_D'Ann._ Do so swiftly then; Meanwhile good morning; I must see some men-- Also the Muse. She waits upon my pen. [_Rings off._ EVOE. * * * * * "How many cocktails are there? 'William,' the mixer at the Royal Automobile lub, who was for eayrs at the Hotel ecil, states that he can produce some 70 varieties without repeating himself."--_Daily Paper._ And did the author of the above paragraph try them all? * * * * * "Towards the conclusion of the meeting Miss Dolly ---- sang the solo 'The City of Light' in a very able style, and, as Mr. ---- mentioned in a vote of thanks, which he proposed, seconded and supported, to the Chairman, speaker, accompanist, and soloist, she excelled herself."--_Local Paper._ We understand that the Gasworkers' Union has remonstrated with the orator on his excessive output. * * * * * THE SNIPER. Brackley is a good fellow, but I loathe him. How would you like it if you were tied to work and every now and then a man came up to you in your club and said, "Old man, do come away with me to the Pyrenees and shoot jummel," or "Can't you spare a month, old fellow, to come stalking ibex in Montenegro with me?" or "Look here, you're just the chap I want to run over to Alaska with me for a pot at the grizzlies"? Just a fortnight ago Brackley came and told me of a delightful rough shooting he had rented in an obscure corner of Ireland. According to him it was a congested snipe area. You could not see the pools for wild-duck. The honking of wild-geese kept one awake at night. The drawback to the estate was that you were always tripping over hares. "You won't be safe there," I said to Brackley. "I'm safe anywhere," said Brackley. "Work it on system. In Arabia send the mullah a bottle of brandy. On the Continent stand the local mayor a bottle of wine. In Ireland ask the priest up to drink whiskey with you in the evening. So long as the authorities have their thirst relieved there's never trouble. Now just come for a fortnight. There'll be crowds of snipe. I'm told there are woodcock too." I was adamant. "Well," sighed Brackley, "I'll send you a card to say how I get on." When his postcard arrived it ran:-- "To-day-- "_Ballinagrub._ Ten brace snipe. Four landrail. One brace partridge. Three wild-duck. Nine hares. One woodcock. "What ho!" Isn't that an aggravating card to get when you are deep in the most elusive and trying chase of all--the money hunt? I wrote Brackley a scornful postcard:-- "Go on with your baleful schemes. Wallow in slaughter. Roll in blood. Devastate the district. As an honest hard-working Englishman I regard you with utter contempt."