"You're sure he said Blank?" he inquired after another interval of profound thought. "Absolutely," I replied. "Tell me again what he was like. Tell me exactly. I know every one up there; I must know him." "He was a vigorous, bulky, very tall man," I said, "with a pointed beard and a mass of grey hair under a panama; and he went to Blank every August. He had been a great traveller and knew Persia; he had been in Parliament, and one of his sons was in the siege of Mafeking." "I don't know him," he said. * * * * * "Foreign gentleman desires English lady to correct him, during one hour every morning, from 9 to 10."--_Bournemouth Daily Echo._ There is one foreigner whom innumerable English ladies would be delighted to correct; but he is no gentleman. * * * * * [Illustration: _Hostess (alluding to latest photograph of herself)._ "Well, dear, do you think it's like me?" _Polite little Girl._ "Well, I don't think it has made you look quite--quite--grown up enough."] * * * * * "BIOLOGY AT THE FRONT." _To the Editor of "The Times."_ SIR,--I am encouraged by reading the very interesting letter which appeared in your issue of May 29th under the heading, "Biology at the Front," and dealt with the habit acquired by French poultry of imitating the sound of flying shells, to relate an experience which recently befell me. I was seated at breakfast "Somewhere in France," and had ordered, as is my custom, a boiled egg. When it was brought to me I proceeded to open it by giving it a smart tap. The egg immediately exploded with a loud report, and the contents were scattered in all directions. Those at table with me at once threw themselves prostrate on the ground, and one, whose olfactory nerves were excessively developed, exhibited every symptom of being gassed. On questioning the innkeeper we learnt that the egg had been laid some weeks before by a hen in the neighbourhood of the Front. I had previously noticed that it was elongated in shape, the small end being pointed and the base end nearly flat, while the whole was cased in a shell. The continuance of this imitative habit would be a strange perpetual memorial of the Great War--particularly for Pacificist politicians. Yours, &c., Darwinian. _The Ashpit, Egham._ * * * * * WAR'S SURPRISES. The Poet. My gifted nephew Eric Till just before the War Was steeped in esoteric And antinomian lore, Now verging on the mystic, Now darkly symbolistic, Now frankly Futuristic, And modern to the core. Versed in the weird grivoiserie Affected by VERLAINE, And charmed by the chinoiserie Of MARINETTI'S strain, In all its multiplicity He worshipped eccentricity, And found his chief felicity In aping the insane.