_Podgers_ (_of Sandboys Golf Club_). "MY DEAR MISS ROBINSON, GOLF'S THE ONLY GAME NOWADAYS FOR THE _MEN_. LAWN-TENNIS IS ALL VERY WELL FOR YOU _GIRLS_, YOU KNOW."] * * * * * HIGHWAYS AND LOW WAYS. There is evidently all the difference in the world between "The King's Highway"--of song--and the Kingsland highway--of fact. Song says all is equal to-- "High and low on the King's highway." Experience teaches that a sober citizen traversing the highway unfavourably known as the Kingsland Road, is liable to be tripped up, robbed and thumped senseless by organised gangs of Kingsland roughs. It seems doubtful whether Neapolitan banditti or Australian bush-whackers are much worse than these Cockney ruffians, these vulgar, vicious and villanous "Knights of the (Kingsland) Road." Is it not high time that the local authorities--and the local police--looked to this particular "highway," which seems so much more like a "byway" not to say a "by-word and a reproach" to a city suburb? * * * * * A CASE FOR THE SURGEONS.--Mrs. Ramsbotham, who has a great respect for the attainments of Members of the Medical profession, cannot understand why Army Doctors should be called "non-competents." * * * * * THE MODERN MILKMAID'S SONG. (AT THE DAIRY SHOW.) _AN EXTRACT FROM THE "COMPLETE ANGLER" OF THE FUTURE._ _Piscator_, MAUDLIN, I pray you, do us the courtesy to sing a song concerning your late visit to London. MAUDLIN _sings_:-- Come live with me and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove, That come in competition's field From reckoning up the Shorthorn's "yield." To Town we'll come in modish frocks, Where swells appraise our herds and flocks, By days "in profit" great or small, All in the Agricultural Hall. Cockneys shall come and poke their noses Into our churns as sweet as roses; And to quiz MAUDLIN in clean kirtle The toffs of Town will crush and hurtle. You'll see the Queen, of pride chock-full, Take first prize with her Shorthorn bull; Dr. H. WATNEY, of Buckhold, With "Cleopatra" hit the gold. A medal or a champion cup For cheese to munch, or cream to sup, Are pleasures rural souls to move, So live with me and be my love. Butter and eggs, milch cows and churns, With cattle foods shall take their turns; If Dairy Shows thy mind have won, Then come with me to Islington. _Viator_. Trust me, Master, it is an apt song, and archly sung by modish MAUDLIN. I'll bestow a bucolic Cockney's wish upon her, _that she may live to marry a Competitive Dairyman, and have good store of champion cups and first prizes stuck about her best parlour._ * * * * * A LICENCE FOR LORDS.