Close beside us a couple fell down with a great crash.  I looked at them with concern, but no one else took any notice.  On with the dance!  Faster and faster the black men played.  I was dimly aware now that they were standing on their chairs, bellowing, and fancied the end must be near.  Then we were washed into a quiet backwater, in a corner, and from here I determined never to issue till the Last Banjo should indeed sound.  Here I sidled vaguely about for a long time, hoping that I looked like a man preparing for some vast culminating feat, a side-step or a buzz or a double-Jazz-spin or an ordinary fall down.

The noise suddenly ceased; the four black men had exploded.

“Very good exercise,” my partner said.

“Quite,” said I.

A.P.H.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Farmer (booming his land to inquiring stranger).  “THAT THERE LAND BE WORTH DREE HUNDRED POUND AN ACRE IF IT BE WORTH A PENNY, IT BE.  WERE YOU THINKING O’ BUYING AN’ SETTLING HERE?”

Stranger.  “OH, NO.  I’M THE NEW TAX-COLLECTOR.”]

* * * * *

“We published yesterday a protest from an eminent correspondent against the appointment of a British Ambassador to Berlin.  We understand, nevertheless, that LORD D’ABERNON has been selected for the appointment.”—­Times.

Sir WILLIAM ORPEN is already at work, we understand, on a picture for next year’s Academy, entitled “David defying the Thunderer.”

* * * * *

VANISHED GLORY.

(The Life-tragedy of a Military Wag.)

  Time was I rocked the crowded tents
    With laughter loud and hearty,
  Librettist to the regiment’s
    Diverting concert party;
  With choice of themes so very small
    The task was far from tiring;
  There really was no risk at all
    Of any joke misfiring.

  I found each gibe at army rules
    Appreciated fully;
  I sparkled when describing mules
    As “embryonic bully,”
  Or, aided by some hackneyed tune,
    Increased my easy laurels
  By stringing verses to impugn
    The quartermaster’s morals.

  And so I vowed on my demob. 
    To shun the retrogression
  To any sort of office job;
    I’d jest as a profession
  And burst upon the world a new
    Satirical rebuker,
  Acquiring fame and maybe too
    A modicum of lucre.

  But vain are all my jeux de mot,
    No lip is loosed in laughter;
  I send them to the Press, but no
    Acceptance follows after;
  And if, as formerly, I try
    Satiric themes my gibe’ll
  Be certain to be hampered by
    The common law of libel.

  In short, my hopes begin to fade;
    The yawning gulf has rent them
  Twixt finding subjects ready made
    And having to invent them. 
  Shattered my foolish dreams recede
    And pass into the distance,
  And I must search for one in need
    Of clerical assistance.