Apart from other faults, there are too many "whiches" here, and unlike his malignant hero, _Davoli_, the Canon doesn't seem to be well up in his "which-craft." Clever Canon POTTER must turn out from his Potteries some ware superior to this for the public and THE BARON. * * * * * REFLECTION IN THE MIST.--You could have "cut the fog, it was so thick," is a common expression. But the fog, unwelcome as it always is, is not like an unwelcome acquaintance, who can be "cut" or avoided by turning down a street, or by pretending unconsciousness of his proximity. * * * * * QUESTION FOR A LEGAL EXAM.--If a farmer purchased a good milch cow reared at Dorking, what would be its (old style) legal produce? _Answer or Rejoinder._--Why, of course, some sort of Surrey-butter. * * * * * [Illustration: CULTCHAH! _Suburban Belle_ (_to her Dressmaker_). "And I should like a Medici Collar to my Tea-gown. Do you understand? A Medici Collar--like that of the Venus de Medici!"] * * * * * "DAVY JONES'S LOCKER." DAVY JONES, _loquitur:_-- "_Fifteen men on the dead man's chest. Hey! ho! and a bottle of rum!"_ Faith, that's a chorus I can rattle off with zest. Gratefully it clatters upon DAVY'S tym-pa-num, Like a devil's tattoo from Death's drum! Fi! Fo! Fum! These be very parlous times for old legends of the sea. VANDERDECKEN is taboo'd, the Sea Sarpint is pooh-pooh'd, but 'tis plain as any pikestaff they can't disestablish Me! DADDY NEPTUNE may delight in the Island trim and tight, where his sea-dogs breed and fight, as in days of yore, When old CHARLIE DIBDIN'S fancy piped free songs of JACK and NANCY, of Jolly Salts at sea, and Old Tarry-Breeks ashore; But if Britons rule the waves, as the grog-fired sailor raves, when he dreams of glorious graves in the deep dark main, DADDY NEPTUNE must allow DAVY shares his empire now, or the _Sultan_ and the _Howe_ have gone down in vain. DADDY NEPTUNE loves me not. Plumped by storm or by shot, my Locker held a lot in the days gone by, But 'tis daily growing fuller. Is the British Tar off colour, are the sea-dogs slower, duller, though as game to die? Has Science spoilt their skill, that their iron pots so fill my old Locker? How I thrill at the lumbering crash, When a-crunch upon a rock, with a thundering Titan shock, goes some shapeless metal block, to immortal smash?