” She may not even clamour for a humble slab of butterscotch, And should the heat suggest an ice—­may I be rolled out flat if I Distort the truth—­it’s courting gaol that harmless wish to gratify.

  As for yourself, if you should yearn for blest tobacco’s medium
  In those long waits between the Acts to while away the tedium,
  And find you’re out of cigarettes, remember that to sell any
  A minute past the fatal hour is counted as a felony.

  Unless the pair of you affect the life ascetic, you’ll
  Be well advised to carry in a hamper or a reticule
  A goodly store of provender, both smokeable and eatable,
  For Dora’s in the saddle yet and seemingly unseatable.

* * * * *

BROODY.

    “Will the Imperial Government hen proceed to a new conquest of Southern
    Ireland?”—­Daily Paper.

No, we expect it will be left sitting.

* * * * *

    “HIDDEN MUMMIES.

    The Museum authorities are receiving numerous inquiries when the
    mummies will be on view, particularly for school children.”—­Daily
    Paper.

We hope that the N.S.P.C.C. will see to it that all mummies are allowed to return to their families without further delay.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  MANNERS AND MODES.

THEN AND NOW.

[From an Early-Victorian pocket “Etiquette for Gentlemen":—­“If you so far forget what is elegant as to smoke in the street or park, at least never omit to fling away your cigar if you speak to a lady."]]

* * * * *

[Illustration:  BEHIND THE SCENES IN CINEMA-LAND.

IT IS A TERRIBLE MOMENT FOR THE FILM ACTOR WHEN HE REALISES THAT HE IS
GETTING TOO FAT TO PLAY HERO, AND NOT FAT ENOUGH TO BE FUNNY.]

* * * * *

GOLF NOTES.

(With acknowledgments to Mr. A.C.M.  Croome.)

APPROACHING.

TAYLOR—­or was it JAMES BRAID?—­begins one of his classic and illuminating chapters with the quotation “Ex pede Herculem,” nor can even we of the Oxford and Cambridge Golfing Society venture to differ from so eminent an authority or grudge him so apt a phrase. Verb. sap. and, let me add, sat.  To those, few perhaps in actual reckoning (though I, wearing of right the wine-dark vesture—­were there half Blues in HOMER’S time?—­cannot compete with JOHN LOW et hoc genus omne, Cantabs confessed, in the prestidigitation of numerals and weird signs of values)—­to those, then, few, but of many parts appreciative, who followed a certain foursome at Addington last week, my premiss should be intrinsically incontrovertible.  Partner, whom I had “made” with a drive well and truly apportioned—­ex