MEN OF THE HOUR.
THE TURNCOCK
This eminent individual, born in the early forties, comes of a numerous family, and was originally destined by his parents for the career of a night-watchman. Not feeling, however, any vocation in this direction, he tried many other professions, and many other professions tried him. At last, in the year 1864, he entered the service of the Twiddlesex Water Company, where, by strict attention to the quality of his liquor, and his unfailing perception of the right time to be sober, he has risen to his present conspicuous and responsible position.
OF THE ART OF TOBOGGANING.
Canton des Grisons, Feb. 10.
For the neighbourhood it is a sultry day; glass up to 5° Fahrenheit and a taint of scirocco, or föhn, as the facetious native calls this wind. My toboggan lies idle by stress of drifting snow. "No chance," I say, "of doing a record this afternoon!" This is what I say openly and pompously to my fellows. With my own dear heart I commune otherwise, saying how heaven should be praised for this one blessed day's recess from broken scalp.
If I have asked myself once (as is proper with an enigma) I have asked myself a thousand times, "Why did I come out here, to this resort of invalids and polar athletes?" My right lung is flawless: my left is very perfect. On the other hand I do not show well on ice; my legs are ill-shaped for bandy; curling I find to be but poor sport after skittles; and I have met one wayfarer only, and that a fool, who did not laugh upon my figure-skating.
In a climate where one must either do or suffer something to justify one's existence, there remained this sole thing—to toboggan. I said, "I will surely toboggan!"