THE ROLLING STONE.
At Cambridge, where on field or flood
He shone like a Goldie or a Studd,
He was an intellectual "blood."
He made the grimmest dons unbend,
And missed his First, right at the end,
For he cut his Tripos—to nurse a friend.
Then he wrote a novel. The weekly press
Declared it was worthy of R.L.S.;
But it wasn't a great financial success.
So, after a spell at the Bar, he flew
To the rubber-fields in remote Peru,
But stayed there only a month or two.
For he suddenly conceived a plan
Of studying music at Milan,
Where he sang in the style of the great god Pan.
I heard him sing in the Albert Hall
In the chorus of Mendelssohn's St. Paul,
And his voice was the loudest of them all.
Next he leased a Colorado mine,
And dealt in Californian wine,
And rented a ranche in the Argentine.
But whatever the job and whatever the pay
I certainly never knew him to stay
Anywhere as long as a year and a day—
Except one job, which is not yet done,
Though twenty months ago begun,
Of holding and hammering the Hun.
His horoscope I have never scanned,
But as long as there's any fighting on hand
The rolling stone has come to a stand.
Irreplaceable.
Evidence of a conscientious and candid objector:—
"I am sure the Rector could not get anyone to take my place, as Cowley is now empty, and there are no loafers about."
Gloucester Citizen.
"The first cases to come before the tribunal were appeals from three Thirsk butchers, for the exemption of their respective slaughtermen. Mr. Johnson said he killed himself about 20 years ago. He thought he would start again."—Darlington and Stockton Times.
Very difficult to repeat the first fine careless rapture of a successful suicide.
"No, while it is a crime to spend money extravagantly on dress, it is just as emphatically one to abstain from it altogether."
Daily Chronicle.
If The Daily Chronicle says so, we accept it. There is no paper for whose judgment we have a more profound regard.