The activity of the Princess Pongo, who wore a tasteful _toque_ surmounted by a stuffed baby gorilla, was much admired, and when the score was called "one set all," the enthusiasm of the bystanders knew no bounds. A slight delay was caused by the arrival of a telegram for Mr. BALFOUR, announcing that, in view of the grave importance of the present political situation, _The Times_ had been reduced to a penny. This he perused with deep emotion. On the resumption of the game, however, the ex-PREMIER at once showed himself to be in his best form. He sclaffed several beauties past the Baron, nonplussed the Nigerian princess by his luscious lobs, and finished off the set and match by a wonderful scoop-stroke which died down like a poached egg. Early in the set he gave a remarkable proof of his detachment. Just as the Princess was preparing to serve one of her juiciest undercut strokes, the tones of a soprano practising her scales rang out from a neighbouring flat. "Rather sharp, I think," said Mr. BALFOUR, and the Princess, overcome by the ready wit of the ex-PREMIER, served four faults in quick succession. At the conclusion of the game Mr. BALFOUR wiped his face twice with his handkerchief and signed his name in the birthday books of several American heiresses. We understand that there is no truth in the rumour that Mr. BALFOUR will box five rounds with CARPENTIER at a Charity Bazaar and Gymkhana next Saturday, but hopes are entertained that he will dance the Ta-tao with the Princess Pongo, and enter for the three-legged race with the Grand Duke Uriel. * * * * * "TO MAKE THE PUNISHMENT FIT THE CRIME." [Illustration: _Judge._ "Have you anything to say for yourself before I sentence you, Prisoner?" _Prisoner._ "Yes, your Lordship; I taught your wife and daughters the Tango." _Judge._ "Twenty years."] * * * * * AN IDOL OF THE MARKET PLACE. Decorum and the butcher's cat Are seldom far apart-- From dawn when clouds surmount the air, Piled like a beauty's powdered hair, Till dusk, when down the misty square Rumbles the latest cart He sits in coat of white and grey Where the rude cleaver's shock Horrid from time to time descends, And his imposing presence lends Grace to a platform that extends Beneath the chopping-block. How tranquil are his close-piled cheeks His paws, sequestered warm! An oak-grained panel backs his head And all the stock-in-trade is spread, A symphony in white and red, Round his harmonious form. The butcher's brave cerulean garb Flutters before his face, The cleaver dints his little roof Of furrowed wood; remote, aloof He sits superb and panic-proof In his accustomed place. Threading the columned county hall, Mid-most before his eyes, Alerter dog and loitering maid Cross from the sunlight to the shade, And small amenities of trade Under the gables rise;