Punch, or the London Charivari

ment of her labour. In every room I have stumbled over her long black legs as she thus abused her trust.

And not only has she read more than I have, but she has become steadily dirtier than I, too; partly because of a native flair for whatever makes smears and smudges, and partly because, her hair being long and falling on the page, owing to her crouched attitude when perusing, it has to be swept back, and each sweep leaves its mark. Considering how they set themselves up to be superior and instruct, books are curiously grubby things.

And, as I said before, they should be in one volume.

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Illustration: First Politician. "SAY, BILL, WOT'S THIS BLOOMIN' MORTUARIUM THEY BE TARKIN' SO MUCH ABOUT?"

Second Politician. "WELL, YE SEE, IT'S LIKE THIS. YOU DON'T PAY NOTHIN' TO NOBODY AND THE GOVERNMENT PAYS IT FOR YE."

First Politician. "WELL, THAT SOUNDS A BIT OF ALL RIGHT, DOAN'T IT?"

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THE PROBLEM OF LIFE.