“If I owned Hell and Texas, I’d rent Texas and live in Hell,” once said Phil Sheridan. But now comes _The Fad_, one of the _Chip-Munk_ brood, printed on green paper at San Antonio, and claims that Texas has more real, sure-enough Culture than all of New England. This is only truism—Rodents! * * * * * Speaking of a certain very New Woman, Quilp says, “God made her, let her pass for a man.” * * * * * On sighting the Crookes tube in the direction of East Aurora we find there are some very choice things to appear in THE PHILISTINE within the next few months.—_Exchange._ * * * * * So far no charge has been made that the Philistines were mixing up in the theatrical business; but on every hand the air is full of complaints because the stage has fallen into the hands of the Children of Israel. Even Mr. Howells has turned _Harper’s Weekly_ into a Periodical of Protest, and declares that the greed for dollars has dropped histrionics to a point where the drama is not only artistically decadent but positively demoralizing. But a friend of mine takes issue with Silas Lapham and declares that there is a sure reaction just now in favor of plays with a strong ethical purpose. To prove his point he cites a certain curtain raiser called _The Flea Hunt_. The scene opens, in this choice little fantasy, on the _ennui_ of a pretty young woman, whose husband, a sea captain, is far across the water. The afternoons pass slowly for her; she cannot read and tosses on her boudoir lounge distressfully. To add to her uneasiness a young man across the way has had the impudence to send her flowers and a note, with a rendezvous for 3 o’clock. Indignation. Pride of conscious strength. Admiration. Curiosity. Hesitation. Remorse. Prayers to her husband’s portrait. Sighs. Wriggles. Pillowtossing. Thoughtfulness. The clock strikes 2. _Zut!_ She starts up guiltily, tiptoes across the room, and turns her husband’s picture to the wall. Now she is in a tempest of preparation with her street toilette. The time is growing short. She has her gloves, her hat, her cloak, her muff, her veil, her parasol, and stands at the open door to give a last apologetic look. Ouch! What is that! Can it be! Ouch! again. Certainly a flea is biting her neck—she reaches for it! Then the trouble begins. In the search for the nimble flea nearly everything the lady has on is cast aside. At last she finds it. But by this time she has revealed a very roly-poly tenement of clay with a center of gravity like a sofa pillow. Lingerie is strewn over chairs, tables, sofa and floor. She is clad only in very scanty, but dainty dimity. The clock is striking 3. Too late! she looks at the flea, first revengefully, then thoughtfully, then gratefully. Hesitatingly she slips across the room and turns her husband’s portrait to the light. Saved—providentially saved, saved by a flea! Curtain.