ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

Yes, I must pack my things, and, what is worse,Must pack alone, for James, my faithful man,The ancient servitor who knows my wants,Is busy, and to-day he cannot aid.The house is in a turmoil, and the maidsSpeed to and fro without a moment's stay.The corridors and all the rooms resoundWith footfalls, and the lady of the house,Her sleeves tucked up (they always tuck their sleeves),Her working-apron girt about her form,Bustles around and issues her commands,As who should say, "Behold me as I pack;This is no place for men who do not pack.Who play with dogs, or smoke their cigarettes,Or read the papers, getting in the wayOf workers." So she packs and packs and packs.Four children in their various rooms have spreadAll the contents of drawers upon the floor,A most insane disorder, while they eatCream chocolates, for their mother is not there.They too wear aprons, and their cheeks are red,Their hair is tousled, and the rooms resoundWith battle-cry and challenge, and the airIs thick with things they hurl at one another.And I, too, yield and go to pack my things.Yet how shall man decide what he may wantIn four revolving weeks; what hats, what coats,How many collars and what handkerchiefs,What flannel trousers—all the articles,Shoes, scissors, waistcoats, gaudy ties and boots,Socks, safety-razor-blades and leather belts,Studs, links, dress-suit, and plain and coloured shirts,And undervests—the articles, in short,That make a man in very truth a man?DidAgamemnon, when he rushed to war,And sought the dreadful fields of Ilium—Did he pack up, or trust the thing to slaves,Saying, "Put in my six best pairs of greaves,Four regal mantles, sandals for the shore,And fourteen glittering helmets with their plumes,And ten strong breastplates and a sheaf of swords,And crowns and robes and tunics, and of spearsA goodly number, such as may beseemThe office and the valour of a King.Ay, and if one least thing you should forgetYour lives shall pay the forfeit. Go and pack?"If it was thus thatAgamemnonspakeI envy him, for I must pack alone.I shall forget the necessary thingsAnd take the useless, having none to blameSave only my incomparable mind.

Yes, I must pack my things, and, what is worse,

Must pack alone, for James, my faithful man,

The ancient servitor who knows my wants,

Is busy, and to-day he cannot aid.

The house is in a turmoil, and the maids

Speed to and fro without a moment's stay.

The corridors and all the rooms resound

With footfalls, and the lady of the house,

Her sleeves tucked up (they always tuck their sleeves),

Her working-apron girt about her form,

Bustles around and issues her commands,

As who should say, "Behold me as I pack;

This is no place for men who do not pack.

Who play with dogs, or smoke their cigarettes,

Or read the papers, getting in the way

Of workers." So she packs and packs and packs.

Four children in their various rooms have spread

All the contents of drawers upon the floor,

A most insane disorder, while they eat

Cream chocolates, for their mother is not there.

They too wear aprons, and their cheeks are red,

Their hair is tousled, and the rooms resound

With battle-cry and challenge, and the air

Is thick with things they hurl at one another.

And I, too, yield and go to pack my things.

Yet how shall man decide what he may want

In four revolving weeks; what hats, what coats,

How many collars and what handkerchiefs,

What flannel trousers—all the articles,

Shoes, scissors, waistcoats, gaudy ties and boots,

Socks, safety-razor-blades and leather belts,

Studs, links, dress-suit, and plain and coloured shirts,

And undervests—the articles, in short,

That make a man in very truth a man?

DidAgamemnon, when he rushed to war,

And sought the dreadful fields of Ilium—

Did he pack up, or trust the thing to slaves,

Saying, "Put in my six best pairs of greaves,

Four regal mantles, sandals for the shore,

And fourteen glittering helmets with their plumes,

And ten strong breastplates and a sheaf of swords,

And crowns and robes and tunics, and of spears

A goodly number, such as may beseem

The office and the valour of a King.

Ay, and if one least thing you should forget

Your lives shall pay the forfeit. Go and pack?"

If it was thus thatAgamemnonspake

I envy him, for I must pack alone.

I shall forget the necessary things

And take the useless, having none to blame

Save only my incomparable mind.

FromThe Timeson the Servian Chief of Staff:—

"As the Austro-Hungarian Army is imbued with a much too chivalrous feeling to deprive the Servian Army of its loader an opportunity will be given him to continue his journey to Servia to-day, and a special saloon carriage will be placed at his disposal.—Reuter."

An unusual luxury for a loader.

"Headstone, cost £12, for £7; selling cheap through death of proprietor."—Glasgow Evening Citizen.

Not sufficient reason for us.

PLEASE DO YOUR BEST FOR ME IN IRELANDBritannia(to Peace). "I'VE BEEN DOING MY BEST FOR YOU IN EUROPE; PLEASE DO YOUR BEST FOR ME IN IRELAND."

Britannia(to Peace). "I'VE BEEN DOING MY BEST FOR YOU IN EUROPE; PLEASE DO YOUR BEST FOR ME IN IRELAND."

(Extracted from the Diary of Toby, M.P.)

House of Commons, Monday, July 27.—To-day set apart for consideration of Navy Estimates. To-morrow assigned to Second Reading of Home Rule Amending Bill come over from the Lords. Up to yesterday public attention centred on latter event. Questions reverberated: What will Premier do with the Bill? What will follow on his action?

This morning British Public wakes up not to one startling surprise but to two. War is imminent in East of Europe. War has actually broken out in streets of Dublin.

Nearer event illustrates afresh the unfathomable versatility of Ireland. For months the country has been taught to expect armed outbreak in Ulster. At any moment, we were told, the patience of the Ulster volunteer, with current of events devised and controlled by constituted authority, would collapse. Civil war would be in full swing.

At moment when postponement of threatened action had lulled public into sense of security, news comes of conflict between armed volunteers and a detachment of soldiers of the line. In newspaper columns appear stirring pictures of populace thronging the streets and stoning the soldiers as they march back to their barracks; of volleys fired in defence and reprisal; of men, women and children falling dead or wounded in the streets. And lo! the volunteers on the warpath are not Ulstermen, but Nationalists. The city given up to murderous riot is not Belfast, but Dublin.

House meets in half-dazed condition to face this amazing jumble of the unexpected.John Redmondmoves adjournment in order to discuss it. Interest of situation intensified by circumstance that the rifle shots fired by the O'Connell Bridge, Dublin, did more than kill three citizens and wound thirty-two others. They threaten to dissolve compact between Irish Nationalists andHis Majesty'sMinisters. Sorely strained on occasions, it has hitherto remained inviolate. With South and West of Ireland looking on suspiciously at relations with Saxon Government—a necessity admitted but its existence never liked—it behovedAgag Redmondto walk delicately.

Accomplished feat with considerable skill. Appeared from official statement that, as sometimes happens in Ireland in analogous cases—on the Curragh, for example—someone had blundered into direct opposition to Ministerial policy and intention. Troops had been called out by authority of a minor official. Firing had opened in the streets of Dublin without word of command from officer in charge of detachment. Supreme representatives of Government, whether at the Irish Office or Dublin Castle, were innocent of offence. They were simply unfortunate—which in some cases is worse than being guilty.

I have had considerable experience."I have had considerable experience, perhaps a larger experience than any man in this House, of being taken to task for the actions of those who were my subordinates or my colleagues. [Laughter]."—Mr.Asquith.

"I have had considerable experience, perhaps a larger experience than any man in this House, of being taken to task for the actions of those who were my subordinates or my colleagues. [Laughter]."—Mr.Asquith.

On the whole, debate carried through with marvellous repression of Party passion. It is trueLord Bobsuggested that Ministers should be hanged (or "suspended," as he put it). That is only his way of expressing diversity of opinion on matters of detail. Division keenly looked forward to. Would Redmondites be satisfied with suspension of Sub-Commissioner of Dublin Police when they demanded head of Chief Commissioner on a charger? Would they abstain from the division, or would they, joyously relapsing into original state of nature, "go agin the Government"?

Catastrophe averted by resisting motion for closure and carrying debate over eleven o'clock, when it automatically stood adjourned.

Business done.—Clontarf "incident" discussed.

Tuesday.—The elephant is justly proud of the range of its adaptability. As every schoolboy knows, with its mighty trunk it can uproot a tree or pick up a pin. Analogy found in case of House of Commons, with perhaps a preference for picking up pins.

This afternoon the war-cloud lies low over East of Europe. News momentarily expected—it arrived before the dinner-hour—that Austria had declared war against Servia. Match thus applied to trail of gunpowder, no one can say how far or in what direction the flame may travel. Meanwhile ominous fact that by way of precaution other Powers are preparing to mobilise. In addition to grave happenings abroad, we have at home our own little war. Sudden outburst of fury in streets of Dublin last Sunday indicates grave possibilities in the near future.

In these circumstances reasonable to suppose attention of House would be centred on these contingencies, its demeanour attuned accordingly. On the contrary, liveliest interest at Question-hour aroused by discovery that persons employed in business of peeling onions are exempt from payment of Insurance Tax.

House and country indebted toFred Hallfor disclosure of this remarkable circumstance. As a rule his questions do not attract the measure of attention their merit possibly demands. This largely due to fact that they are so numerous, so constant in appearance on the paper, and are doubled, sometimes trebled, by supplementaries devised in the spirit theSpeakerdelicately describes as animated by desire rather to give information than to seek it.

But this discovery of the super-eminence of the onion-peeler in the matter of freedom from taxation instantly riveted attention. It was news even toWorthington Evans, who has spent his days and nights in mastering obscurities of Insurance Act. From all parts of the House came sharp inquiry for further information. Was the potato-peeler also exempt? If not, why not?

Trying moment forWedgwood Benn. Faced it with customary courage and something more than habitual rotundity of official phraseology.

"Employment as an onion-peeler," he oracularly said, "has in a special order been specified as a subsidiary employment, and contributions are not required to be paid in respect of persons so employed."

That all very well as far as it went. It did not go to the length of explaining the mystery that racked the mind of all sections of parties. Why the onion-peeler in particular?

Speakerstayed storm of renewed interrogation by calling on next question. Some time before ordinary calm was restored. On benches above Gangway on Opposition side there is rooted belief that there is more in this than meets the eye.Lloyd Georgeis evidently at the bottom of what begins to look like a bad business.

Business done.—In Committee of Supply, Colonial vote agreed to. Progress made with Education vote, amounting this year to modest total of £9,480,621.

[According to Mr.Healy'sinterpretation of what he called "a kind of foreshore doctrine of legality," thePrime Ministerhad laid it down that guns are liable to seizure on the shore below high water mark, but that, once they are fairly on dry land, "the proclamation has exhausted itself."]"a kind of foreshore doctrine of legality"I.—Outside the Law.II.—Within the Law.

(Constructed after the best models.)

I.—An Alpine Adventure.

Inside the Fahrjoch Hut a merry clatter of tin mugs proclaimed that a climbing party was supping. Ralph Wonderson paused for a moment, thoughtfully stroking his crampons, before he threw open the door and entered.

Two stalwart and sunburnt young Englishmen, a beautiful fair-haired English girl, and three hirsute and jovial Swiss guides were feasting on the sardines and dried plums which experience has shown to be the best diet for mountaineers. They looked up cheerily as he entered, and greeted him with the easy camaraderie of the mountains.

Gratefully relieving himself of his rope, ice-axe,Baedeker, goggles, corkscrew, crampons and other impedimenta of the expert Alpinist, Ralph seated himself beside the girl.

"You look tired," she said sympathetically.

"Yes," he replied, picking up a sardine by its tail and dropping it into his mouth with the ease of one long accustomed to mountain huts. "Yes, I've just satisfied a long-cherished ambition by doing the Matterhorn and the Jungfrau in the same day without guides."

There was an instant chorus of admiration. The three guides rose to their feet and gazed at the newcomer in astonishment.

"Ja wohl! Auf wiedersehen!" they said warmly.

There is no body of men in the world so free from petty jealousy as the Swiss guides.

"It is nothing," said Ralph lightly. "What are your plans for to-morrow? I rather thought of taking things easily myself and doing the Wetterhorn. I wondered——"

"I'm sure we should be delighted to join you," said the girl, "if you could consent to be accompanied by such undistinguished climbers. Let me introduce ourselves. This is my cousin, Sir Ernest Scrivener. This is my brother, Lord Tamerton. I am Margaret Tamerton."

"Lady Margaret Tamerton!" cried Ralph in amazement. "Little Madge! Don't you remember me—Ralph Wonderson, your playmate as a child?"

"Ralph!" exclaimed Lady Margaret. "Oh, of course! And I haven't seen you since you whitewashed all the guinea-pigs and were sent away to school."

Several hours later Lady Margaret stood with Ralph on the terrace outside the hut. Her eyes plunged into the awful abyss at their feet, swept along the moonlit valley thousands and thousands of feet below them, and fastened themselves upon the sinister crags of the Lyskamm and the stupendous dome of Mont Blanc. A lump came into her throat.

"I don't know why," she said softly, "but I have a presentiment of evil. Is the Wetterhornverydangerous?"

Ralph laughed lightly. "A child could climb it blindfolded in midwinter," he said. "Trust yourself to me, little Madge, to-morrow and—and——"

"For ever!" added Margaret almost inaudibly as they went into the hut together.

Mingled happiness and foreboding strangely disturbed her breast, and she sighed as she trod heavily on the face of one of the guides in climbing to her shelf. She heard his low sleepy murmur of apology as she drew her straw about her. There is no more courteous body of men in the world than the Swiss guides.

Next morning, after a hasty toilet with a handful of snow, the party set off shortly before sunrise. Ralph by general consent assumed the leadership. Taking careful soundings with his ice-axe and using his crampons with almost uncanny certitude, he guided his companions through a moraine and debouched on to a tremendous glacier.

As he turned to survey those behind them he perceived for the first time a scar under the left ear of Sir Ernest Scrivener.

"Teufel!" he exclaimed under his breath. "It is he! Moorsdyke! My mortal enemy!"But his meditations were interrupted by the stern nature of the work before them. Their route led them along the foot of a line of towering and tremblingséracs. The vibration of a whisper might send them crashing down upon the party.

Placing one hand on his lips as a warning for silence, he dexterously cut steps in the ice with the other. Progress was slow and nerve racking. Every step had to be taken with infinite precaution. Once Lord Tamerton slipped and would have fallen headlong to destruction had not Ralph caught him by the ear and lifted him back into his steps.

But at length the trying passage was almost accomplished. Only Sir Ernest Scrivener remained in peril.

Unconsciously Ralph removed his fingers from his lips. Inexperienced as a climber, Sir Ernest imagined this to be a signal that the danger was now over.

"I say," he began.

It was enough. In an instant the whole line ofséracstoppled from their bases and thundered down upon him. Ralph did not hesitate. The man was his most deadly enemy, but—he was Lady Margaret's cousin. Ralph sprang to the rope; it snapped like thread between his fingers.

With a cry of despair Sir Ernest vanished in the roaring avalanche of ice and snow. Throwing a quick reassuring smile to Lady Margaret, Ralph joined his hands above his head and dived unflinchingly after him.

(To be concluded in our next.)

Into this beastly bunker again, Caddie!Golfer(playing his second round in the day). "Into this beastly bunker again, Caddie!"Caddie."No, S'. This is the one you missed this morning."

[A weekly paper points out that letters of proposal should be carefully timed to arrive in the evening, that being the sentimental time of the day when acceptance is most likely.]

Good Sir, your directions are all very fine,But, when I propose by the pen trick,I shall look for a temper to tolerate mine,And mine is distinctly eccentric;If she, in the morning, is likely to grouse,If her breakfast demeanour is surly,There would not be room for us both in the house;I'm peevish myself when it's early.So rather I'd have her most critical moodPrevail at the time of my wooing;I'd like to be sure that the girl understoodExactly the thing she was doing.I feel in my heart it were better for meTo double the risk of rejection,In order (if haply accepted) to beA calm and cold-blooded selection.Let my letter arrive when the day at its startProvokes a malevolent feeling;Her answer may puncture a hole in my heart,But Time is an expert at healing;And that will be better than learning too late,At the end of the honeymoon season,That the lady had only consented to mateIn an hour that was bad for her reason.

Good Sir, your directions are all very fine,

But, when I propose by the pen trick,

I shall look for a temper to tolerate mine,

And mine is distinctly eccentric;

If she, in the morning, is likely to grouse,

If her breakfast demeanour is surly,

There would not be room for us both in the house;

I'm peevish myself when it's early.

So rather I'd have her most critical moodPrevail at the time of my wooing;I'd like to be sure that the girl understoodExactly the thing she was doing.I feel in my heart it were better for meTo double the risk of rejection,In order (if haply accepted) to beA calm and cold-blooded selection.

So rather I'd have her most critical mood

Prevail at the time of my wooing;

I'd like to be sure that the girl understood

Exactly the thing she was doing.

I feel in my heart it were better for me

To double the risk of rejection,

In order (if haply accepted) to be

A calm and cold-blooded selection.

Let my letter arrive when the day at its startProvokes a malevolent feeling;Her answer may puncture a hole in my heart,But Time is an expert at healing;And that will be better than learning too late,At the end of the honeymoon season,That the lady had only consented to mateIn an hour that was bad for her reason.

Let my letter arrive when the day at its start

Provokes a malevolent feeling;

Her answer may puncture a hole in my heart,

But Time is an expert at healing;

And that will be better than learning too late,

At the end of the honeymoon season,

That the lady had only consented to mate

In an hour that was bad for her reason.

From a concert programme at Brighton:—

"Parsifal.Tannhäuser.Walküre.Gotterdämmerung.Siegfried.Tristan and Isolde.Requiem for 3 cellos and orchestra."

The last item does not surprise us.

"Anstruther.—Comf. roofs, 2 beds, 25th July on; sea view."—Glasgow Herald.

The fresh air craze is spreading.

For reasons of economy we get all our household requisites from Moggridge's Stores in the Tottenham Court Road, where we have a deposit account. Joan once worked out that by shopping in this manner we saved ninepence-halfpenny every time we spent one pound four and fivepence (her arithmetic cannot cope with percentages), besides having our goods delivered at the door by a motor van. This is a distinct score off our neighbours, who have to be content with theirs being brought round by a boy on a kind of three-wheeled Black-Maria.

We are not on the telephone at home, so it is my part of the arrangement to ring up Moggridge's when I arrive at my office, and order what we want; that is, whenever I remember. But unfortunately I own the most impossible of head-pieces. It's all right to look at from the outside, but inside the valves leak, or else the taps run. Consequently it generally ends in Joan's writing a note when I return home in the evening. Thus I was not altogether surprised when, one morning after breakfast, Joan asked me to repeat her orders. I did so. "That's not what I said!" cried Joan. "That's only what youthoughtI said. I did not even mention smoked salmon. Now listen while I tell you again; or, better still, write it down on a piece of paper."

"That's no good," I said. "I always lose the paper. But go on with the list; I've got a very good idea."

"Two pounds of Mocha coffee," she began.

I picked up two coffee beans from the tray—Joan self-grinds and self-makes the coffee every morning—and placed them amongst the loose change in my trouser pocket.

"Fourteen pounds of best loaf sugar," she went on.

I drew my handkerchief from my sleeve, tied a small lump of sugar in a corner of it, and then placed it inside my hat.

"Why put it in your hat?" asked Joan.

"Because," I answered, "I may not have occasion to draw my handkerchief from its usual place, whereas I alwayshaveto take my hat off."

"How will you remember the quantity?".

"Well, fourteen pounds make one stone, don't they? Before I remember the hard thing is a piece of sugar I shall think it's a stone."

Joan sniffed contemptuously.

"Then there's my ring," she continued, "the diamond and sapphire one that I left for resetting. The estimate they promised has not come, and besides there's the——"

"Hold on a minute!" I cried. "Just tie a piece of cotton round my married finger."

She did so. Then she went on:

"The drawing-room clock should have been sent home, cleaned, last Friday. They haven't sent it."

"Perhaps they expected it torun down," I suggested.

Joan bore up wonderfully, and merely said, "Well—do something. Put the sardines in your pocket-book, or the marmalade in your gloves."

"Those," I said, "are not, strictly speaking, mnemonics for sending home cleaned clocks. They would be all right for a picnic tea-basket, but not for the thing in question. Everything I have done up to the present is suggestive of what I have to remember," and I turned my watch round in my pocket so that it faced outwards.

"I see," said Joan. "Now, what's the cotton round your finger for?"

"Smoked sa—, that is to say, coff—, I mean the estimate for your ring," I answered. "Is there anything else?"

"Another box of stationery like the last—the crinkly paper, you know. They've got our die."

I tore a strip from the newspaper, crinkled it carefully and put it away in my cigarette-case. A minute later I was on my way to the railway-station.

A keen head-wind was blowing, causing my eyes to water and the tears to flow unbidden. I explored my sleeve for my handkerchief. It was not there. I could not possibly go to town without one, so I hastened home again. Joan was at the window as I ran up.

"What is it?" she cried.

"My handkerchief!" I gasped. "I've forgotten——"

"Fourteen pounds of best loaf sugar!" called out Joan. "It's in your hat."

As I hurried once more in the direction of the station I withdrew the handkerchief from my hat and wiped my streaming eyes. The operation over, I placed the handkerchief in my sleeve. I heard the whistle of a train in the distance and instinctively took out my watch. It was right-about-face in my pocket, and I lost a good half-second in getting it into the correct position for time-telling. It was nine-seventeen. I had just one minute in which to do the quarter-mile; but myforteis the egg-and-spoon race, and I missed the train handsomely.

There was an interval of twenty minutes before the next one was due, so I thought I would have a cigarette. I opened my case, and a piece of paper fluttered to the ground. I picked it up and glanced at it. On one side I read that "... knocked out Submarine Snooks in the ninth round after a hotly—contested ..." while on the other side I saw that "... condition offers the gravest anxiety to his numerous friends and ..." I threw the paper away, for it did not interest me, and walked up to the bookstall to select a magazine. I had to remove my left glove in order to get at my money, and in pulling it off I noticed a shred of cotton come away with it. This meant an inside seam gone somewhere; and they were new gloves, too. I threw a coin to the paper-boy, and two small round objects like boot-buttons rolled on to the platform. Shortly afterwards the train strolled up.

At the office I was so busy all day, arranging about the shipment of a steam-crane to Siam (I am a commission-agent), that it was not until I was seated in the train, going home in the evening, that I vaguely remembered that I had forgotten something. I grew more and more uneasy, and, with the idea of distracting my thoughts from an unpleasant channel, I picked up an evening paper from underneath the opposite seat. At some quite recent period it had obviously contained nourishment of an oleaginous nature, but, though soiled, it was still legible. The very first paragraph which I read served to remind me of Joan's forgotten orders; but it brought me, nevertheless, an unholy joy, for it ran: "The funeral of the late Mr. Jeremiah Moggridge, founder and managing director of the mammoth stores which bear his name, took place this afternoon. As a mark of respect the premises were closed for business throughout the day."

So it would have been futile to ring them up in any case. I was saved!

On reaching home the first thing Joan said to me was—

"Did you order those things from Moggridge's?"

I didn't say anything. I merely handed her the evening paper and indicated the saving clause. Joan read it through. Then she said—

"Yes, Ithoughtyou'd mess it all up in spite of your ichneumonics, or whatever you call them; and so after lunch I went to the call-office and ordered the things myself."

"But Moggridge's was closed—didn't you read?"

"Yes," replied Joan; "but, next time you forget, don't try to establish analibiwith yesterday's evening paper."

Our private telephone will be fixed by next week. I forget how much Joan reckons we shall save by it.

I don't know the difference between a mangel and a wurzelRev. Brown."I'm afraid, my dear young lady, I know very little of agricultural matters; in fact I don't know the difference between a mangel and a wurzel."

Rev. Brown."I'm afraid, my dear young lady, I know very little of agricultural matters; in fact I don't know the difference between a mangel and a wurzel."

[The Soya bean, grown in Japan, Korea and Manchuria, is said to provide a perfect substitute for milk.]

Tout lasse, tout casse, tout passe:All mortal flesh is grass,Mown down by Time at the appointed hour;And in the world of speedThe noblest Arab steedYields, O Combustion, to thy pent-up power.On Youth of ardent aimNo moreMazeppa'sfameOrTurpin'sfeats exert their ancient spell;NapierandWolseleystandNo more for war's command,But only steel and rubber, oil and smell.Where once men safely strodeAlong the open road,A sinister and stertorous machineExhales its acrid breathAnd deals impartial deathTo all the dwellers on the village green.And now, O gentle cow,Man's foster-mother, thou,Must tread the fatal path the horse hath trod,Since scientists have foundThat milk and cream aboundWithin the compass of an Eastern pod.No more shall we behold,As in the days of old,The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea;Or Mary, mid the foam,Calling her cattle home,Across the sands, the perilous sands o' Dee.Mourn, Alderney, and mourn,O maiden all forlorn,The cow with crumpled horn that filled thy pail;Mourn, damsels, mourn and sighWho can no more reply,"I'm going a milking" to the curious male.Mourn too, for ye shall feelThe change at every meal,Ye minions of the hearthrug; be not mute,Ye Persians, topaz-eyed,When mistresses provideThis miserable Soya substitute.In legendary loreThe cow was wont to soarWith Dædalean art above the moon;But ah! the cardboard cowsThat by the railroad browseTo no elopement prompt the modern spoon.On earth men owned thy swayFrom Lapland to Cathay;In heaven the Milky Way thy might confessed:Weaklings we saw becomeStrong, thanks to thee and rum,And Punch of all ingredients found milk best.But, heedless of a debtHe never should forget,Ungrateful man is planning to replaceBy vegetable aidThe kindly service paidBy your mild-natured and sweet-breathing race.Yet, ere the Soya boomAchieves the dairy's doom,And rude bean-crushers oust the homely churn,Let one unworthy scribeSalute the vaccine tribeAnd lay his wreath upon their funeral urn.

Tout lasse, tout casse, tout passe:All mortal flesh is grass,Mown down by Time at the appointed hour;And in the world of speedThe noblest Arab steedYields, O Combustion, to thy pent-up power.

Tout lasse, tout casse, tout passe:

All mortal flesh is grass,

Mown down by Time at the appointed hour;

And in the world of speed

The noblest Arab steed

Yields, O Combustion, to thy pent-up power.

On Youth of ardent aimNo moreMazeppa'sfameOrTurpin'sfeats exert their ancient spell;NapierandWolseleystandNo more for war's command,But only steel and rubber, oil and smell.

On Youth of ardent aim

No moreMazeppa'sfame

OrTurpin'sfeats exert their ancient spell;

NapierandWolseleystand

No more for war's command,

But only steel and rubber, oil and smell.

Where once men safely strodeAlong the open road,A sinister and stertorous machineExhales its acrid breathAnd deals impartial deathTo all the dwellers on the village green.

Where once men safely strode

Along the open road,

A sinister and stertorous machine

Exhales its acrid breath

And deals impartial death

To all the dwellers on the village green.

And now, O gentle cow,Man's foster-mother, thou,Must tread the fatal path the horse hath trod,Since scientists have foundThat milk and cream aboundWithin the compass of an Eastern pod.

And now, O gentle cow,

Man's foster-mother, thou,

Must tread the fatal path the horse hath trod,

Since scientists have found

That milk and cream abound

Within the compass of an Eastern pod.

No more shall we behold,As in the days of old,The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea;Or Mary, mid the foam,Calling her cattle home,Across the sands, the perilous sands o' Dee.

No more shall we behold,

As in the days of old,

The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea;

Or Mary, mid the foam,

Calling her cattle home,

Across the sands, the perilous sands o' Dee.

Mourn, Alderney, and mourn,O maiden all forlorn,The cow with crumpled horn that filled thy pail;Mourn, damsels, mourn and sighWho can no more reply,"I'm going a milking" to the curious male.

Mourn, Alderney, and mourn,

O maiden all forlorn,

The cow with crumpled horn that filled thy pail;

Mourn, damsels, mourn and sigh

Who can no more reply,

"I'm going a milking" to the curious male.

Mourn too, for ye shall feelThe change at every meal,Ye minions of the hearthrug; be not mute,Ye Persians, topaz-eyed,When mistresses provideThis miserable Soya substitute.

Mourn too, for ye shall feel

The change at every meal,

Ye minions of the hearthrug; be not mute,

Ye Persians, topaz-eyed,

When mistresses provide

This miserable Soya substitute.

In legendary loreThe cow was wont to soarWith Dædalean art above the moon;But ah! the cardboard cowsThat by the railroad browseTo no elopement prompt the modern spoon.

In legendary lore

The cow was wont to soar

With Dædalean art above the moon;

But ah! the cardboard cows

That by the railroad browse

To no elopement prompt the modern spoon.

On earth men owned thy swayFrom Lapland to Cathay;In heaven the Milky Way thy might confessed:Weaklings we saw becomeStrong, thanks to thee and rum,And Punch of all ingredients found milk best.

On earth men owned thy sway

From Lapland to Cathay;

In heaven the Milky Way thy might confessed:

Weaklings we saw become

Strong, thanks to thee and rum,

And Punch of all ingredients found milk best.

But, heedless of a debtHe never should forget,Ungrateful man is planning to replaceBy vegetable aidThe kindly service paidBy your mild-natured and sweet-breathing race.

But, heedless of a debt

He never should forget,

Ungrateful man is planning to replace

By vegetable aid

The kindly service paid

By your mild-natured and sweet-breathing race.

Yet, ere the Soya boomAchieves the dairy's doom,And rude bean-crushers oust the homely churn,Let one unworthy scribeSalute the vaccine tribeAnd lay his wreath upon their funeral urn.

Yet, ere the Soya boom

Achieves the dairy's doom,

And rude bean-crushers oust the homely churn,

Let one unworthy scribe

Salute the vaccine tribe

And lay his wreath upon their funeral urn.

"The native inhabitants produce all manner of curios, the great majority of which appear to command a ready sale among the visitors, crude and commonplace as these frequently are."—Bulawayo Chronicle.

They are; but, bless their hearts, they seem to enjoy themselves.

"Exeter.—Young Cook-General, willing to learn; small family, no children; no basement. No religion preferred."Western Morning News.

"Exeter.—Young Cook-General, willing to learn; small family, no children; no basement. No religion preferred."

Western Morning News.

She forgot to add "No meals to serve."

As a matter of fact she was my gardener's chauffeur-son's girl. The junior parent having been living chiefly on my garden or in my kitchen, and now being at the end of his resources, it was suggested that I should give his Amy a job. The proposal came from my wife, who had been victualling Amy's mother and Amy's baby sister for some weeks. An illuminating correspondence in the Press had done the rest.

For her first appointment at the tee Amy was nearly twenty minutes late, and when she arrived it was in a mauve skirt, green stockings, an ochre sporting coat and a hat which had once been my wife's. Seen against the background of the native boy caddies, Amy might have been described as picturesque.

"Mother says," said Amy, as we introduced ourselves—"Mother says she's sorry you should be kep', but baby's used to going off, me rocking 'im, and she was that busy, it being the day what she mostly washes."

"Very well, Amy," I said, realising the situation, "we must do better next time. The gentleman I was to play would not wait; but perhaps, if we just went round together, you could get an idea of your—your duties."

Amy accepted my suggestion and my bag of clubs with an abstracted sniff. She seemed to be more closely engaged in retorting by manual signals to the distant provocations of her male rivals.

"Now, Amy," I reminded her gently, "you must learn how to make a tee."

Amy turned reluctantly and stared over my bent back at the Miss Galbraiths, who were just starting for the ladies' course.

"First of all," I began more firmly, "you take a pinch of sand from this box—so." Tee-making is not my forte, and I was painfully conscious that I worked under the critical gaze of fully twenty expert eyes.

"If you please," said Amy in a brighter mood, "mother says I'll want some things to clean up the sticks with."

I rose from my knees with a cricked back, but I had my Purple Spot neatly balanced on a really creditable mound.

"We shall come to that presently, Amy," I explained. "When I have finished playing you can take the clubs and make them nice and bright with emery-paper."

Amy did not take this proposal encouragingly.

"Mother says I should want some turps," she informed me, "and brickdus' and some whitin' to finish, and some methelay. She says she don't 'old with the way Jimmy Baines and the rest of 'em does it. Mother says the sticks should be cleaned proper, as they oughter be. She says she'd 'ave give me the things, only she ain't got any, and I was to ask if it was convenience to you to spare me the money to go to the village and get 'em. Then she'd show me 'ow."

I had discovered my driver behind Amy's back and was preparing to get away, but these views of Amy's mother were so complete an innovation that I paused. On the verge of a first drive I had never in my life stopped to consider the ethics of golf-club cleaning. Why had not Amy a pocket and a rag of sand-paper like resourceful Jimmy Baines? I don't remember to have ever read anything on the niceties of the art of scouring clubs. It is a subject on which the writers of golfing articles—prolific enough, as Heaven knows, about other and more negligible aspects of the game—seem to have adopted an attitude of studied reticence.

"Look here, Amy," I said rather severely, "you really must not talk. You must remember you are here to carry my clubs, not to tell me about your mother. My iron clubs must be cleaned precisely as they always have been cleaned. That is entirely your department of the game, and you must stand at least three yards further away or I shall probably kill you." Then I drove, sliced hideously, and landed in long grass a hundred yards to the right.

Some premonition of feminine detachment prompted me to keep my eyes rigidly on the tuft which concealed my ball, as I strode forward. But half-way I turned. IfeltAmy was not with me. She was standing precisely where I had left her, her hat off, her pink tongue stuck out in the direction of the caddies' shed.

"Amy!" I shouted, and the sound of my voice had an indescribably incongruous and humiliating echo. "Amy, come here at once; how dare——"

Amy came ambling across the fairway, hat in hand, my bag of clubs left where she had deposited them upside down in the tee-box for greater freedom in responding with gestures of defiance to the chaff of the enemy.

"Now look here," I said as Amy stood wonderingly before me; "I am very, very disappointed in you—very, very angry. You wanted to earn your living, I understood?"

Amy's brows darkened but her lips were slightly tremulous.

"Mother won't let me go into the laundry," she said sulkily, "'cos father says I'm not sperienced enough, and Jimmy Baines give me 'is cheek, so I give it 'im back."

Thus we stood surveying the situation, my girl-caddie and I. There seemed at the moment only one sane way of ending it.

"Very well, Amy," I said dispassionately, "you had better run home and tell your mother—tell your mother to come up to the house after dinner, if there's anything she needs."

Amy resigned her position without a murmur; but before she went she extracted two paintless, weary-looking golf-balls from the pocket of her mauve skirt and offered me them for sixpence.

I know a wood on the top of a hill,Hyacinth-carpeted March till May,Where nights are wonderful, soft and still,And a deep-sea twilight hangs all day;The loving labour of fairy handsHas made it heavenly fine to see,And just outside it the cottage stands,The cottage that doesn't belong to me.A cottage, mind,And I'm sure you'd findIt was damp and dirty and very confined;Oh, quite an ordinary keeper's cottageThat doesn't belong to me.Creatures people the wood at night;Peaceable animals come and play;Pan's own pipes, if you hear aright,Charm you on as you go your way;And all the Arcady folk of yoreMake songs of the days that used to be,Which carry perhaps to the cottage door,The cottage that doesn't belong to me.But it's miles from townAnd it's tumble-down,And the woodwork's done and the slates are brown;No one could really live in the cottageThat doesn't belong to me.Fair be the towns by the river-side,Maidenhead, Richmond, Henley, Kew,Crammed with cottages far and wide,The thing for people like me and you;But I think of the haunting forest-lightsAnd a path that wanders from tree to tree,Where the man of the cottage might walk o' nights,The cottage that doesn't belong to me.And it may be wrong,But it won't be longBefore the feeling becomes too strongAnd I'll go and jolly well get that cottageThat doesn't belong to me.

I know a wood on the top of a hill,

Hyacinth-carpeted March till May,

Where nights are wonderful, soft and still,

And a deep-sea twilight hangs all day;

The loving labour of fairy hands

Has made it heavenly fine to see,

And just outside it the cottage stands,

The cottage that doesn't belong to me.

A cottage, mind,

And I'm sure you'd find

It was damp and dirty and very confined;

Oh, quite an ordinary keeper's cottage

That doesn't belong to me.

Creatures people the wood at night;Peaceable animals come and play;Pan's own pipes, if you hear aright,Charm you on as you go your way;And all the Arcady folk of yoreMake songs of the days that used to be,Which carry perhaps to the cottage door,The cottage that doesn't belong to me.But it's miles from townAnd it's tumble-down,And the woodwork's done and the slates are brown;No one could really live in the cottageThat doesn't belong to me.

Creatures people the wood at night;

Peaceable animals come and play;

Pan's own pipes, if you hear aright,

Charm you on as you go your way;

And all the Arcady folk of yore

Make songs of the days that used to be,

Which carry perhaps to the cottage door,

The cottage that doesn't belong to me.

But it's miles from town

And it's tumble-down,

And the woodwork's done and the slates are brown;

No one could really live in the cottage

That doesn't belong to me.

Fair be the towns by the river-side,Maidenhead, Richmond, Henley, Kew,Crammed with cottages far and wide,The thing for people like me and you;But I think of the haunting forest-lightsAnd a path that wanders from tree to tree,Where the man of the cottage might walk o' nights,The cottage that doesn't belong to me.And it may be wrong,But it won't be longBefore the feeling becomes too strongAnd I'll go and jolly well get that cottageThat doesn't belong to me.

Fair be the towns by the river-side,

Maidenhead, Richmond, Henley, Kew,

Crammed with cottages far and wide,

The thing for people like me and you;

But I think of the haunting forest-lights

And a path that wanders from tree to tree,

Where the man of the cottage might walk o' nights,

The cottage that doesn't belong to me.

And it may be wrong,

But it won't be long

Before the feeling becomes too strong

And I'll go and jolly well get that cottage

That doesn't belong to me.

A new aquatic sport has been invented.A new aquatic sport has been invented. It is known as "planking," and consists in standing upon a board towed by a fast motor-boat. Some who have tried it consider the pleasure over-rated.

A new aquatic sport has been invented. It is known as "planking," and consists in standing upon a board towed by a fast motor-boat. Some who have tried it consider the pleasure over-rated.

(By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks.)

Reality(Cassell) deserves to rank high amongst the novels of the present season; it has, indeed, qualities that will cause it, if I am not mistaken, to outlive most of them. The chief of these I can best express by the word colour; by which I mean not only a picturesque setting, but temperament and a fine sense of the romantic in life. Perhaps I ought to have known the name ofMiss Olive Wadsleyalready. As I did not, I can only be glad thatRealityhas rectified the fault; I shall certainly not again forget a writer who has given me so much pleasure. The scene of the story is laid in Vienna, chiefly in musical Vienna, and the protagonists are the young widow,Irene van Cleve, and the violinist,Jean Victoire, whom she marries despite the well-founded objections of her noble family. Some of the family, too, are quite excellently drawn, notably a Cardinal, who, though he has little to do in the tale, manages to appear much more human and less of a draped waxwork than most Eminences of fiction. I have said that the objections ofIrene'srelations were justified, the fact being thatJeanwas not only a genius, but the most scatterbrained egoist and vulgarian. Naturally, therefore, the alliance turned out a failure; and the process is quite admirably portrayed. I liked least in the book the end, with its sudden revelation of a superfluous secret. Had the secret not been so superfluous it might have vexed me to have been so long kept in ignorance of it. But this is a small matter. The chief point is thatRealityhas the pulse of life in it—in a word that it confirms its title; which, indeed, is about the highest praise that a critic can bestow.

I am not at all sure how Mr.Frank Norris, were he still living, would have regarded the resurrection of this early attempt at realism, as taught us by M.Zola—Vandover and the Brute(Heinemann). He would, I fancy, have softened some of the crudities and allowed a touch of humour to lighten the more solemn passages. There are pages here that remind one thatVandover'screator was also the author of those magnificent novelsThe OctopusandThe Pit; but I cannot, in spite of them, place much confidence in the truth ofVandover'slife history. We are told that he enjoyed his bath, and usually spent two or three hours over it. When the water was very warm he got into it with his novel on a rack in front of him and a box of chocolates conveniently near. Here he stayed for over an hour, eating and reading and occasionally smoking a cigarette. Can you wonder after this that poorVandoverwent utterly to the bad, and is to be found on the last page doing some horrible work with a muck-rake whilst an innocent child points an obvious moral? So certain wasVandover'sdoom, once that box of chocolates had been mentioned, that I grew impatient and a little weary. If this is an age of realism in fiction I think thatVandover and the Bruteshould make plain to any reader why, very shortly, we are going to have an age of something else.

Do not allow yourself to be put off by the title ofCaptivating Mary Carstairs(Constable)—now published for the first time in England. It is not, as you might assume, a costume novel of eighteenth-century tushery. This is what I expected; but as a matter of fact Mr.Henry Sydnor Harrisonhas written a tale about as unlike this as anything well could be. It is a capital tale, too; American to the last epithet, and crammed so full of the unexpected and adventurous that never (except once) can you anticipate for a moment what is going to happen. The chief adventure is abduction, the subject of it beingMary Carstairs, whose father was separated from hermother, and, being a lonely old man with a longing for a daughter's affection, took this melodramatic course to secure it. In furtherance of his end he secured the services ofMaginnis, genial swashbuckler, andVarney, young, susceptible and heroic, and despatched them on his yacht to apprehend one whom they vaguely supposed to be "a little girl about twelve." This was the only time in which I scored over Mr.Harrison. I was as certain, when I read thus far, thatMary Carstairswas no child, but a grown-up beauty, as I am now that I know the facts. Everywhere else the author had me beat. His capacity for complications seems inexhaustible. I knew thatVarneywas going to fall in love withMary, but I did not know that he himself had a double who would cause endless and thrilling confusions; thatMaginniswould become involved in local politics to the extent of endangering his life; and that even oldCarstairs,Mary'sfather, would—but on second thoughts you had better share my unpreparedness about him. I should sum up the book as a tale with a "punch" in every chapter, some of them perhaps below the belt of probability, but all leaving one, as is the way with punches, breathlessly concerned.

Monsieur de Rochefort(Hutchinson) did not even take himself seriously; why then should I? To subject this airy romance, of Paris in 1770, to a minute criticism would be unnecessarily spoiling a good thing, and I shall not therefore ask myself whether prisons were so easily got out of or great statesmen so easily cajoled as Mr.H. de Vere Stacpoolefor present purposes assumes. I shall not examine the historical accuracy of the portraits of theDuc de Choiseulor of theComtesse Dubarry, nor shall I question the human probability of villains so inept asCamusor martinets so infallible and ruthless asde Sartines. The most exacting connoisseur of vintage ports will in his expansive moments admit the merits of a light wine from the wood, offered him as such in due season; even so the most fastidious novel-reader may in a holiday mood allow himself to be merely entertained and diverted by these lighthearted but breathless adventures in the Court ofLouis XV. It is the greatest fun throughout; events are rapid and the dialogue is crisp; moreover there is from the beginning the comfortable certainty that, threaten what may, the unhappy end is impossible. Ifde Rocheforthad failed to marryJavotte, I think that Mr.de Vere Stacpoolewould have incurred the unanimous displeasure of all his readers, including those who at any other time would have strongly protested against the marriage of so great a gentleman with so humble a lady's-maid in any circumstances, let alone upon so very brief an acquaintance.

Bridget Considine(Bell) is a pleasant story with something very agreeable in its quality, which however I find hard to define. MissMary Crosbiehas certainly a pretty gift for characterization, and this no doubt accounts for a good deal of the charm; the rest is largely a matter of atmosphere. The characters in the story whom you will most remember areBridgetherself and her father. The last especially is a continuous joy—a man who in his journey through life had taken instinctively the manner and aspect of a class to which he did not belong; a decayed gentleman without ever having been gentle except in mind; a needy adventurer without the spirit for adventure. Dragged up at the slip-shod heels of such a parent, supporting herself with romantic dreams when other nourishment failed,Bridgetgrew to young womanhood the very type, one would say, of theCinderellato be rescued from poverty by a suitablePrince Charming. Thus when a combination of accidents thrusts her, as secretary-companion, into the society ofHugh Delmege, a budding politician, you will perhaps excusably plume yourself upon seeing the rest of the tale beforehand. If so, you will, as a matter of fact, be entirely wrong.HughandBridgetbecome engaged, certainly, but—— There is much virtue in that "but," the virtue of an unusual and convincing end to a story that has many charms, not the least of them being its humour. Yes, I certainly likedBridget Considinewell enough to wish for more from the same pen. Its motto, "Candidates for Humanity," is well chosen.

When Mr.William Satchell, in a preface toThe Greenstone Door(Sidgwick and Jackson), remarks that some Maori words are used so frequently that he is "afraid the English reader will hardly be able to avoid acquiring a knowledge of their meaning," his alarm is quite unnecessary. Personally, at any rate, I am proud to know thatpapa-teameans an untattooed person, andwaipiroan alcoholic beverage. But if Mr.Satchellhad feared that the young man who tells the story might be found a little too self-complacent no protest would have been sounded by me. ForCedric Tregarthen, the grandson of an earl, and also "The Little Finger" of a Maori chief, was beyond my swallowing, though I endured him obstinately until he reportedverbatimthe opinion of his beloved's governess. "'Good-bye, Mr. Tregarthen,' she responded. 'Or, if you will allow me to say, "Good-bye, Cedric," it will better express my feelings. I used to hate boys, my dear; but I shall love them all for the sake of your gentleness and kindness. I am sure you will grow into a very noble man.'" Now, I ask you, ought not dearCedricto have kept this to himself? Give me for choice the Maori boy,Rangiora, and the half-Maori girl,Puhi-Huia, humans fit to be loved and admired. The pity of it is immense, because Mr.Satchellhas a knowledge of his subject that is beyond all praise, and the Maori part of his book is worth reading again and again. But the trouble remains that Cedric lived to tell the tale, whileRangioradied and had to have his tale told for him.

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