"Last of the Hohenzollerns!" he shouted; "then, by Jove, this is going to be the last of _him_." And with a yell of triumph he hurled the infant out into the night. From the child in its trajectory came a long ear-splitting shriek, followed by a gentle wailing. Mr. Jones sat up and blinked his eyes. The professorial gentleman was still in the far corner; the lady was still opposite him; the child was wailing softly. The lady smiled. "I'm afraid baby has broken your nap. A passing express frightened him." "Not at all," murmured Mr. Jones incoherently, searching for his novel, the one solace left amid the ruin of his dreams. "Pardon me," said the lady, "but if you are looking for your book you threw it out of the window just before you woke up." Mr. Jones sank back resignedly. His glory had gone, his book had gone. Once again he settled himself in his corner to sleep--perchance to dream. * * * * * [Illustration: "JACKY, DEAR, YOUR HANDS ARE FRIGHTFULLY DIRTY." "NOT 'FRIGHTFULLY,' MUMMY. A LOT OF THAT'S SHADING."] * * * * * STRANGE BEHAVIOUR OF THE GERMAN ENVOYS. "Five minutes later the German plenipotentiaries reappeared, dived into Allied representatives, emerged, jumped into their car and drove off."--_Dublin Evening Mail_. * * * * * CHANT ROYAL OF CRICKET. When earth awakes as from some dreadful night And doffs her melancholy mourning state, When May buds burst in blossom and requite Our weary eyes for Winter's tedious wait, Then the pale bard takes down his dusty lyre And strikes the thing with more than usual fire. Myself, compacted of an earthier clay, I oil my bats and greasy homage pay To Cricket, who, with emblems of his court, Stumps, pads, bails, gloves, begins his Summer sway. Cricket in sooth is Sovran King of Sport. As yet no shadows blur the magic light, The glamour that surrounds the opening date. Illusions yet undashed my soul excite And of success in luring whispers prate. I see myself in form; my thoughts aspire To reach the giddy summit of desire. Lovers and such may sing a roundelay, Whate'er that be, to greet returning May; For me, not much--the season's all too short; I hear the mower hum and scent the fray. Cricket in sooth is Sovran King of Sport. A picture stands before my dazzled sight, Wherein the hero, ruthlessly elate, Defies all bowlers' concentrated spite. That hero is myself, I need not state. 'Tis sweet to see their captain's growing ire And his relief when I at last retire; 'Tis sweet to run pavilionwards and say, "Yes, somehow I _was_ seeing them to-day"-- Thus modesty demands that I retort To murmured compliments upon my play. Cricket in sooth is Sovran King of Sport.