And lest I be accused of raking up what the Americans themselves choicely term “dead dog” I will ask your attention for the space of a paragraph or two to the brand of the New Humour generally consumed by the inhabitants of the United States in the present era of grace. In this connection it would be easy for one to take a distinctly bitter line; inasmuch as the books of humour as distinguished from the humourous periodicals, nowadays published in America are not really books of humour at all, but aggregations of acrid and wicked cynicism. The authors of them either do not intend to be funny or have no conception of the meaning of fun. Sourness of spirit, meanness of thought, and savageness of expression are their principal standby. In the humourous periodicals, however, you discover a well-defined intention to be funny—though the cynicism and the vitriol are not of course forgotten. I believe that these periodicals are nicely adjusted to the public requirements, for the American is not out to produce even comic papers “for his health,” and being nothing if not practical, he gives his public exactly “what they want.” Here are some samples of “exactly what they want,” published so recently as May of the present year. First as to verse: IF If all the trips I’ve had at sea Should take effect at once on me, In one huge, nauseated spell Gee! wouldn’t I be sick! Well, well! But possibly the fault is mine. You see I’m English. Perhaps the above example of the New Humour is really a choice sample of the New Pathos. Again; and this smacks of genius: NOW BIRDIE GETS HIS Of all the things that swim or run, Man beats in easy pace; He gives big odds to fin and fur, And wins in every race. He hops into his auto-car And handicaps the horse; Or takes the greyhound for a try And licks him even worse. Perhaps the whale or shark get gay And want a little go. Man dives into his submarine And does them down below. And now the chesty feathered chap Must close his gay bazoo, For man puts on his flying gear And wallops birdie, too. As to prose, here you are: WANT TOO MUCH “Some time ago two surgeons took a ten-pound tumor out of Dave Saunders, an’ to-day he got a terrible big bill for the operation.” “Is Dave goin’ to pay it?” “No; he sez, ‘they’ve got enough out of him already.’” MONKISH Behold the tippler and mark how he tippeth in the streets. Whoso hath discolouration of the optic? Is it not the meddler? Yea. He that is a lunkhead condemneth that which he comprehendeth not. Be thou not envious of them that have vacation in time of influenza.