_Rosalind_ (_reading_). No mistress ever has recalled A sweeter youth than Archibald. The only name that never palled On Rosalind was Archibald. How firmly is thy face installed Upon my heart, O Archibald! _Celia._ Is that your own, dear? _Rosalind._ I found it on a tree. There's lots more.... Oh, Celia, listen! It ends up: O! once I was severely galled By feathers from my Archibald. Celia, it must be Orlando! He has penetrated my disguise and he forgives me! [_Enter_ Orlando _from left at the head of his men_. _Orlando_ (_to his platoon_). Halt! Eyes right! (_Advancing to Rosalind._) Lady, you gave me a feather once. I have lost it. Can you give me another one? My Colonel says I _must_ have a moustache. _Rosalind._ Alas, Sir, I have no others. _Orlando_ (_firmly_). Very well. Then there's only one thing for me to do. I shall have to join the Navy. _He does so, thus providing a naval Third Act.... And so eventually to the long-wished-for end._ A. A. M. * * * * * THE LATEST IRISH GRIEVANCE. A MILESIAN MEDLEY. [_The Earl of ABERDEEN on his promotion in the peerage has adopted the style of Marquess of ABERDEEN AND TARA._] The Harp that once in Tara's Hall The soul of music shed Has had a most disastrous fall And won't be comforted; For now, when the Milesian Gael Looms large upon the scene, Tara is tacked on to the tail Of Scottish Aberdeen. O Casement dear, an' did ye hear the news that's goin' round? The Germans are by law forbid to land on Irish ground; And Cork's proud Corporation--may perdition seize their soul!-- Have blotted KUNO MEYER'S name from off their burgess roll. I met wid PADDY BIRRELL on the links at Overstrand, An' sez he, "How's poor dear Ireland, and how does she stand?" She's the most amazin' counthry that iver yet was seen, For she's let the name of Tara come afther Aberdeen! O if in dingy khaki we've got to see it through, And must not taste of _raki_ (which is Turkish mountain-dew), Still we can wet our whistle with porter and _poteen_, And extirpate the thistle from Tara's sacred scene. When laws can turn the pratie into the Frenchman's bean, An' when the Russian Ballet comes to dance on College Green, Then I'll accept the title, though I'm a patriot keen, But till that day Tara shall stay in front of Aberdeen. _Chorus_ (_to the tune of Tarara-Boom-de-ay._) TARA AND ABERDEEN--that's what it should have been, For never has there been an insult so obscene To dear Dark ROSALEEN, our holy Island Queen, As letting Tara's sheen be dimmed by Aberdeen. * * * * * "Grease Spots on Milk.--Take a lump of magnesia, and, having wetted it, rub it over the grease-marks. Let it dry, and then brush the powder off, when the spots will be found to have disappeared."--_North Wilts Herald._ They didn't. Perhaps we had the wrong kind of milk.