_Glasgow Evening Citizen._ Won't the Germans be puzzled? * * * * * "Eddie Harvey (Fleetwood) and Ike Whitehouse (Barrow) went through 15 rounds contest for L5 a side and a nurse, and Harvey won on points."--_The People._ The stakes, we presume, were divided. * * * * * "A kid was born with monkey face and human skull at Saidapet on the 13th instant." _New India._ This is headed "A Curious Phenomenon." But is it? Some of our neighbours' kids are just like that. * * * * * [Illustration: THE NEW EDGE.] * * * * * LONDON AS USUAL. ("_Kelly's London Directory_" for 1916, a contemporary remarks, is very much the same as the volume for 1915.) Where, where are the signs of the raider Who swam to our ken like a kite, Who swore he had played the invader And knocked us to bits in the night; Who pounded these parts into jelly From Mile End, he said, to the Mall? For the man who should know (J. J. KELLY) Can't spot 'em at all. You may turn up the street that is Vigo Or alight on the Lane that is Mark; You may let your incredulous eye go O'er each Crescent and Corner and Park; You may hunt through the humblest of alleys Or the giddiest haunts of the town, And Kelly's, who're "safe" as the Palace, Have got 'em all down. So I sing to those equals in wonder, Of BRADSHAW (the expert on trains), Who have torn the Hun's fiction asunder-- That our City's a mass of remains; Here's our proof that we're plainly not undone, That, although every night she lies hid, Our stolid undaunted old London Still stands where she did. * * * * * [Illustration: _Porter_ (_dug-out_). "Shall I put yer 'ockey-knockers in the van, Sir?"] * * * * * STUDIES IN FRUSTRATION. I. The scene was the comfortable spacious breakfast-room in the Bishop's Palace. His lordship sat nearest to the fire; the bishop's wife presided over the fragrant coffee-pot, and the curate, their dine-and-sleep guest, sat opposite the bishop and farthest from the warmth. As a curate this position was his due. Some day he also would be a bishop, and then he too would know what it was to intercept the glow. The curate was looking dubiously into the recesses of an egg. His fine Anglican features underwent a series of contortions. "I am afraid," said the bishop, "that that egg is not a good one." "You are right, my lord," said the curate. "It is not only bad, it's alive. I think it's the worst egg that was ever offered me." II. The wounded soldier lay in his deck-chair placidly smoking his hundredth cigarette that day. He was not naturally a smoker, but cigarettes arrived in enormous numbers and something had to be done with them. His visitor sat beside him, note-book in hand. "Yes?" he remarked.