(_BY A WHIST-LOVING MALADE-IMAGINAIRE._)
Oh, where shall I hit on a "perfect cure"?
(What ails me I am not quite sure that I'm sure)
To Nice, where the weather is nice--with vagaries?
The Engadine soft or the sunny Canaries?
To Bonn or Wiesbaden? My doctor laconic
Declares that the Teutonic air is too tonic.
Shall I do Davos-Platz or go rove the Riviera?
Or moon for a month in romantic Madeira?
St. Moritz or Malaga, Aix, La Bourboule?
Bah! My doctor's a _farceur_ and I am--a fool.
I will _not_ try Switzerland, Norway, or Rome.
I'll go in for a rest and a rubber--at home.
A Windermere wander, _and_ Whist, I feel sure,
Will give what I'm seeking, a true "Perfect Cure."
* * * * *
A BUBBLE FROM THE SUDS.--A Firm of Soap-boilers have been sending
round a circular to "Dramatic Authors" of established reputation, and
(no doubt) others, offering to produce gratis the best piece submitted
to them at a "_Matinée_ performance at a West End Theatre." The only
formality necessary to obtain this sweet boon is the purchase of a box
of the Firm's soap, which will further contain a coupon "entitling
the owner to send in one new and original play for reading." The idea
that a Dramatic Author of any standing would submit his work to such a
tribunal, even with the dazzling prospect of a _Matinée in futuro_, is
too refreshing! However, as literary men nowadays fully appreciate the
value of their labour, the idea, in spite of the soap with which it is
associated, may be dismissed with the words, "Won't Wash!"
* * * * *