Sometimes I dream till the clouds of steam take the shadowy form of a spectral thing,
A tyrant terror that threatens our lives, whilst we rub and scrub, whilst we rinse and wring.
Well, cheer up, BET, girl, stiffen your lip, and straighten your back. You have finished your grub,
So to work once more; if our champions score, we may find a new end to this Tale of a Tub!
A CURE FOR INFLUENZA.
STRIKING INTELLIGENCE.—A Page from a Londoner's Diary.
Sunday.—Can scarcely believe the news! What, no omnibuses! A strike! What shall we do? Fortunately always go to church on foot, so no loss in that. Then subsequent parade in the Park—don't require an omnibus for that, either. At the end of the day, can say that, take one thing with another, state of affairs more comfortable than might have been anticipated.