I am! (_He fells
the_ Hero _senseless to the ground._) And noo, lassie, I can sorter
concentrate on you.

_Heroine_ (_in the most ladylike way_). Help! oh, help!

_Villain._ Say, you don't seemter freeze on to me, somehow. But you must
and shall be mine! Come awa', lassie.

[_He seizes her and she resists. Meanwhile the_ Hero, _who fell on to a
clump of genuine thistles, makes a superbly-rapid recovery from his
unconsciousness._]

_Villain_ (_pausing to mop his brow_). Say, you'll got my goat for sure
if you kick up like this, lassie.

_Heroine._ Gee! That's a great idea. If only Peter Pan's goat----

[_The_ Hero, _inspired, crawls away unnoticed._]

_Villain_ (_preparing to renew the struggle_). Lassie, I'm quite sweered
o' you. There's an awesome look in your eye. And can ye no be more
ladylike in your fechting? Remember whose heroine you are.

[_He again strives to bear her off. The_ Hero, _having broken off a
couple of branches and affixed them to his head--a little trick he
learned from the Admirable Crichton--now returns disguised as a goat. He
rushes at Villain, who flees and scales the park railings. But his
overcoat collar catches in the spikes, and he hangs suspended and
helpless. In that position he slowly starves, and dies inconspicuously
as the_ Hero _and_ Heroine _finish the play._]

_Hero_ (_extending his arms_). Say, is it a deal? I mean, will ye ha'e
us, lassie?

_Heroine_ (_with little wells of gladness in her eyes_). It's a cinch.
Guess you're Mr. Smart from Smartville. Ay, I'm thinkin' I'll tak' you.
But you men are fickle callants--that's what every woman knows. Come
awa' and let's find a little meenister at once.

_Hero._ Oh, joy! oh, rapture! oh, rosy rapture! [_They embrace and
exeunt_.]

_The Audience_. Hoots!

Curtain.

* * * * *

JOURNALISTIC ANTICIPATION.

"THE COMING GREAT SEA BATTLE.

EXCLUSIVE PICTURES."

_"Sunday Herald" Poster._

* * * * *

THE KAISER AND THE DECLINING MARK.

A now version has recently been discovered of the old Pickwickian
inscription:--

+
B I L S T
U M
P S H I
S. M.
A R K

It runs as follows:--

H I S M A
R K S
T U M
P S
B I L

* * * * *

[Illustration: _The Vicar._ "These Salonikans, Mrs. Stubbs, are of
course the Thessalonians to whom St. Paul wrote his celebrated