*** "Fishing with rod and line from a boat in the Downs at Deal," says _The Daily Mail_, "Lord HERSCHELL and a friend caught 600 fish on Sunday. The fish, mostly pouting, were hauled in three and four at a time." We suspect they were pouting to show their annoyance at having their Sabbath rest disturbed. *** It is proposed in an L.C.C. report that barges should be used as open-air schools on the river. Schools of language, presumably. *** We are asked to deny that the fire which broke out at the bookstall at the Hampstead station of the North London Railway last week was produced spontaneously by a copy of one of MISS VICTORIA CROSS's novels. * * * * * [Illustration: _Bather._ "I SAY! I SAY! THE CURRENT IS FRIGHTFULLY STRONG; I'M BEING CARRIED OUT." _Bathing Attendant._ "ALL RIGHT, SIR, ALL RIGHT! I'VE GOT ME EYE ON YER!"] * * * * * THE USES OF OCEAN. (_Lines written in an irresponsible holiday mood._) To people who allege that we Incline to overrate the Sea, I answer, "We do not; Apart from being coloured blue, It has its uses not a few-- I cannot think what we should do If ever 'the deep did rot.'" Take ships, for instance. You will note That, lacking stuff on which to float, They could not get about; Dreadnought and liner, smack and yawl, And other types that you'll recall-- They simply could not sail at all If Ocean once gave out. And see the trouble which it saves To islands; but for all those waves That made us what we are-- But for their help so kindly lent, Teutons could march right through to Kent And never need to circumvent A single British tar. Take fish, again. I have in mind No better field that they could find For exercise and sport; How would the whale, I want to know, The blubbery whale contrive to blow; Where would your playful kipper go If the supply ran short? And hence we rank the Ocean high; But there are privy reasons why Its praise is on my lip: I deem it, when my heart is set On walking into something wet, The nicest medium I have met In which to take a dip. Ah, speed the hour already fixed When, mid the bathers (freely mixed), In a polite costume I mean to plunge beneath the spray And, washing from a soul at play The City's stain--three times a day-- Restore its vernal bloom. Rocked like a babe upon the brine It is my dream to float supine And to the vast inane Banish awhile from off my chest The cares that hold it now obsessed, And even take a clean-cut rest From Ulster-on-the-brain. O. S. * * * * * The Best Holiday Insurance.