er, Vladimir, the sailor,
seated upon his grim cushion of the dead, his back supported against
the wall under the domestic lamplit icon, with a smile of hellish
satisfaction frozen upon his lips and the remaining three bullets
buried in his heart.

The above is not necessarily a true story. It is a specimen of the
small-print news with which the rather young Assistant Sub-Editor
of _The Dullandshire Chronicle_ (established 1763) is permitted,
occasionally, to divert those of _The Chronicle's_ subscribers who
take an intelligent interest in continental affairs.

* * * * *

"You know the 'Tziganes,' don't you?--those marvellous
gentlemen in red coats with sleek dark singlets, exotic
complexions, and bold, rolling black eyes."--_Sunday
Chronicle_.

Strictly speaking, singlets, of whatever colour, should be worn
_under_ the coat.

* * * * *

THE HUNTSMAN'S STORY.

I heard the huntsman calling as he drew Threeacre Spinney;
He found a fox and hunted him and handled him ere night,
And his voice upon the hill-side was as golden as a guinea,
And I ventured he'd done nicely--most respectful and polite--
Jig-jogging back to kennels, and the stars were shining bright.

Old Jezebel and Jealous they were trotting at his stirrup;
The road was clear, the moon was up, 'twas but a mile or so;
He got the pack behind him with a chirp and with a chirrup,
And said he, "I had the secret from my gran'dad long ago,
And all the old man left me, Sir, if you should want to know.

"And he was most a gipsy, Sir, and spoke the gipsy lingos,
But he knew of hounds and horses all as NIMROD might have know'd:
When we'd ask him how he did it, he would say, 'You little Gringos,
I learnt it from a lady that I met upon the road;
In the hills o' Connemara was this wondrous gift bestowed.'

"Connemara--County Galway--he was there in 1830;
He was taking hounds to kennel, all alone, he used to say,
And the hills of Connemara, when the night is falling dirty,
Is an ill place to be left in when the dusk is turning grey,
An ill place to be lost in most at any time o' day.

"Adown the dismal mountains that night it blew tremendous,
A-sobbing like a giant and a-snorting like a whale,
When he saw beside the sheep-track ('Holy Saints,' says he, 'defend us!')
A mighty dainty lady, dressed in green, and