=_Dear Captain Billy_=—What, in your opinion, does love most resemble?—=_Georgette._= A roast beef sandwich. Two thin slices of sentiment and the rest filled in with bull. * * * * * =_Dear Captain Billiam_=—What kind of hand does a card sharper win with?—=_Pokker Feene._= An I-deal hand. * * * * * =_Dear Cap_=—Why are eggs much smaller now than in the past?—=_Lee Way._= I suppose it’s because they’re taken out of the nest too soon. * * * * * =_Dear Capt. Billy_=—A story in a New York paper says a dancer has insured her legs for $125,000. What’s the idea?—=_Lew D. Fiske._= We don’t know definitely, Lew. * * * * * =_Dear Skipper Bill_=—What war material did Chili export to the Allies during the war?—=_Clara Voyant._= Beans. * * * * * =_Dear Bill_=—If you’re a good little astronomer I know you’ll tell me what star was recently measured, and found to be of enormous size?—=_May Triatit._= Fatty Arbuckle, I guess. * * * * * =_Dear Captain Willy_=—A waiter in the Waldorf Flaskoria spilled hot soup down my neck, and when I remonstrated with him, the horrid old thing only snapped his fingers at me. Have you any words to describe such creature?—=_Ferdie Nann._= I would say that he is too soupercillious. * * * * * =_Dear Farmer Bill_=—Why is it you farmers always dress your scarecrows in men’s clothing?—=_Sack Kitt._= Well, if we dressed them in women’s clothes there’d be sure to be some old birds hanging around. * * * * * A friend of the Whiz Bang who served with the British forces during the World War sends us the following, which he claims was a favorite song among the “Limies.” When this bloody war is over Oh, how happy we will be; No more hiking, no more drilling, No retreat or reville. No more shining up brass buttons, No more asking for a “leave,” For we’ll tell the sergeant-major To shove his passes in his sleeve. * * * * * _I know a young woman called Kitty._ _In the dance-hall she looks very pretty._ _But the next day at ten,_ _If you saw her then—_ _Oh, my gawd! What a pity!_ * * * * * Their Specialty Written by a dealer in electric washing machines: “Don’t kill your wife. Get one of our machines to do the dirty work.” * * * * * Friend tells us that the way Clinton’s in New Haven advertises the record is: “Come Where My Love Lies Dreaming with Male Chorus, $1.25.” This ad was evidently written by the gent who said: “I stand back of every bed I sell.” * * * * * With a girl of twenty, marriage is an adventure; at twenty-five, a career; at thirty, a goal; and at forty, a haven of rest.