P.S.—My wife is sobbing again as I write. I have at last ascertained her trouble. It is that I don't care for the baby.
"The other night a rabbit ran for a quarter-of-a-mile in the flare of a lighted motor-car on the Eggleston road."—Teesdale Mercury.
"I hope," puffed the rabbit, well within record at the end of the fourteenth lap, "I hope it won't burn itself out before I've finished."
"To accomplish this distance at an average speed of 20 miles per hour would take 28-1/2 hours. To this time, however, had to be added the Channel crossing both ways, which takes, roughly, about eight hours."—Motor Cycling.
"Roughly" is good, alas!
It is difficult to order our emotions as we would have them be. Try as we will, we cannot read aloud the following extract from The Birmingham Weekly Post with the solemnity which properly it should call forth:—
"A feature of the programme was the opening chorus. During this a lady gardener in male attire arrived on the stage with a wheelbarrow full of vegetables, and caused amusement by throwing these among the audience. Presently the missiles commenced to hit persons, one victim, being the vicar, who, struck in the eye by a turnip, was compelled to retire."