Oh, FRY of Wadham, you've opened your mouth, And "put your foot in it!" Here in the South, Talked to death by wild golfers, we're likely to cry Hooray, to see Link-lovers roasted by FRY. Golf-glorification's a terrible tax on The muscular Cricketing, Footballing Saxon, To whom the game seems just a little bit pokey. But FRY of Wadham, Sir, "glorified Croquet"! Champion of Champions, you're going to catch it! Each man loves his sport, swears no other can match it _Chacun à son goût!_ And he's rather to blame Who's prompt to make game of another man's Game! * * * * * "TO BE TAKEN AS READ." DEAR MR. PUNCH,--Thanks to the action of the Circulating Libraries, it seems that the old-fashioned three-volume novel is doomed to become a work of the past. Most of the popular writers have abandoned it, and now the publishers are beginning to fight shy of it. The principal argument, I believe, in favour of its retention is that it gives a chance to "the little read." The Circulating Libraries are called upon to fill boxes intended for the edification of subscribers in the country, and in these receptacles of light literature I believe the unpopular authors have their greatest chance. But as a matter of fact, although a romance may be sent to a peruser, it is not within the scope of civilisation to cause that romance to be read. According to statistics I believe about sixty per cent of the second and third rate is only sampled by the recipients of the aforesaid boxes. The last couple of pages of the third volume are largely read, whilst the remainder of the work is saved from the labours of the paper-knife. As this is so, would it not be as well to give a "common form" _finale_ to serve as a model for novels _in extremis_? To make my meaning plainer I will give an example. [Illustration] Let me suppose that the country subscriber has received a novel per parcels post called _The Deed in Drab_. Instead of having to cut some nine hundred pages, he finds gummed to the inside of the cover what I may call THE LAST CHAPTER. And so amidst the joy bells of the old church and the songs of the nightingales, and the pleasant laughter of the little children, EDWIN and ANGELINA were married. As they passed under the oaken porch the Duke gave them his blessing. Need it be said they lived happily--like a prince and a princess in fairy tale--for ever after? Captain MONTMORENCY GUILT, kicked out of his club and warned off the Turf at Newmarket, left England with his ill-gotten gains for Cairo. Arrived in Egypt, he disappeared into the Soudan. Those of the Arabs who came from the desert declare that there is a white ruler in Khartoum. Whether it be he, who knows? Still, the stories of cruelty brought back by the swarthy traders are not unsuggestive of the man who brought poor PAULINE to her grave and broke the Bank at Monte Carlo.