A wonderful piece called _Racing_, by the "Great MACDERMOTT," is being performed at Islington. It is composed of a mixture of Comedy and Tragedy. Both ingredients are equally funny. Removing my _gibus_, and laying down my programmes and opera-glasses, I again sign myself ONE WHO HAS GONE TO PIECES. * * * * * GARDEN TALK. _As arranged for the neighbourhood of the Round Pond under existing circumstances._ CAN this be Kensington Gardens, or is it Tophet? This perfume is scarcely suggestive of flowers. How nicely this little girl is burying the dead cat. What a game at hide and seek those boys in white sailor suits are having in that reeking garbage. It is strange, but the morning breeze is laden with _Bacteria_. Why, that is the fifth dust-cart that has emptied its contents here this afternoon. How merrily the dustmen are spreading the refuse over the surface of the grass. The haggard Park-keeper seems to be growing paler and paler every day. I wonder why that entire family of children have broken out into green spots. Who would have thought that the baby that had been brought here for a little fresh air would have turned blue in the perambulator! Who is really responsible for the conversion of an open pleasure-ground into a deadly centre for the dissemination of fever? * * * * * [Illustration: A PRETTY KETTLE OF FISH. "The King of the BELGIANS is understood to be acting as his own Ambassador in the matter of the North Sea Fishery disputes. His visit to this country is stated to have for its object the prevention of future conflicts between British and Belgian fishermen in the North Sea."--_Times._] * * * * * _Mr. Punch._ Ah happy to see you, _mon Chef_! Here's a mess! You'll soon put it all straight, Sir; you couldn't do less. Your people you'll find are entirely to blame For the kettle o'erboiling, the steam and the flame. What is there in fish that in every quarter So leads--in non-natural sense--to hot water? And why should a Billingsgate dame, or a trawler, Or Belgian or British, so oft be a brawler? A Saint once held forth, Sir, the fishes to teach. What a sermon to us, Sir, the fishes might preach! The sea's lavish harvest was certainly sent Man's palate to please, and his hunger content; Not, _not_, my dear _Chef_, as mere strife-stirring spoil His kitchen to slop, and his cooks to embroil. _Verb. sap._--you are sapient, I know, like your Sire-- And--you'll take this strange "kettle of fish" off the fire! * * * * *