[Illustration: "A Baird in the Haymarket is worth two in the Book." (_Signed_) P-L P-TT-R.] Miss DOROTHEA BAIRD, with naked tootsies exposed to the naked eye--she is henceforth "Miss DOLLY BAIRD-feet"--cannot be improved on as the pretty, gay, sad, much-suffering hypnotised _Trilby_. Of all possible _Trilbys_, "BAIRD'S the Best." The play could not be better acted all round. The French _Duc_, formerly _Zouzou_ the Zouave, is first-rate. Mr. CHARLES ALLAN, as a respectable English Archdeacon, finding himself in Bohemian Paris, is excellent. The success of _Trilby_, with her nude tootsies, may give new life to the ancient slang inquiry, "How's your poor feet?" * * * * * [Illustration: "KISMET!"] * * * * * [Illustration: MODERN EDUCATION. _She_ (_to athletic cousin_). "DO YOU WORK MUCH AT CAMBRIDGE?" _He._ "YES; WHEN I'VE TIME!"] * * * * * CABBY; OR, REMINISCENCES OF THE RANK AND THE ROAD. (_By "Hansom Jack."_) No. XI.--CABBY'S NOTES ON NOVEMBER--FOG ON THE FIFTH--A PYROTECHNIC FARE--ASTRAY IN THE SUBURBS--FIREWORKS IN FOGLAND. "Remember, remember, the fifth o' November"? You bet if there's any one does, 'tis a Cabby. November's the month when all London's smudged out, and the Cockneyist driver runs wild as a babby. Eugh! I could tell you some chump-chilling tales about life on the box in a London peasouper. Which 'im who would stand, after twenty or so, must be 'ard as tin-tacks, and as tough as a trooper. "Jimminy-whiz!" as YANK MUSHGRUBBER puts it, our sububs in frost, _with_ a fog, is tremenjous. And arter a few 'ours cold crawl up to 'Ampstead, we long for a something to mend us _or_ hend us, We don't care much which, till the rum 'ot 'as warmed us. Ah! life is a matter of cumfable feeling, And if it's wuth living or not is a question of temperytoor; that there ain't no concealing. Wy, a chap warm, and one chilled to the marrer, is no more alike than hegg-flip and a hicicle. Lose me about Peckham Rye in a fog, and I'd kick a stray dog, or knock over a bicycle. Darkness as lets you drive _into_ a lamp-post, and makes your shirt feel just like moist paper-mashy, Would make a harkangel a porkypine; speshul if you've a lamp broke, and the branches are splashy. You just take a saint or a syrup, and git 'im to drive a cross fare, in a fog, up to Streatham, And find 'isself lost, running into a churchyard or up a blind halley, and if 'e don't let 'em Fly frequent and free, words beginning in d, and a few more loud letters, as bring conserlation In trials and tantrums to cabbies _and_ gents, you can make 'im archbishop without consecration!