"It is a great misfortune," says Lloyd George, "that the Irish and the English are never in the same temper at the same time." Nor is that conjuncture encouragingly probable. But there is hope. Energy is required for strenuous rebellion, and energy is converted into heat and dissipated. If, or as, the solar system is running down, its stock of energy is constantly diminishing; and so the Irish Question will eventually settle itself, as will every other mess on this slightly flattened sphere. * * * Whenever you read about England crumbling, turn to its automobile Blue Book and observe this: "It must be remembered that in all countries except England and New Zealand automobiles travel on the wrong side of the road." * * * The first sign of "crumbling" on the part of the British empire that we have observed is the welcome extended to the "quick lunch." That may get 'em. * * * _LOST AND FOUND._ [Song in the manner of Laura Blackburn.] _Whilst I mused in vacant mood By a wild-thyme banklet, Love passed glimmering thro' the wood, Lost her golden anklet._ _Followed I as fleet as dart With the golden token; But she vanished--and my heart, Like the clasp, is broken._ _Such a little hoop of gold! She ... but how compare her? Till Orion's belt grow cold I shall quest the wearer._ _Next my heart I've worn it since, More than life I prize it, And, like Cinderella's prince, I must advertise it._ * * * Would you mind contributing a small sum, say a dollar or two, to the Keats Memorial Fund. We thought not. It is a privilege and a pleasure. The object is to save the house in which the poet lived during his last years, and in which he did some of his best work. The names of all contributors will be preserved in the memorial house, so it would be a nice idea to send your dollar or two in the name of your small child or grandchild, who may visit Hampstead when he grows up. Still standing in the garden at Hampstead is the plum tree under which Keats wrote, "Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! No hungry generations tread thee down." * * * Americans who speak at French should confine their conversation to other Americans similarly talented. They should not practise on French people, whose delicate ear is no more proof against impure accent than a stone is proof against dripping water. The mistake which English speaking people make is assuming that French is merely a language, whereas, even in Paris, the speaking of it as much as accomplishment as singing, or painting on china. Many gifted Frenchmen, like M. Viviani, Anatole France, and some other Academicians, speak French extremely well, but even these live in hope of improvement, of some day mastering the finest shades of nasality and cadence, the violet rays of rhythm. * * *