Eggs and Impulses.

Speaking of eggs naturally brings us to Impulses, for who is there with soul so dead who never to himself has said, “I'd love, when I am full of beans, to slosh an egg to smithcreens.”

“Kicked the Royal Platypus.”

Verily, dear reader, beneath the polished “eggsterior” of every Jack and Jill there lurks a spark of primal savagery which, at the sight of a defenceless egg, urges him or her to whack it a wallop on the dome with ferocious “eggsactitude.”

Who is there amongst us who can deny an almost irresistible impulse to yield the yolk of respectability and slip in among the egg crates with a gamp. Oh for solitude, a bin of the barn-yard's by-product and a pick-handle! Dreams, dreams—ebullient “eggsaggerations.”

The mind of man is as complex as a crocodile's cosine or the vocal vices of the mawkies, for we have all known model men, almost viciously virtuous, who have without warning become victims of the irresistible impulse; men who without malice aforethought, coercion or alcoholism, have suddenly seen red and smoked a gasper to the last gasp.

Dear reader, we ask you truly, how often has some inner voice urged you to “forbid the banns,” simply because you know that no one else is game to call the parson's bluff. How often have you been obliged to grip Hymns, Ancient and Modern, in the larger edition, firmly between your northern and southern dentures, in order to strangle the fateful words brewing in your brain—“I forbid the blinking banns.”