or liver?
Somebody keeps it up.

Time may have weaned us long ago
With even sterner heights to win
Than when the once resilient toe
Was apt to dance the daylight in;
No doubt we've grown in wisdom since we started,
But I would give my head (with brain)
Just to be back there, young and agile-hearted,
Just for one June again.

O. S.

* * * * *

AUTHORSHIP FOR ALL.

[In this series Mr. Punch presents a few specimens of the work
of his newly-established Literary Ghost Bureau, which supplies
appropriate Press contributions on any subject and over
any signature. Terms and simple self-measurement form on
application.]

I.--THE RESPONSIBILITIES OF GENIUS.

_By Miss Dinkie Devereux, the renowned Film Favourite._

The Editor of _The Weekly Newsbag_ has kindly asked me to write
an article on the duty which we denizens of Flickerland owe to
the public. This, it happens, is a subject that has long given me
"furiously to think," as a witty Frenchman once said in French. It may
be of interest, by the way, to state that I am myself partly of Gallic
extraction, my mother having been a Lyons girl before she was enabled
to open a tea-shop of her own; and, although born and bred in what
I am proud to call my native country, I can even now act just as
fluently in a French film as in an all-British production.

But I must not let my thoughts run away with my pen, fascinating
though such cross-country excursions may be. To return to my appointed
topic, heavy indeed is the burden that is laid on the back of a cinema
star. You who know me only as the reigning queen of countless
Palaces may possibly imagine that my life is spent in flitting
butterfly-fashion from film to film, existing only for the golden
moment. But one is not born a butterfly, nor does one remain so
without constant effort. The strenuous nature of my labours indeed
necessitates frequent periods of recuperation, which I seek either
in my Highland fastness, or on my Californian peach-farm, or amid
the lotus-bushes of my villa on the Riviera. This, then, is one of my
first duties to the public--to preserve that Heaven-sent talent which,
in the words of mighty MILTON, "is death to hide." (MILTON, I may
say, is my favourite poet next to GEORGE R. SIMS, and "Odont" is my
favourite mouth-wash.)

But the intervals between pictures are not all play. When I receive
notice o