“On Wednesday evening a fire broke out in Mr. J. Elkin’s scutch mill at Kilmore, near Omagh, which resulted in the complete destruction of the premises.  It is surmised in the absence of anything which would indicate the origin of the outbreak that it resulted from a heated journal.”—­Belfast News Letter.

An unusual quantity of inflammatory matter has been observed recently in the Irish Press.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Past.  THE ARTIST AND THE VILLAGE MAID.

Present.  THE VILLAGE MAID AND THE ARTIST.]

* * * * *

=HEART-TO-HEART TALKS.=

(Marshal VON HINDENBURG; a Telephone.)

The Telephone.  RR-RR-RR-RR.

The Marshal.  Curse the infernal telephone!  A man doesn’t get a moment’s peace.  Tush, what am I talking about?  Who wants peace?  If we were all to be quite candid there might be—­

The Telephone.  Rr-rr.

The Marshal.  All right, all right, I’m coming.  Yes, I’m Marshal VON HINDENBURG.  Who are you?  What?  I can’t hear a single word.  You really must speak up.  Louder—­louder still, you fool.  What?  Oh, I really beg your Majesty’s pardon.  I assure you it was impossible to hear distinctly, but it’s all right now.  I thank your Majesty, I am in my usual good health.  Yes.  No, not at all.  Yes, I have good hope that we shall now maintain ourselves for at least two days.  Yes, if we are forced to retire we must say it is according to plan.  No, I don’t like it either, but what is to be done?  Their guns are more numerous and heavier than ours, and weight of metal must tell.  Will I hold the line?  Yes, certainly, till your Majesty returns and graciously resumes the conversation.  Oh, you didn’t mean that line?  You meant the Siegfried line, or the Wotan line, or the Hindenburg line?  Yes, I see, it was a Witz, a play of words.  Yes, I am sorry I could not at once see what your Majesty was driving at, but now I see it is good.  I must practise my joking.  Ha-ha-ha!  Are you there?  No, he’s gone (rings off). (To himself) He is a queer Emperor who is able to make jokes while his soldiers are dying by thousands and thousands.  It can’t last like this—­and as for the Hindenburg line, I’m perfectly tired to death of the words; and the thing itself doesn’t exist.

The Telephone.  Rr-rr-rr-rr.

The Marshal.  What, again?  This is too much—­who are you?  Who?  WHO?  General VON KLUCK?  Impossible.  General VON KLUCK’s dead.  What—­not dead?  Anyhow, nobody’s heard of him for months.  If you’re really General VON KLUCK I’m afraid we must consider you to be dead.  The EMPEROR won’t regard it as very good taste on your part to come to life again like this.  He’s very unforgiving, you know.  You don’t care?  But, my dear dead General VON KLUCK, you must care.