“What has become of Mary MacLane?” asks a reader. We don’t know, at this moment, but we remember—what is more important—a jingle by the late lamented Roz Field:
“She dwelt beside the untrodden ways,
Among the hills of Butte,
A maid whom no one cared to love,
And no one dared to shoot.”
The Montmartre crowd had a ticket in the Paris municipal election. The design on the carte d’electeur was a windmill, with the legend below, “Bien vivre et ne rien faire.” This would do nicely for our city hall push.
Is there another person in this wicked world quite so virtuous as a chief of police on the day that he takes office?
INDIFFERENCE.
Said B. L. T. to F. P. A.,
“How shall I end the Line to-day?”