"_Four-wheeler!_" went down well as "_Hansom Up!_" Yessir! When Harmony's on and Benevolence guides it, A Growler's a _cab_, just the same as a Forder, and 'e aint no "Cabby," true grit, as derides it. Cape Clubs and Rug Clubs is all very proper, and so is your Sick Fund and Friendly Society, But a friendly whip-round, with a sing-song worked in, and no swagger or fuss, is _my_ favrit variety. * * * * * "A BIG, BIG 'D.'"--The _Times_ of last Thursday reports that a scheme was submitted to the Chester Town Council "_for damming the river Dee_." The scheme was approved of, and the Council cried, as in chorus, "Dee-cidedly! Dam the Dee!" _Minute._--That the Dee be damm'd accordingly. * * * * * DR. PARKER'S RESPECTFUL FEW WORDS TO THE POPE.--"_Parker Verba._" * * * * * [Illustration: SCENES AT THE UGANDA EXHIBITION OF 1900. No. II.--THE "COSTER" VILLAGE WAS A NEVER-FAILING SOURCE OF AMUSEMENT TO THE VISITORS!] * * * * * [Illustration: _Middle-aged Novice._ "I'M JUST OFF FOR A TOUR IN THE COUNTRY--'BIKING' ALL THE WAY. IT'LL BE FOUR WEEKS BEFORE I'M BACK IN MY FLAT AGAIN." _Candid Friend._ "AH! BET IT WON'T BE FOUR HOURS BEFORE YOU'RE FLAT ON YOUR BACK AGAIN!"] * * * * * ROUNDABOUT READINGS. I am at Davos. Be careful about the pronunciation: put the accent broadly on the second syllable, and you have it. With me, if I may say so, it is a case of _Davos non vobis_, for I have come here not for my own health, but to act as travelling-companion to one of the best fellows in the world, who seeks health and strength in this quiet and beautiful valley. God be with him, and with all his fellow-sufferers here. Here are some notes taken on the way. _Hall of the Grosvenor Hotel, 10.30 A.M._--A mixed crowd of anxious French and English people: a sprinkling of Americans. Desperate inquiries from an elderly French lady for her box. A moment ago the box was visible, a monumental box peacefully reposing near the door. Now it has vanished. Is the box to be added to the questions pending between France and England? No; it is found--on a truck. The French Ambassador may rest in peace. On a sofa reclines a magnificent Arab, tall, stately, bronzed, aquiline, robed in a waving burnous and a turban of dazzling white. How he casts our puny, ditto-suited, cloth-capped civilisation into the shade. An almost irresistible impulse comes over me to change my ticket, break every tie and make a dash with him for his native desert, to live a free and untrammelled life, to head a successful insurrection against the French oppressor, to be laid after death in a splendid tomb with a cupola amidst the lamentations of thousands of lithe and dusky warriors.