Whereupon the disciples of WELLS
  Emitted a chorus of yells,
      And they fell upon Age
      With unfilial rage
  And gave it all manner of hells.

I am, Sir, Yours,

GALLIO JUNIOR.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Meanest Member (seeking free advice, after driving out of bounds, from professional who is giving a lesson to another player).  “FUNNY THING, BUT EVERY TIME I DRIVE THIS MORNING I SLICE LIKE THAT.  WHAT DO YOU THINK IS THE CAUSE?”

Professional (after deep thought).  “WELL, SIR, MEBBE YE’RE NO’ HITTIN’ ’EM RIGHT.”]

* * * * *

“SWITZERLAND AGAIN.

    Fine weather has resigned with only brief interruptions since the
    season began.”—­Times.

Just as in England.

* * * * *

    “Alice ——­, a married woman, was charged with unlawfully wounding her
    husband, Charles ——­, a labourer, by striking him with a pair of
    tongues.”—­Local Paper.

CHARLES has our sympathy.  He might just as well have been a bigamist.

* * * * *

WESTWARD HO!

  James, if from life’s little worries and trouble you
    Sigh to be wafted afar,
  Meet me at Paddington Station, G.W. 
                R.

  Thence, if our plans be not baulked by some latterday
    Railwayman-unionist freak,
  We’ll make a bold bid for freedom on Saturday
                Week.

  Care may ride pillion or on the ship’s deck set her
    Foot, but she’ll hunt us in vain
  Once we’ve set ours on the ten-thirty Exeter
                Train.

  Ours no “resort” where you run up iniquitous
    Bills at the “Royal” or “Grand,”
  Blatant with pier and parade and ubiquitous
                Band.

  No “silver sea” where the gaudy and giddy come;
    We’re for a peacefuller air
  Breathing of Uncle Tom Cobley and Widdicombe
                Fair.

  Warm as a welcome the red of the tillage is,
    Green are the pastures, and deep
  Down in the combes little thatch-covered villages
                Sleep.

  Far from society (praises to Allah be!),
    Wearing demobilised boots,
  Clad in our countrified (Deeley-cum-Mallaby)
                Suits,

  We’ll o’er the moor where the ways never weary us,
    Lunch at a primitive pub,
  Loaf till it’s time to get back to more serious
                Grub.

  Haply some neighbouring Dartymoor brooklet’ll
    Tempt us at eve to set out,
  Greenheart in hand, and endeavour to hook little
                Trout.

  Well, there’s a programme for three weeks of heaven, sheer
    Bliss, if you add to the scheme
  Farm eggs and bacon and junket and Devonshire
                Cream.