Sir WILLIAM ROBERTSON NICOLL, writing in _The British Weekly_, asserts that when Mr. MASSINGHAM read "C.K.S.'s" recent reference to _The Nation_ in _The Sphere_ he kicked the waste-paper basket round the room and tore the hair out of his head in handfuls. Mr. CECIL CHESTERTON, addressing a meeting of non-party fishmongers at Billingsgate last week, stated that he had heard that when Mr. GODFREY ISAACS informed the LORD CHIEF JUSTICE that Mr. HANDEL BOOTH had retired from the Dublin Police Inquiry Lord READING OF EARLEY burst into tears and hid his face in his wig. * * * * * WHY MR. CHESTERTON SHUNS THE ISLE OF WIGHT. Extract from local time-table:-- "10.45 a.m. Motor Service between Freshwater and Newport for light passengers only." * * * * * "Referring to the plea of Dr. Budge, the poet laureate, for purer English, a writer in the 'Daily Chronicle' says...."--_Glasgow Evening Citizen_. Purer spelling of names is what the POET LAUREATE would really like to see. * * * * * It was very touching of _The Evening News_ to give so much space to the distressing story of the real Duchess who could not get a seat at Olympia--(surely they might have thrown out a common person to make room for her?)--but it was tactless to go on: "'If you will bring me a couple of chairs,' said the duchess, 'I will sit down in the gangway with the greatest pleasure.'" It makes one wonder which of our larger duchesses it was. * * * * * THE HOUSE OF PUNCH. [He "married a princess of the House of Punch."--_Excerpt front an account of the life of a former King of Kashmir_.] Hail, Master, and accept the news I bring. I come to make a solemn mystery clear, One that affects you deeply; for I sing Of a most ancient king Nine hundred years ago in fair Kashmir, Who yearned towards a bride, and--hear, oh hear, Lord of the reboant nose and classic hunch-- "Married a princess of the House of Punch." Yes, you are royal, as one might have seen. The loftiness of your despotic sway, Your strange aloofness and unearthly mien (Yet regal) might have been A full assurance of monarchic clay. Had but the fates run kindly, at this day Yourself should be a king of orient fame, Chief of the princely house that bears your name. Methinks I see you at it. I can see A shamiana[1] loftily upreared Beneath a banyan (or banana) tree, Whichever it may be, Where, with bright turban and vermilion beard (A not unfrequent sight, and very weird), You sit at peace; a small boy, doubly bowed, Acts as your footstool and, though stiff, is proud.