Thanks to the vigilance of the well-armed patrols of the Charabanc Defence Association the main roads in East Anglia are almost clear of the enemy. Caution must still be observed in passing through Garningham at night. One of the hardiest "charabankers" was recently prostrated in that village by a well-aimed epithet from the oldest inhabitant. A writer in a Norwich paper recently described the area within ten miles of Whelksham as "a paradise for baboon-faced Yahooligans." But these futile ebullitions of malice are powerless to check the triumphal progress of the charabanc in the Eastern Counties. But no route at present offers more favourable or exhilarating opportunities to the high-minded excursionist than the main Gath road from Scrapston to Kinlarry. Excellent sport is afforded just outside Stillminster, where Sir John Goodfellow's greenhouses are within easy bottle-throw of the road and furnish a splendid target. On the whole, however, it is thought advisable to abstain from saluting the neighbouring hospital for shell-shock patients with a salvo of megaphones, local opinion being adverse to such manifestations. * * * * * =RHYMES OF THE UNDERGROUND.= The Ealing trains run frequently, The Ealing trains run fast; I stand at Gloucester Road and see A many hurtling past; They go to Acton, Turnham Green, And stations I have never seen, Simply because my lot has been In other places cast. The folk on Ealing trains who ride They, pitying, bestow On me a look instinct with pride; But I would have them know That, while on Wimbledonian plains My humble domicile remains, I HAVE NO USE FOR EALING TRAINS, Though still they come and go. * * * * * Conversation of the moment in a City restaurant:-- REGULAR CUSTOMER (_looking down menu_). "Waiter, why is cottage pie never on now?" WAITER. "Well, Sir, since this 'ere shortage of 'ouses we ain't allowed to make 'em any more." * * * * * THE REVIVAL OF THE FITTEST. (_Written after reading Mr. Francis W. GALPIN'S "Old English Instruments of Music_.") I am no skilful vocalist; I can't control my _mezza gola_; I have but an indifferent fist (Or foot) upon the Pianola. But there are instruments, I own, That fire me with a fond ambition To master for their names alone Apart from their august tradition. They are the Fipple-Flute, a word Suggestive of seraphic screeches; The Poliphant comes next, and third The Humstrum--aren't they perfect peaches? About their tone I cannot say Much that would carry clear conviction, For, till I read of them to-day, I knew them not in fact or fiction. As yet I am, alas! without Instruction in the art of fippling, Though something may be found about It in the works of LEAR or KIPLING.