Only the suicide lays by
His thickest hose throughout July.

August, in spite of dog-days' heat,
For floods is very hard to beat.

The equinoctial gales, remember,
Are at their worst in mid-September.

Old folk, however hale and sober,
Die very freely in October.

November with its clammy fogs
The bronchial region chokes and clogs.

December, with its dearth of sun,
For sheer discomfort takes the bun.

* * * * *

THE ITALIAN IN ENGLAND.

In the course of a recent search for Italian conversation manuals I came
upon one which put so strangely novel a complexion on our own tongue that,
though it was not quite what I was seeking, I bought it. To see ourselves
as others see us may be a difficult operation, but to hear ourselves as
others hear us is by this little book made quite easy. Everyone knows the
old story of the Italian who entered an East-bound omnibus in the Strand
and asked to be put down at Kay-ahp-see-day. Well, this book should prevent