I wut wander, evil-eyed, in the glen Strumming on my bagpipes; I will make your life one long pain With my music.
My soul is bloated with discords; It is filled with black crochets; My whole being aches with minims; Ail these I will blow in your ear.
Until you cry, "O, peace, McTavish!"
Yet no peace shall you find, you thieving dog! I will destroy you completely with my music! You owe me threepence!
—Lane-Norcott in the "Daily Mail."
Fluttering Leaflets Wuen 45 leaflets fluttered from the skies into the main street/ot Gafferton-on-Edge yesterday, nobody took much notice for a bit, In fact, it was not until Miss Lavinia Garden, who runs the Spinster Centre, had finished her cup of tea that she called the village grocer's attention to the fact. This took some time, for he had to find his ear-trumpet, which had fallen into the sagobin.
All theories of retaliatory propaganda raids were set at rest when the blacksmith read one of the leaflets. They were advertising a local whist-drive; but this function having been cancelled in obedience to Sir John Anderson, they had been petulantly flung out of an upper window of the vicarage, "The demeanour of everybody—or almost. everybody," says Miss Garden, "was ex-4 emplary."
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.