Don't be surprised if you hear of some sensational political developments in the near future. The Minister who said recently that the inevitable sequel to war was peace, was, in the opinion of those competent to judge but, by reason of their official position, unable to criticise, hinting at proposals which, if the signs and portents of the time go for anything, would have far-reaching effects on the question of Electoral Representation. I will say no more. Time alone will disclose my meaning. * * * * * [Illustration: _Urchin (with an inborn terror of the Force)._ "Oo, MUVVER! IT WON'T, WILL IT?"] * * * * * OMINOUS. "----went every morning to a firm of sausage-makers by whom he was employed as a horse-dealer."--_Irish Paper_. * * * * * "Rome, Saturday. "The announcement is made to-day of the award by the King [of Italy] of gold medals to Lieutenant Giuseppe Castruccio and I sentence him to three months' hard."--_Manchester Evening Chronicle_. When will British journalists learn not to interfere with the internal affairs of friendly nations? * * * * * THE LAST MATCH. This is the last, the very, very last. Its gay companions, who so snugly lay Within the corners of their fragile home, All, all are lightly fled and surely gone; And their survivor lingers in his pride, The last of all the matches in the house; For Mr. Siftings says he has no more, And Siftings is an honourable man, And would not state a fact that was not so. For now he has himself to do without The flaming boon of matches, having none, And cannot furnish us as he desires, Being a grocer and the best of men, But murmurs vaguely of a future week When matches shall be numerous again As leaves in Vallombrosa and as cheap. Blinks, the tobacconist, he too is spent With weary waiting in a matchless land; What Siftings cannot get cannot be got By men like Blinks, that young tobacconist, Who tried with all a patriot's fiery zeal To join the Army, but was sent away For varicose and too protuberant veins; And being foiled of all his high intent Now minds the shop and is a Volunteer, Drilling on Sundays with the rest of them; He too, amid his hoards of cigarettes, Is void of matches as he's full of veins. So here's a good match in a naughty world, And what to do with it I do not know, Save that somehow, when all the place is still, It shall explode and spurt and flame and burn Slowly away, not having thus achieved The lighting of a pipe or any act Of usefulness, but having spent itself In lonely grandeur as befits the last Of all the varied matches I have known. * * * * * OUR SAMSONS. "Wanted at once.--Reliable Man for carrying off motor lorry."--_Clitheroe Advertiser_. * * * * *