THE SCARLET PARASOL.

Viola. Do; and stay and have some tennis.

Muriel (embroidering). It is a marvel to me, VIOLA, that you can ever have a discontented moment in a house so Elizabethan as this. Viola. It is lovely, MURIEL; a background for mystery and romance. And I have no romance. I have everything else; but I

"Enter Alan Roy."

ceal from him-some secret, just for fun! him all about it afterwards, you know.

have not a romance.

S

Muriel. You have ALBERT.

Viola. You know that ALBERT is not a romance. Muriel. Once

Viola. Ah, when everyone opposed our marriage." I married him for love, and because he was poor and "unsuitable." How could I know that his uncle would die and leave him monev and a country house? Everything has turned out so well! It is rather hard to have made "a good match," as they say, without intending it. Of course, I never reproach him.

Muriel. No; you have been very nice about it.

Viola. ALBERT is perfectly happy, playing at being a country gentle

inan.

And it isn't a mystery! [A telegram is brought in. Viola. Oh, how delightful! ALAN ROY, the wonderful boy harpist, is coming down! He's coming by the early train! He'll be here directly!

Muriel. You never told me you had asked him! I suppose you forgot it or remembered it. Doesn't he profess to be even younger than he is? I mean, when he was four, didn't he say he was three? I wonder if he'll come down in a sailor-suit.

Viola. He's quite nineteen. Here are those tiresome AVERIDGES again! I thought I got rid of them for a long drive. (Aloud.) Ah! Here is dear Mr. AVERIDGE!

Mr. Averidge (ponderously, to MURIEL). And how is Miss VANE to-day? Looking as she always does, like a rose in June. Muriel (coldly). Yes, Mr. AVERIDGE?

Viola (to Mrs. AVERIDGE and ALBERT, who are coming up the steps of the terrace). ALAN Roy is coming down, the ALAN ROY. He will be here directly.

Albert. All right, though I don't approve of child artists. Poor little chap!

Viola. He is very nearly quite grown up, ALBERT! He has golden hair and any amount of usage du monde.

Muriel. ALBERT will call it cheek-I daresay!

Mrs. Averidge. He is most amusing. I met him at Lady BAYSWATER'S. He looks quite an angel playing the harp. Albert. I hope he'll bring his halo in a hat-box. text about "Young lions do lackMuriel. Oh, ALBERT

Servant. Master ALAN ROY!

Albert (aside). Now, don't make the poor child shy. Enter ALAN ROY. Tall young man, in light grey suit.

What is that

He wears a

to find there were real ducks and fowls in the country-and buttercups! He tells me everything. He boasts we tell each other everything. Oh! I should so like to have some little thing to conOf course I should tell

Muriel. I am sure you would, dear. You have dropped your handkerchief. (MURIEL picks up handkerchief, book, and paperknife, and gives them to VIOLA.)

Viola. Dear MURIEL, it is so nice to have you here. You are so calm, and soothing, and decorative, and you never take anyone away from anyone else!

Muriel. I think I have been rather unfortunate lately, VIOLA. No one seems to like me but middle-aged married men-often, too, with whiskers!

Viola. You mean poor Mr. AVERIDGE? He has been married so long that he has forgotten all about it. To-night CLAUDE MIGNON is coming to stay with us. He is the most accomplished idiot in London. He sings, plays, paints, plays games, flirts-I think his flirting, though, has rather gone off. It is getting mechanical. By the way, have you an ideal, MURIEL? I wonder what is your ideal? Muriel (promptly and cheerfully). A man past his first youth, who has suffered; with iron-grey hair and weary eyes, who knows everything about life and could guide me, and would do exactly what I told him.

Viola. And mine is a young man of genius, just beginning life, with the world before him, who would look up to me as an inspiration -a guiding star!

Muriel. You have dropped your handkerchief again, VIOLA. Who is this coming out?

Viola. It is only Dr. ROBERTS. He has been to see JANE, the housemaid. She has been rather ill.

Muriel. I suppose she had a housemaid's knee.

Viola. You are quite wrong. She had writer's cramp, poor thing! Muriel. How absurd, VIOLA! How are you, Dr. ROBERTS! [Dr. ROBERTS has iron-grey hair and dark eyes. As he jnns them MURIEL leans down to pat a dog with all the graceful self-consciousness of youth. Dr. ROBERTS looks at VIOLA admiringly.

Viola. I hope poor JANE is better?

Dr. Roberts. Oh yes; she is quite out of the wood now, Mrs. TRAVERS. In fact, I don't think I need see her any more. (MURIEL looks up.) Perhaps though, I had better just look in-say-on Thursday?

Alan. I pushed myself in a perambulator. Miss VANE, you look like a Botticelli in a Paris dress. I didn't bring my harp, does it matter? [Chorus of sham disappointment and real relief. Alan (smiling). It was dreadful of me! But I have been keeping poor thing up so late; I thought a rest[Lunch is announced. MURIEL stoops to collect VIOLA'S handkerchief, &c.

the

Alan (to VIOLA). Oh, what a sweet scarlet parasol! Curtain. End of Scene 1.

(To be continued.)

NEITHER FREE NOR EASY.-The Larne Town Commissioners cannot make up their minds whether they shall acquire the McGarel Town Hall which apparently (to judge from a report in the Northern Whig) appears to be in the market. The room, it seems, would be used for a free library. The Committee, after a very lengthy discussion, have adjourned the consideration of the question to some distant date for further information. In the meanwhile, no doubt, they will appropriately adopt for the municipal motto Live and Larne."

["The great lack of the Age is its want of distinction." COVENTRY PATMORE.]

ALAS, our poor Age! How against it we rage!
In the seat of the scorner the critics ne'er sat more.
If the pessimist bore would master her lore,
We've only to send him to Coventry-PATMORE!
The bards do not love it. But how to improve it?
That question the poets, like that of the Sphinx, shun.
Distinction my
lad ? If the Age is so bad,

I think its great lack" is not that, but extinction! 'Tis easier far to abase it than mend it,

Must we try MORLEY's other alternative-end it?

A MUSICAL NOTE.-Such has been the success of Mlle. YVETTE GUILBERT, that, on dit (French must be used when speaking of this lionne comique), it is not improbable she will be engaged to appear in a part in the forthcoming Sullivan Savoy Opera, in which the relation of librettists to composer is to be as two to one. If this be so, then once more at the Savoy will there be a Sullivan-and-Guilbert Combination.

"WHITAKER."

[Mr. JOSEPH WHITAKER, founder and chief proprietor of Whitaker's Almanack, died on the 15th May, aged 75.]

GONE! His praises to rehearse
Might engage a friendly verse.
Time, for whom he did so much,
Surely dealt with gentle touch
With this man, of lucky star,
Who the famous calendar,
Schemed on an ingenious plan,
Gave to ever-grateful man.
Millions now would feel the lack
Of the wondrous Almanack.
To adapt BEN JONSON's phrase
To a worthy of our days,
One might say of our lost brother,
Death; ere thou hast slain an-
other

Good and useful as was he,

66

'Time shall throw his dart at thee."

TO A COUNTRY HOST.

(A Candid Answer to a Hospitable Invitation.)
You're kind enough to bid me spend
The "week-end" at your country seat,
You offer tennis and a friend

You feel I'm sure to like to meet.
I hope you will not think me rude-
You're very kind to ask me down-
But if the simple truth be told,

I much prefer to stay in town.
You tell me that the ground is bare,
And only gets by slow degrees
Recovered from our Arctic spell,

ODE TO AN OVERCOAT.

(By a Shivery Person, m
Spring-time.)

"CAST ne'er a clout till May be

out,"

The old Scotch proverb says. Thee, did I doff, "Immensikoff," For three most sultry days. But wind and dust, in gruesome

gust,

Search bosom, back and throat; And to my nose I button close My fur-lined Overcoat.

The Merry May has such a way Of blowing hot and cold, That fur and cloth I'm always

loth

Away, in Spring, to fold. Gr-r-r! There's a blast! I'll

hold thee fast

Dear friend on whom I doat; Nor lay thee by till-say-July, My own, my Overcoat!

LEGAL NOTE.-It is presumably unfortunate for the prisonerat-the-bar when, as is constantly announced in the papers, "Mr. So-and-So, Q.C., will appear to defend SNOOKS." Hard on SNOOKS when his Counsel only appears to defend him. But what a sweet surprise for the unhappy SNOOKS should the Counsel, who only "appears to defend him," really defend him and be victorious!

"Vox CLAMANTIS."-The voice of the Claimant is heard once again. No joke; no WaggaWaggery. He is publishing his "Entire Life and Full Confession" in the People newspaper. According to his own statement, his claim to the Tichborne estates might be described, not only as a fraud, but as a Wapping" one.

66

HOW (OF COURSE) IT IS NOT DONE.

(Imaginary Sketch of impossible Incident.) SCENE-Editor's Room. TIME-Within measurable distance of publication. Editor discovered in consultation with his Chief Sub. Editor. We can't find room for everything. Chief Sub. Quite so, Sir; still it seems a pity to slaughter this telegram from the front. Editor. Does it make very much? Chief Sub. No, Sir. If you will allow me, I will run through it. (Reads.) "Yesterday the Loamshire Regiment, headed by its Com

That leafless still are all the trees. Well, here, in spite of smoke and soot, And all the bustle and the hum Of men and things, we don't await The Spring-because the Spring has come. mander, Colonel SNOOKS, made one of the

Each morning as I go to work

I take my 'bus to Marble Arch,
And thence amid a wealth of flowers,

And air perfumed with odours, march
To Hyde Park Corner. Tell me where-
I honestly should like to know-
The much belauded "country" can
Produce a comparable show?

Our grass is green, though yours is brown.
On every tree the lovely bud
Is bursting into lovelier leaf,

The Spring runs madly in one's blood.

gallantest charges on record."

drum-like vessels known over here as bangwangs,' they faltered, floundered and fled.'

Editor. Sure that those names are correct? Chief Sub. Quite, Sir. We verified the local colouring with MOKE's Six Months in Chutney on the top of a Camel.

Editor. Very good. Is there much more? Chief Sub. About a third of a column, describing the taking of the native village, the storming of the stockade, and the bivouac by moonlight after the victory at Pennavilla.

Editor (after consideration). Well, it might give us an effective line for the bill. (A whistle is heard: Editor listens at a speaking-tube.) Afraid we must sacrifice it. Manager tells me there is another rush of advertisements, so space is more precious than ever. You had better boil it down into a three-line paragraph.

Chief Sub. No need to do that, Sir. If there's a scarcity of room we had better give the original telegram.

Editor. Sure of those names ?

Chief Sub. Yes, Sir; verified them on the map. (Resumes reading.) "Nothing could withstand the rain of lead and the row of steel.

(Reads.) "Loamshire, after a skirmish, has reached Pennavilla." That, with a suitable heading, will just complete the column. Editor. Quite so.

[Scene closes in upon the arrangement.