DEAR MR. PUNCH,--I crave your advice and sympathy under the following circumstances. I have been of late considerably perplexed as to which side I ought to support in the forthcoming London County Council Election. Sometimes I have felt drawn to the banner of Progressivism, at other times I have yearned to embrace Moderateness, I do not say the Moderate Programme, because there are so many. In my difficulty I saw an announcement that the _Daily Chronicle_ was about to become an illustrated paper in the interest of the Progressives. Accordingly, last Monday I eagerly bought the first copy of the newly-pictured paper, and found a delightful feast for my eyes in a reproduction of a drawing by Sir EDWARD BURNE-JONES. It was without doubt a charming piece of work, and the printing was marvellously good. That decided me--I threw in my lot with the Progressives without more ado. But, unfortunately, that was only the commencement of the difficulty. That very afternoon I met a friend who happened to be a "Moderate" candidate. "I suppose I can reckon on your assistance, old fellow?" was his greeting as he patted me familiarly on the back. I explained to him that I had determined to vote Progressive. He asked me why. For some time I tried to think of some reason which should appear, on the face of it, conclusive. It ended in my being truthful, and playing Sir EDWARD BURNE-JONES. Then came the questions which have been ringing in my ears ever since. "What on earth has that delightful picture to do with the question? Why, I've got it myself and am having it framed for our drawing-room. But why should it make you vote Progressive?" And that's just it--I didn't know, and I don't know. Please can anyone tell me? Yours, Burne-Jonesing to know, Muchpurp Lext. _Feb. 15, 1895._ * * * * * CHILLY NOTION.--The gentleman who had "nothing on his mind" was reduced to "a bare idea." He has not survived it. * * * * * TO MY DOCTOR IN BED. With much regret I hear it said That you, dear doctor, are in bed, Quite invalided. For you the uninviting fare-- The broth, the gruel, made with care, The milk--is needed. I mourn, yet grimly chuckle, too, When thinking that not I, but you, Should be a fixture; Not I, but you, must sadly sip, With utterly unwilling lip, Some awful mixture. Not I, but you, must now obey What dictatorial doctors say, So interfering! I might perhaps be less averse To some attractive youthful nurse, And find her cheering. In weather such as we have had, Your fate may not have been so bad; In bed one lingers When blizzards bite the bluish nose, When cold half numbs the tortured toes, The frozen fingers.