"You'd bring the Cook," says she, "to book By just a look?" "I should." "By something terse you'd make the Nurse Feel even worse?" "I would." "You'd say to weep was merely cheap And, what was more, they knew it?" "I should," say I; and her reply Is: "Come along and do it." _How doth the Barrister delight_ _In any low resort,_ _And hurry from the losing fight_ _To seek another Court._ * * * * * "Mme. Tetrazzini had not been heard in London for five years and some little ooooooo aaaaaaaay shd cf cwyyy might have been busy on her voice. Well, it has scarcely."--_South African Paper_. Her many admirers will be glad to know this. * * * * * [Illustration: BEHIND THE SCENES IN CINEMA-LAND. "HAND OVER YOUR MONEY!" "CERTAINLY, MY GOOD MAN. NOW I DON'T WANT TO BE PERSONAL, BUT YOU'VE GOT THE VERY FACE I WANT FOR MY NEW FILM, 'THE BAD MAN OF CRIMSON CREEK.' I'LL GIVE YOU FIFTY POUNDS A WEEK FOR AN EXCLUSIVE CONTRACT. CAN I TEMPT YOU?"] * * * * * THE BOAT-RACE AGAIN. In June, 1914, I took a house on the Thames, in order to make sure of a good view of the Boat-Race; then a man threw a bomb at Serajevo and ruined my plans. But now it is going to happen again. And instead of fighting with a vast crowd at Hammersmith Bridge I shall simply walk up into the bathroom and look out of the window. It is wonderful. Yet meanwhile I have lost some of my illusions about this race. I have a boat myself; I myself have rowed all over the course in my boat. It is only ten feet long, but it is very, very heavy. Still, I have rowed in it all over the course--with ease. Yet people talk as if it was a marvellous thing for eight men to row a light boat over the same water. Why is that? It is because the ignorant land-lubber regards the river Thames as a pond; or else he regards it as a river flowing always to the sea. He forgets about the tide. The Boat-Race is rowed _with the tide_; they deliberately choose a moment when the tide is coming in, and hope nobody will notice; and nobody does notice. The tide runs about three miles an hour, sometimes more; if they just sat still in the boat they would reach Mortlake eventually, and the crowd would get a good look at them, instead of seeing them for ten seconds. The race ought to be rowed _against_ the tide. Then it really would be a feat of strength; then it really would take ten years off their lives--perhaps more. Then perhaps small boys would drop things on them from the bridges, as they do on me. I wonder they don't try to do that now. There is a certain quiet satisfaction in dropping things on people, especially if they are labouring under Hammersmith Bridge against the tide, and I should imagine that the temptation to drop things on a University crew would be almost irresistible. It is not everyone who can look back and say, "In 1890 I hit the Oxford stroke