Professor Schafskopf, the inventor, has long been engaged on experiments with a view to the production of synthetic mutton, and his diligent efforts have now been crowned with success. The basis of the new food is compressed peat, which is so permeated with a variety of nutritive juices, applied at high pressure by a grouting machine, as to be practically indistinguishable from the best Southdown mutton. By way of putting his discovery to the test Professor Schafskopf entertained a number of distinguished guests at the Fitz Hotel last week, and with hardly an exception they were astonished at the succulent and sumptuous flavour of the new food, which is called by the attractive name of "Supermut." Professor Bino Byles, interviewed at the close of the banquet, said that "Supermut" was a distinct success. It had all the digestibility of tripe with an added aroma of Harris Tweed. Mr. Gullick, the famous motorist, said that "Supermut" reminded him of the best cormorant. He believed that it could also be used for making unpuncturable tyres. Lord Findhorn, the eminent Scots Judge, said that "Supermut" had converted him to carnivorous food, though he was an hereditary vegetarian. Finally we note that _The Forceps_ in a laudatory article pays a handsome tribute to the new food, and says, "It must be conceded that a very reliable substitute for mutton has at length been produced. We found it hard to distinguish it from a saddle." * * * * * A MAY PICNIC. Someone has settled (it's not my fault; And, whatever we do, let's take some salt)-- Someone has settled, don't you see, Without referring the thing to me, That this is a day to be bright and hearty, And to take our lunch as a picnic party-- To take our lunch with toil and care Away from home in the open air. Now I maintain that it can't be right, When there isn't a single wasp in sight, To have mint-sauce and a joint of lamb, Some currant cake and a pot of jam, A gooseberry tart, with sugar and cream, And some salad dressing, a bottled dream-- All the things that a wasp loves best When he buzzes away from his hidden nest; And you all shout "Wasp!" and flick at the fellow, And you miss his black and you miss his yellow, And only succeed in turning over Your glass of drink on the thirsty clover. A picnic? Pooh! Why, you merely waste it When there isn't a wasp to come and taste it. However, a picnic's got to be, Though they haven't referred the thing to me. There's a boat and we put our parcels in it, And off we push in another minute. And our pace is certainly rather slow, For everybody wants to row; And there's any amount of laugh and chatter, And crabs are caught, but it doesn't matter; For we're all afloat In an open boat, And the breeze is light and the sky is blue, And the sun is toasting us through and through.