They shall observe quite painlessly The heroes toiling as they sit Rowing upon the sun-kissed sea With black smuts racing over it. Some stout electroscopic "star," Some Gallic beauty bistre-eyed, Shall show them in the years afar How Helen laughed, how Priam died, And how the good AENEAS came Through faked adventures on the screen To Latium, and what forks of flame Devoured a dummy Punic queen. What snares the Queen of Love employed, What Juno: mixed with local ads, These shall be thoroughly enjoyed By all appreciative lads. And some day, if the gods are kind To hearts so filled with classic feats In many a marble palace "cined" And puffed so oft in halfpenny sheets, Shall come revulsion, faintly stirred By Phoebus' and the Muses' laugh, Against the foul sins of a word Like spectodrome or vitagraph. Youth shall draw learning from the spring Pierian, and be taught to know The clustered verbal shames that cling About the moving picture show, Till at the last shall dawn a bright, A long-to-be-remembered day, When porticos of fanes of light Shall print Kinema with a K. EVOE. * * * * * "H.M.S. Cumberland. Geneva, Tuesday. The Municipality to-day gave a luncheon in honour of the officers and cadets of the training ship Cumberland.--Reuter." _Naval and Military Record._ Another record for WINSTON. He alone could succeed in getting _H.M.S. Cumberland_ to Geneva. * * * * * "Widcombe Manor, Bath, in which Fielding is said to have written 'Tom Jones,' is to come under the hammer shortly. It is one of the smaller houses erected by Indigo Jones." _Manchester Evening News._ It was, of course, the influence of his ancestor Indigo which so tinged certain episodes in _Tom's_ career. * * * * * THE BAZAAR CUSHION. "Ha! Someone has been sitting on it," cried Father William, snatching a flattened object off the piano-stool in high irritation. "It's abominable, you know," turning to me. "There are any number of cushions. The house is stuffed with cushions. Why people should always pounce upon this one and manhandle it in this way"--He put it on the table and began punching and squeezing and puffing and smoothing it till it had expanded to its full extent. Then he flicked the dust off it with his handkerchief. "I'll put it back in its box under the sofa," he said. "I can't understand how it ever got out." He dropped into an armchair and instantly recovered his equanimity. "And why should they spare that one?" I asked. "That," said the old man solemnly, "is my bazaar cushion." "I thought it looked as if it had escaped from a bazaar," said I. "It came back only last night," he went on. "Are you a judge of cushions? How do you like it? Pretty nice piece of work, eh?"