THE KENDALS are announced to appear at the Avenue Theatre. They start with _A White Lie_. This is the truth. Free admissions will not be heard of, except when they give _A Scrap of Paper_. They are also going to produce a new play entitled, _Prince Karatoff_. The plot, to judge by the name, will be of interest to Vegetarians, as it is whispered that the hero, _Prince Karatoff_, falls in love with _Princess Turnipon_. *** CURIOUSLY APPROPRIATE CONJUNCTION OF NAMES.--On Friday last the _Times_ published an important letter on a certain fishery. The fish was the Salmon, and the writer of the letter was FFENNELL. We do not remember ever having seen Salmon on table without FFENNELL, which is a fanciful way of spelling it. All information concerning Salmon may now be obtained from a "FFENNELL source." * * * * * Illustration: THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. (_Very Latest Version._) ["There is a grievance which has taken hold in the last few years, under which we are all groaning and complaining, without, as far as I can see, any present remedy. I allude to the shameful way in which our linen is destroyed and knocked about by the existing race of Washerwomen in the Metropolis."--_M. J. G.'s Letter on "London Laundries," in the Daily Telegraph._] With wristbands grubby and worn, With collars ragged and frayed, A man moaned over a shirt all rags, Cursing the laundress trade. "Scrub! Scrub! Scrub! With lime for extracting the dirt; With chemicals rot, and with wire-brushes rub!"-- _That_'s the new Song of the Shirt. Buy! Buy! Buy! Though I'm but a poor Clerk, with scant "oof," Yet it's buy--buy--buy! (My hosier's bills furnish full proof), And it's O! to be a slave To my Laundress, who's worse than a Turk. I seldom look nice, and I never can save; And this is woman's work! Rub! Rub! Rub! Till they're rugged at edge and at rim; Scrub! Scrub! Scrub! Till with scissors the cuffs I must trim. Seam, and gusset, and band, Band, and gusset, and seam; And all the buttonholes gape, and the studs Drop out in a golden stream. O Men with sisters who wash, With housewifely mothers or wives, Who "do up" your linen, and _don't_ "put it out," You lead endurable lives! Wash--Starch--Iron! _That_ may mean home dampness and dirt; But at least your collars won't chafe your neck, And you'll boast a wearable shirt! But why do I dream of soap, Or of honest knuckle-bone? Now most men's shirts come home in a shape That's dreadfully like my own-- That's dismally like my own, Unless a home laundry they keep; Great Scott! that shirts should be so dear, And chloride and wire so cheap!