"That's illogical," muttered the Brown Owl. He was right, of course, but things _are_ illogical in Fairyland. That's the nicest part of it. * * * * * [Illustration: _Salesman_. "IT IS POSSIBLE THAT IT MAY INTEREST YOU TO KNOW THAT OUR CAR WAS DRIVEN UP ALL THE FLIGHTS OF STEPS AT THE CRYSTAL PALACE." _Inquiring Visitor_. "WELL--ER--NOT MUCH. YOU SEE, I LIVE IN A BUNGALOW."] * * * * * "Fears are entertained that the chalice, which is of silver-gilt, may have been broken up and investments profaned."--_Daily Herald._ We should have thought that our Communistic contemporary was the last paper that would have considered investments sacred. * * * * * "K. T. B---- and T. W. H----, both of Liverpool, who were in company with Mr. L---- in the car, agreed that the speed was about fifty-one miles an hour. On the gradient and at the turn it was not safe to travel faster."--_Provincial Paper._ One of those examples of "Safety First" which we are always pleased to chronicle. * * * * * =THE OPENING RUN.= The rain-sodden grass in the ditches is dying; The berries are red to the crest of the thorn; Coronet-deep where the beech-leaves are lying The hunters stand tense to the twang of the horn; Where rides are refilled with the green of the mosses, All foam-flecked and fretful their long line is strung; You can see the white gleam as a starred forehead tosses, You can hear the low chink as a bit-bar is flung. The world's full of music. Hounds rustle the rover Through brushwood and fern to a glad "Gone away!" With a "Come along, Pilot!"--one spur-touch and over-- The huntsman is clear on his galloping grey; Before him the pack's running straight on the stubble-- "_Toot-toot-too-too-too-oot!_" "_Tow-row-ow-ow-ow!_" The leaders are clambering up through the double And glittering away on the brown of the plough. The front rank, hands down, have the big fence's measure; The faint-hearts are craning to left and to right; The Master goes through with a crash on "The Treasure;" The grey takes the lot like a gull in his flight; There's a brown crumpled up, lying still as a dead one; There's a roan mare refusing, as stubborn as sin; While the breaker flogs up on a green underbred one And smashes the far-away rail with a grin. The chase carries on over hilltop and hollow, The life of Old England, the pluck and the fun; And who would ask more than a stiff line to follow With hounds running hard in the Opening Run? W. H. O. * * * * * IN PRAISE OF THE PELICANS.