The kitchen table
Is figured with the ancient, circular stains
Of the pint-pot's bottom; beer is all the go.
And every soul in the servants' hall is able
To drink his pint or hers until they grow
Glorious with golden beer, and count as gains
The glowing draughts that presage morning pains.

* * * * *

[Illustration: QUITE UNANSWERABLE.

_Ethel._ "MAMMY DEAR! WHY DO YOU POWDER YOUR FACE, AND WHY DOES THOMAS
POWDER HIS HAIR? I DON'T DO EITHER!"]

* * * * *

EPISCOPACY IN DANGER.--_Mr. Punch_ congratulates Dr. PEROWNE, Bishop
of Worcester, on his narrow fire-escape some days ago, when his lawn
sleeves (a costume more appropriate for a garden-party than a pulpit)
caught fire. It was extinguished by a bold Churchwarden. In future let
Churchwardens be prepared with hose whenever a prelate runs any chance
of ignition from his own "burning eloquence." If _Mr. Punch's_ advice
as above is acted upon, a Bishop if "put out" may probably mutter,
"Darn your hose." But this can be easily explained away.

* * * * *

BETTER AND BETTER.--The Report last week about Sir ARTHUR SULLIVAN
was that "he hopes to go to the country shortly." So do our political