acsennenE t

EPITAPH

Here lies the body of Betty Weston
Kill’t by the class for being the best un.

Advice from a Dear Old Gentleman to an Earnest Sketcher in the
monkey house (Stanley Park): You're just dithering away your
time, lassie. Let me gie ye a tip—get yersel’ a camera and take an
instantaneous picture. Then wi’ a wee bit o’ tissue paper trace ‘em,
and there ye hae yer monkeys, real as life.

M-de H-yw-d: Every time I sneak out early I see Mr. Scott with my
hat and coat on.

K-th-e H-rr-n: What a funny smell at this end of the room.
P. M--er: Oh, that’s Mr. Scott’s De-Composition class next door.

HERE 1188...

“Here’s something,” said the Editor; ‘‘I wonder who wrote this?”
She looked dubiously through her chrysanthemum locks. ‘Hm —.
Something about spring.”’
Heavy silence.
Just then the door burst open and in sallied an aggressive young
man with the eyes of a mad monk and the hair of a baboon.

Ho, Bill, a contribution?” He glanced over her shoulder and let
out the low wail of a mountain goat calling its mate.

Ah, that’s what you'll get. You'll see. Piffle, bilge tripe.’

e flung himself on a currant bun, and I crept out under the japonica
bush to die.

ROWENA GROSS.
[57]

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