"The famous flood-test of the Parisian, the stone ouave on the Bridge of Alma, is in water up to his waist."--_Provincial Paper._ Surely an understatement. The "ouave" seems to have had his Z washed away. * * * * * From a _feuilleton_:-- "James put his cold hands in his pockets and buttoned up his coat collar before turning out to his work."--_Weekly Paper._ This is not so easy as it sounds. * * * * * [Illustration: _Teuton (released after internment for the duration, to old business friend who is trying to avoid him)._ "WELL, MINE FRIENT, AND WHERE HAF YOU PEEN HIDING YOURSELF THE LAST FOUR OR FIFE YEARS?"] * * * * * WORDS OF WISDOM. "Come, all you young seamen, take heed now to me, A hard-case old sailorman bred to the sea, As sailed the seas over afore you was born, An' learned 'em by heart from the Hook to the Horn. "Don't hold by the ratlines when going aloft (Which I've told you afore but can't tell you too oft), Or you'll strike one that's rotten as sure as you live, And it's too late to learn when you've once felt it give; If you don't hit the bulwarks you'll sure hit the sea, For them rotten ratlines--they're the devil," says he. "Now if you should see, as you like enough may, When tramping the docks for a ship some fine day, A spanking full-rigger just ready for sea, And think she's just all that a hooker should be, Take 'eed you don't ship with a skipper that drinks-- You'd better by half play at fan-tan with Chinks!-- For that'll mean nothing but muddle an' mess, It may be much more and it can't be much less, What with wrangling and jangling to drive a man daft, And rank bad dis-cip-line both forrard and aft, A ship that's ill-found and a crew out of 'and, And a touch-and-go chance she may never reach land, But go down in a squall or broach to in a sea, For them drunken skippers--they're the devil," says he. "And if you go further and pause to admire A ship that's as neat as your heart could desire, As smart as a frigate aloft and alow, Her brasswork like gold and her planking like snow, Look round for a mate by whose twang it is plain That his home port is somewhere round Boston or Maine, With a jaw that's the cut of a square block of wood, And beat it, my son, while the going is good! There'll be scraping and scouring from morning till night To keep that brass shiny and keep them decks white, And belaying-pin soup both for dinner and tea, For them smart down-easters--they're the devil," says he.