We were now ready to tackle the expression. I had chosen one that would have been suitable for a man with a fair No Trump hand, but with one suit not fully guarded, as I didn't want to overdo it; but, judging from the inquisitor's remarks about the graveside, I am quite ready to admit that it might not have come out like that. I hastily dealt myself a hundred aces and a long suit of clubs, and he said that that was better, but I must put off the idea of the funeral altogether. It was not until I had assumed the appearance of a reach-me-down Nut with a dislocated neck, being made love to by six chorus-girls at once, that he condescended to take a look at me through the peephole. Then he ran up to me, gave my chin another hitch, pulled my neck another foot or two out of my collar, added a ruck or two to my sleeves, and said he liked the other side of my face better, after all. So we went through it all again, and I worked at it with a will, for I wanted to see him get under his black cloth and finish the business. It wasn't as bad as I had thought, but he was not done by any means when he had fired his first shot. He rammed more cartridges into the breach, and twisted me into three fresh contortions. He said he was sure that some of the efforts would turn out magnificently. I don't feel quite the same confidence myself. I am anxiously awaiting the result, and trying to get rid of the crick in my neck and to unbuckle the smile in the meantime. If it doesn't turn out satisfactorily, I shall get a few lines--not too deep--put into the negative of the one taken under the crab-tree, and a little hair painted out--but not too much. * * * * * [Illustration: "WORK! I'M NOT AFRAID O' WORK, BUT I CAN'T GET ANY IN MY LINE." "WHAT IS YOUR LINE?" "I USED TO BE A STOCKBROKER, LIDY."] * * * * * "Lemnos and Samothrace are to pass to Greece, and Chios and Wtlylene are to be neutralised."--_Daily Citizen_. We shall remain anxious until the last-named is sterilized. * * * * * THE TRAGEDY OF MIDDLE AGE. When I was a mid-Victorian nut With a delicate taste in ties, A highly elegant figure I cut, At least in my own fond eyes, And used to regard unwaxed moustaches As one of the worst of social laches. But now I find in my youngest son The sternest of autocrats. He tells me the things that must be done And orders my collars and spats; Prescribes mild exercise on the links And advises me on the choice of drinks. I've faithfully striven to imitate My Mentor in dress and diction, And loyally laboured to cultivate A taste for the latest fiction; Though I still read DICKENS upon the sly, And even SCOTT, when nobody's by.