"The fact that to-day is the 104th anniversary of the birth of Mr. Gladstone prompts reflection as to the different ways in which their birthdays have been regarded by some famous men."--_Westminster Gazette._ _The Writer (as he finishes)_: "Got it in at last, thank Heaven!" * * * * * "A number of motor-cars, including one belonging to Mr. Lloyd George, are blocked in the Snowdon district, and the sheep farmers are much perturbed."--_Morning Post._ However, they can sleep soundly in their beds now, for he is back in London again. * * * * * THE SLIT TROUSER. (Whose arrival in England is reported in the photographic press.) You who see advanced attire Photographed for you to mock, Hold your ridicule or ire, Wax not scornful at the shock; Let not your compassion freeze, Hark to Archie for a bit, Ponder, if you please, his pleas, Patience, ere you slight his slit. Long there raged a warfare grim In the councils of the Nut; Socks were all in all to him Abso-simply-lutely; _but_-- Here's a problem for you pat-- How shall Archibald disclose Through the thickness of the spat Iridescent demi-hose? Yesteryear that problem vexed; One day spatted he would fare, Lacking colour; and the next Spatless, in chromatic wear. No dilemma reads him now, Bidding this or that to go. See, his side-cleft bags allow Spat and sock an equal show. * * * * * TACT. [Illustration: Mr. Anchor always wears a moustache for the soup course whenever his uncle, the general (from whom he has expectations), dines with him.] * * * * * "DASH." "There's no book like it," said A. "Get it at once." "You must read _Dash_," said B. "If you take my advice," said C., "and you know I'm not easily pleased by modern fiction, you'll get _Dash_ and simply peg away till you've finished it. It's marvellous." "I suppose you've read Darnock's _Dash_?" said D. "It's by far his best thing." At dinner my partner on each side gurglingly wished to know how I liked _Dash_, taking it for granted that I knew it more or less by heart. So having read some of Darnock's earlier work and thought it good, I acquired a copy of _Dash_ and settled down to it. I had not read more than two pages when it occurred to me that I ought to know what the other books in the library parcel were; so I went to look at them. One was a series of episodes in the career of a wonderful blind policeman who, in spite of his infirmity, performed prodigies of tact on point duty, and by the time I had finished glancing through this it was bed-time. I put _Dash_ under my arm, for I always read for half-an-hour or so in bed. How it happened I cannot imagine, but when I picked up the book and began to read I found, much to my surprise, that it was the other library novel.