And the Man who thought about Proteids has not been seen since, but, the other day, a boy found the little note-book lying by the roadside. AT THE ‘RED LION,’ RAMPLE STREET Rather late one Saturday evening, Bacchus walked into the ‘Red Lion Inn,’ at the corner of Rample Street. He said nothing, but looked at the landlord, who, on his part, was trying to discover the ‘company’ (meaning rank or station) of the new customer; so that he should know whether to open the door of the Private Bar or Best Room, or wave his hand in the direction of the Taproom: this is the great problem and test for all inn-keepers in England. The landlord was still puzzling his brains, when the god spoke in a rich, mellow voice: ‘Happy mortal, let us drink and sing together, and talk of the laughing glories of the world. See! I will garland thy brow with leaves of vine.’ And he stepped forward. The landlord recoiled hastily. ‘No you don’t,’ he snarled, ‘you get nothing ’ere. Outside.’ The god did not move, so the landlord grew angry and cried: ‘Outside I say! ’Ere Bill! Jack! Throw ’im out!’ Bacchus, taken by surprise, was immediately flung through the swing doors, landing at the feet of a policeman outside. On Monday, the god was fined many shillings for being drunk and disorderly, but fortunately no one in the police-court recognised him, for that morning he was dressed in an old suit and wore a cloth cap and red scarf, so that he looked like one of those men who shave only on Saturday afternoons. THE DANGER OF ACCEPTING GIFTS WHILE HOLDING MUNICIPAL OFFICE A poet, wishing to remove from Shotterden to Camden Town, found himself sadly encumbered with dreams and decided to give them away before he left. He started with the little cripple girl next door, to whom he gave two splendid dreams of laughing gardens, and then went all round Shotterden (it is not a very large town) giving away his dreams. When he returned to his lodging, he found he had one dream left, so he went to the policeman who always stood at the corner of the street, and said: ‘I cannot understand it. I have one dream left, yet I think I have given one to every person in the town, and to some I have given two.’ ‘There is the Mayor--’ replied the policeman, doubtfully. ‘The very man! I had forgotten him!’ cried the Poet, and ran off to find the Mayor. The Mayor accepted the gift very reluctantly, and tried to get rid of it, but it clung to him persistently, as dreams do. It was a good dream, a dream of the white neck of a queen who died four thousand years ago, but the Mayor did not want it. As time went on, it weighed upon him more and more, and when he should have been attending to Municipal Affairs or Opening a Bazaar, he found his mind wandering, and he was for ever brooding on the dead queen.