Persons who are so o. f. as to like rhyme with their poetry may discover another reason for their preference in the following passage, which Edith Wyatt quotes from Oscar Wilde: "Rime, that exquisite echo which in the Muse's hollow hill creates and answers its own voice; rime, which in the hands of the real artist becomes not merely a material element of material beauty, but a spiritual element of thought and passion also, waking a new mood, it may be, or stirring a fresh train of ideas, or opening by mere sweetness and suggestion of sound some golden door at which the Imagination itself had knocked in vain; rime which can turn man's utterance to the speech of gods"-- * * * We promised Miss Wyatt that the next time we happened on the parody of Housman's "Lad," we would reprint it; and yesterday we stumbled on it. Voila!-- THE BELLS OF FROGNAL LANE. They sound for early Service The bells of Frognal Lane; And I am thinking of the day I shot my cousin Jane. At Frognal Lane the Service Begins at half-past eight, And some folk get there early While others turn up late. But, come they late or early, I ne'er shall be again The careless chap of days gone by Before I murdered Jane. * * * We have been looking over "Forms Suggested for Telegraph Messages," issued by the Western Union. While more humorous than perhaps was intended, they fall short of the forms suggested by Max Beerbohm, in "How Shall I Word It?" As for example: LETTER IN ACKNOWLEDGEMENT OF WEDDING PRESENT. Dear Lady Amblesham, Who gives quickly, says the old proverb, gives twice. For this reason I have purposely delayed writing to you, lest I should appear to thank you more than once for the small, cheap, hideous present you sent me on the occasion of my recent wedding. Were you a poor woman, that little bowl of ill-imitated Dresden china would convict you of tastelessness merely; were you a blind woman, of nothing but an odious parsimony. As you have normal eyesight and more than normal wealth, your gift to me proclaims you at once a Philistine and a miser (or rather did so proclaim you until, less than ten seconds after I had unpacked it from its wrappings of tissue paper, I took it to the open window and had the satisfaction of seeing it shattered to atoms on the pavement). But stay! I perceive a flaw in my argument. Perhaps you were guided in your choice by a definite wish to insult me. I am sure, on reflection, that this is so. _I shall not forget._ Yours, etc. Cynthia Beaumarsh. PS. My husband asks me to tell you to warn Lord Amblesham to keep out of his way or to assume some disguise so complete that he will not be recognized by him and horsewhipped. PPS. I am sending copies of this letter to the principal London and provincial newspapers. * * *