"We must have a proper salary," said a representative of the foot-ball profession: "if we don't, we shall have to give it up, and take to soldiering, doctoring, brief-accepting, and the rest of it." There was a murmur of disapproval at this suggestion. Was foot-ball to perish because its professors could not get a "living wage"? No, a thousand times no! Then the Minister suggested that he had better hear the complaints of the men, the women, and the children. So the cricketers, the golfers, the polo-players, and the lovers of lawn-tennis spoke at length. "And what may you want young lady?" asked the arbitrator, with a smile. "I must be paid for taking my doll for a walk," replied a small girl of six or seven. "I have to keep the toy perambulator in repair, and when Rose falls on her nose, I have to get her face replaced. How am I to bear these expenses if I receive nothing? It is impossible, unreasonable!" "And I, too," cried a schoolboy. "How can I trundle my hoop or play at marbles if I am not allowed something for my time?" And there were other complaints. Everyone wanted a wage, and the cries for salaries waxed louder and louder. Then the Minister asked for a few minutes' grace, and began writing. After he had finished his despatch, he put it in an envelope, and requested someone to read it when he had taken his departure. Then he went away. "Dear me!" said the person to whom the despatch had been entrusted. "This is highly unsatisfactory. I find the arbitrator has resigned without making an award, and has left the matter in the hands of Lord ROSEBERY." Then there was a cry of sorrow. For it was known that as Lord ROSEBERY had had quite enough of conflicts between capital and labour, he would certainly refuse to be dragged into another quarrel. So the war went on between players and payers, and "Merrie England" became a byword of reproach in the comity of nations. * * * * * [Illustration: Popular Idea of the Costume of a Member of the Bar on "Grand Day."] * * * * * MATURE CHARMS. MAIDEN slim and fair, with the golden hair, So eager to snare with the knowing glance Of your eyes so bright, and to waltz all night With that step so light in the mazy dance, Years ago, I swear, we once met somewhere; We danced--you take care to forget that ball-- And my arm embraced that wasp's whalebone waist, So cruelly laced, so absurdly small! But then I declare you had nut-brown hair, The colour's still there just down at the roots; You are "fancy free," full of girlish glee, But you're forty-three I would bet my boots. Your beauty is rare, but I am aware That face you prepare, that vile waist you buy, Which corsets to civilised women give, And hairdressers live so that you may dye. * * * * * [Illustration: SO POLITE!!