THE CRACK OF DOOM.

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

Paddy."I'll not have conscription.Premier."That's all right. You're left out of it."Paddy."Is it lave me out of it? Another injustice to th' ould Counthry!"

Paddy."I'll not have conscription.

Premier."That's all right. You're left out of it."

Paddy."Is it lave me out of it? Another injustice to th' ould Counthry!"

House of Commons, Tuesday, January 4th.—This is thePertinacious Pringle'sday. True it is also, to a certain extent, the Empire's. A Session opening in 1914 has entered upon a third year. After briefest Christmas recess Members called back to work. They come in numbers that crowd benches on both sides. Atmosphere electrical with that sense of great happenings that upon occasion possesses it. Understood that Cabinet have resolved to recommend adoption of principle of compulsory military service. Rumours abroad of consequent resignations from Cabinet. To-morrowPrime Ministerwill deal with these matters. Sufficient for to-day is urgent business of amending Munitions of War Bill in order to meet Labour objections.

In such grave circumstances reasonable to expect that private Members, howsoever fussy by nature, would restrain themselves and permit public business to go forward. Member for North-West Lanarkshire does not take that view of his duty. Here is a day on which eyes of nation are with exceptional intensity and anxiety fixed on House of Commons. What an opportunity forPringle-prangling! So at it he went, kept it up not only, through Question Hour but, by interruptions ofMinister of Munitionswhen speaking during successive stages of Amending Bill, by questions in Committee, by acrimonious speeches on Report Stage and Third Reading, he hushedHogge, snowed-upSnowden, oustedOuthwaite, and dammed the flow ofDalziel'sdiscourse.

In spite of this, which, in addition to major objections, wasted something like two hours, work got through a little before ten o'clock.

Business done.—Munitions Amendment Bill, recommitted for insertion of now clause, passed through remaining stages. Read a third time amidst general cheers.

THE PERTINACIOUS PRINGLE

Wednesday.—When shortly after three o'clock this afternoon thePrime Ministerasked leave to introduce Bill delicately described as designed "to make provision with respect to military service in connection with the present War" he was greeted by hearty cheer from audience that packed the Chamber from floor to topmost row of benches in Strangers' Gallery. Members who had not reserved a seat filled the side Galleries and overflowed in a group thronging the Bar.

Since the War began we have from time to time had crowded Houses awaiting momentous announcement fromPremier. A distinction of to-day's gathering is the considerable proportion of Members in khaki. The whip summoning attendance had sounded as far as the trenches in Flanders, bringing home numbers more than sufficient to "make a House" of themselves. Among them was GeneralSeely, who contributed to debate one of its most effective speeches. He metwith friendly reception even from that part of the House not similarly disposed when he was accustomed to address it from Treasury Bench.

Theex-Home Secretary, rising to state the conscientious reasons that compelled the sacrifice of high Ministerial office, also had warm reception from all the Benches. General regret that he will, for the present at least, resume the status of private Member after a Ministerial career as brilliant as it was brief.

Business done.—Bill requiring military service for unattested single men and childless widowers of military age introduced byPrime Minister. Blandly explained that it is not necessarily compulsory. If this class of citizen who has hitherto held back now likes to come forward and enlist he may do so under the Group system, which will be reopened for that purpose. What could be more thoughtful—or obliging?

Thursday.—By comparison with yesterday's crowded attendance and buzzing excitement, through greater part of to-day's sitting Benches only moderately full, and general conditions otherwise normal. Members who objected to carrying debate over second day felt themselves justified. Two speeches made it worth while to extend debate—one delivered from below Gangway byLong John Wardof Stoke-on-Trent, now a full-blown Colonel. Hurried over from the Front to defend and vote for Compulsion Bill, although heretofore a strong opponent of conscription. Animated manly speech, much cheered from all quarters.

Prince Arthur, who, moving from modest place habitually occupied towards lower end of Treasury Bench, seated himself next thePremier, thence shortly after ten o'clock rose and delivered a speech which recalled his greatest triumphs achieved in former days when in different circumstances he stood by same historic brass-bound box whichDizzyin his day clutched andGladstonethumped.

As he resumed his seat amidst storm of cheering,Speakerput the Question for leave to introduce the Bill. A mighty shout of "Ay!" responded, answered by futile cry of "No!"

"Agreed! agreed!" cried the peace-makers. But the minority were out for a division and insisted on taking it. Resulted in leave being given by majority of four to one, a conclusion hailed with renewed outburst of cheering.

Business done.—Leave given by 403 votes against 105.Prime Ministerbrought in Military Service Bill.

"Want to do your bit, my lad?""Of c-c-c-c-c-c-c-course I d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-do.""Then take my advice and join the machine-gun section."

"Want to do your bit, my lad?"

"Of c-c-c-c-c-c-c-course I d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-do."

"Then take my advice and join the machine-gun section."

"The holder of an Exchequer Bond for £100 will receive £100 on December 1st, 1910, and will in the meantime receive £5 per annum in interest."—Evening Paper.

The new security seems to have a brilliant future behind it.

"The bride, who was given away by her father, wore a dress of pale bridegroom. She was attended by the hat, and carried a bouquet, the gift of the pink taffeta silk and a large dark blue bridegroom's two little nieces."Kentish Mercury.

Kentish Mercury.

What colour was the bridegroom?

"The last paragraph in Mr. A. F. Dunnett's letter, appearing in our issue of the 14th inst., contained an obvious error. 'Nathan's vineyard' should, of course, have been 'Nabob's vineyard.'"Daily Gleaner (Kingston, Jamaica).

"The last paragraph in Mr. A. F. Dunnett's letter, appearing in our issue of the 14th inst., contained an obvious error. 'Nathan's vineyard' should, of course, have been 'Nabob's vineyard.'"

Daily Gleaner (Kingston, Jamaica).

Of course—where the pickles grow.

"Sergeant Capes saw the fowls in a crater on Castle-hill. On the crater being opened two of them were almost dead, and others were exhausted, and could scarcely stand."Nottingham Evening Post.

"Sergeant Capes saw the fowls in a crater on Castle-hill. On the crater being opened two of them were almost dead, and others were exhausted, and could scarcely stand."

Nottingham Evening Post.

No doubt overcome by the gas.

Tradesman."Are you insuring against Zeppelins for the New Year?"Householder."Well, I'm thinking of it, as I remember reading in the last raid how they dropped seventeen bombs in one area. I wonder they don't get hit, standing still all that time in the air."

Tradesman."Are you insuring against Zeppelins for the New Year?"

Householder."Well, I'm thinking of it, as I remember reading in the last raid how they dropped seventeen bombs in one area. I wonder they don't get hit, standing still all that time in the air."

I'm un'appy, so I am. Don't enjoy me beef nor jam,An' I'm grumpy an' as 'umpy as a camel.Bin an' stopped my leave? Oh no!Thatwas fixed up long ago;But the trouble is, I've got it, an' I feel afeared to go,An' it's all alonger tin o' green enamel.Fancy spendin' New Year's Eve, when you oughter be on leave,In a dugout where the damp is slowly tricklin',All alonger tin o' green an' a sniper lank an' lean'Oo was swearin' an' a-strafin' an' a-snipin' in between,Till the Sergeant told me off to stop 'is ticklin'.So I trimmed meself with straw, an' a grass an' hay coffyure,An' I clothed meself with faggots that a pal 'ad;Then the Sergeant got a brush an' some green an' sticky slush,An' 'e plastered me all over till I couldn't raise a blush,And I looked jest like a vegetable salad.Then I crept out in the night, an' I waited for the light,But the sniper saw me fust an' scored an inner.I could 'ear the twigs divide, but I signalled 'im a "wide,"Then I squinted down me barrel, an' I let me finger glide,An' I pipped 'im where 'e uster put 'is dinner.Yus, I busted up the Bosch, but I found out, at the wash,That enamel was a fast an' lastin' colour,An' the soap I used to clean made me shine a brighter green;I'm a cabbage, I'm a lettuce, I'm a walkin' kidney bean,An' I ain't a-leavin' Flanders till it's duller.

I'm un'appy, so I am. Don't enjoy me beef nor jam,

An' I'm grumpy an' as 'umpy as a camel.

Bin an' stopped my leave? Oh no!Thatwas fixed up long ago;

But the trouble is, I've got it, an' I feel afeared to go,

An' it's all alonger tin o' green enamel.

Fancy spendin' New Year's Eve, when you oughter be on leave,In a dugout where the damp is slowly tricklin',All alonger tin o' green an' a sniper lank an' lean'Oo was swearin' an' a-strafin' an' a-snipin' in between,Till the Sergeant told me off to stop 'is ticklin'.

Fancy spendin' New Year's Eve, when you oughter be on leave,

In a dugout where the damp is slowly tricklin',

All alonger tin o' green an' a sniper lank an' lean

'Oo was swearin' an' a-strafin' an' a-snipin' in between,

Till the Sergeant told me off to stop 'is ticklin'.

So I trimmed meself with straw, an' a grass an' hay coffyure,An' I clothed meself with faggots that a pal 'ad;Then the Sergeant got a brush an' some green an' sticky slush,An' 'e plastered me all over till I couldn't raise a blush,And I looked jest like a vegetable salad.

So I trimmed meself with straw, an' a grass an' hay coffyure,

An' I clothed meself with faggots that a pal 'ad;

Then the Sergeant got a brush an' some green an' sticky slush,

An' 'e plastered me all over till I couldn't raise a blush,

And I looked jest like a vegetable salad.

Then I crept out in the night, an' I waited for the light,But the sniper saw me fust an' scored an inner.I could 'ear the twigs divide, but I signalled 'im a "wide,"Then I squinted down me barrel, an' I let me finger glide,An' I pipped 'im where 'e uster put 'is dinner.

Then I crept out in the night, an' I waited for the light,

But the sniper saw me fust an' scored an inner.

I could 'ear the twigs divide, but I signalled 'im a "wide,"

Then I squinted down me barrel, an' I let me finger glide,

An' I pipped 'im where 'e uster put 'is dinner.

Yus, I busted up the Bosch, but I found out, at the wash,That enamel was a fast an' lastin' colour,An' the soap I used to clean made me shine a brighter green;I'm a cabbage, I'm a lettuce, I'm a walkin' kidney bean,An' I ain't a-leavin' Flanders till it's duller.

Yus, I busted up the Bosch, but I found out, at the wash,

That enamel was a fast an' lastin' colour,

An' the soap I used to clean made me shine a brighter green;

I'm a cabbage, I'm a lettuce, I'm a walkin' kidney bean,

An' I ain't a-leavin' Flanders till it's duller.

"Income-tax can be paid in the case of individuals and firms who are liable to direct assessment in respect of trade, profession, or husbandry, in two halfpenny instalments—the first on January 1, and the second on July 1."—Glasgow Evening Times.

Lucky Scots, to get off with twa bawbees!

From an advertisement;—

"——'s Mustard Digests the Dish."

And so saves washing-up.

"Strive to acquire now ideas. Vary the hour of rising. If you take luncheon out never go always to the same place."—Daily Mail.

We seldom go always to the "Blue Lion," and usually never by the same way every time, for fear of hardly ever being unable to get out of the habit of it.

"The Westminster Gazette," writes a correspondent from Venice, "has always been regarded by the Italian Press as the most insular of English newspapers." Still we think thatLa Difesa, of which he encloses an extract, goes too far in referring to our esteemed contemporary asLa West-Monstergazette.

"The Basker."

MissHilda MooreasMrs. Radford.

I imagineThe Baskerto be designed by "Clifford Mills" as a Tract against Dukes. And certainly herDuke of Cheviotis a miracle of obtuseness, who, if he had not been made a hero by his valet (an original and happy creation), would have grievously belied the proud old family motto, "Je me sauvegarde."George de Lacorfe, fashionable,fainéantand forty, reader ofThe Pink 'Un, ardent bachelor,Baskerin short, suddenly finds the dukedom of Cheviot thrust upon him. Quite unlike his egregious ancestors, who went out and biffed their enemies in the gate, especially theGorndykes, who were an unpleasant shifty kind of raiders,Georgeproposes to resign all the Cheviot places, emoluments and responsibilities to his cousin and heir,Richard de Lacorfe, on the day the saidRichardshall marry. NowRichardis ade Lacorfewith the hereditaryGorndykeblood and nose acquired on the distaff side. This conspicuous organ inflames the anger ofGeorge'sgrandmother, the dowager, steeped as she is in the history and prejudices of the family, while other members of the august circle harbour unkind thoughts about their kinsman.

And well they might. If anyone had "wrong 'un" written all over him it wasRichard. Indeed his Roman nose was the straightest part of him. The guilelessGeorgewho, though (or because) his grandmother presented him every birthday after his majority with a copy ofThe History of the de Lacorfes, knew and cared nothing about their glorious and stormy past, didn't suspect theGorndykerat in thede Lacorfegranary. SpendthriftRichard, who is always getting urgent blue envelopes fromSamuel & Samuel, is bent on marrying for money the veryDianathatGeorgeloves for her blue hyacinth eyes. There is a misunderstanding betweenGeorgeandDiana(of such a childlike ingenuousness as to suggest that really this too easy spot-stroke should be barred to playwrights), and the idiotic girl promptly engages herself toRichard, who is of course in love with a patently naughty married woman. The most reckless of lovers from the moment when in his ardour he (apparently) bites this lady's hand in the First Act, in full view of the family, till he plans a flirtation by the Cheviot postern gate on the very eve of his marriage toDiana, he is an obviously doomed villain. The lady is surprised byGeorgein the act of knocking thrice on the said postern within. When three knocks are heard without together with the voice ofRichard, theDukereally begins to suspect something. Virtuous imbecility prevails over villainous stupidity. The final blow is dealt upon theGorndykenose.Dianais retrieved by this last of the safe-guarders, and we are left to a melancholy calculation as to what the mental capacity of their issue is likely to be.

THE SOUL'S AWAKENING.Nalet, the valet (Mr.Leon Quartermaine), having been dismissed for not callingGeorge de Lacorfe(SirGeorge Alexander) in the morning, makes good by waking his master's soul up at one o'clock at night.

THE SOUL'S AWAKENING.

Nalet, the valet (Mr.Leon Quartermaine), having been dismissed for not callingGeorge de Lacorfe(SirGeorge Alexander) in the morning, makes good by waking his master's soul up at one o'clock at night.

A good deal of spontaneous and honest laughter, the best of testimonials, greeted this rather ingenuous extravaganza. I think Mrs.Clifford Millswould do well not to prolong her mystifications beyond the point when they are quite clear to her audience. May I without boastfulness record that I guessed all about whatRichardwas going to do with the tiara quite three minutes before a well-known editor in front of me gave away the secret in a hoarse whisper to his neighbour? And that was some time before the author had finished the "preparation" of the business. And may I ask whyRichardwas forced to so fatuous a contrivance as the pawning of the tiara to make the exigentSamuelsstay their hands for a week? True he couldn't tell them about the Cheviot deal, which was a secret between himself andGeorge; but he could surely have used the fact of his coming marriage withDiana'smoney? And why didn'tDianawrite to her mother and ask her what was the solemn warning aboutRichardthat she had on the tip of her tongue when she was interrupted just before going abroad? Thereisa mail to Singapore, isn't there? And does aGeorge, succeeding to a dukedom, become "Cheviot" to his sister?

SirGeorge Alexanderwas at his excellent best in the lighter moods of theBasker. But I did not like to see him in pain (especially as it all seemed so unnecessary). Mr.Leon Quartermaine, in the really engaging part of theDuke'svalet, who learned to think for himself and read to such excellent effect the history so carelessly neglected by his master, was quite admirable. But then he always is. Mr.Norman Forbeshad little to exercise his powers in a churchwarden version of the stage-parson with a tiresome wife. MissHilda Moorelooked charmingly wicked and acted with intelligence. The too seriousrôletossed lightly by the author into the broadest farce presents an impossible problem. MissEllen O'Malleynever mishandles a part. Sometimes, as here, a part is not too kind to her. AsGeorge'ssister she could be no more than a competent peg. MissMarie Hemingwayhad merely to look perplexed and pretty, which she did with complete success. Everyone was frankly delighted to welcome back to the stage that great artist MissGenevieve Wardas theDowager Duchess.She had the sort of reception that is only accorded to favourites of much more than common merit. And she played with decision, humour and resource. SirGeorgemade a happy and generous little speech about her. The author was called to receive the felicitations of a gratified house.

A Grand Concert is to be given at the Kingsway Hall by the Independent Music Club, on January 18th, at 2.30, in aid of Mr.C. Arthur Pearson'sFund for Blinded Soldiers and Sailors. The Independent Music Club, which has been of invaluable assistance to musicians suffering from the War, proposes to entertain at least five hundred Wounded Soldiers at this Concert.

Five shillings will provide ticket, transport and tea for one Wounded Soldier. Gifts for this purpose and for the object of helping our Blinded Soldiers and Sailors will be very gratefully acknowledged by the Treasurer, Independent Music Club, 13, Pembroke Gardens, Kensington, W.

The net proceeds of a "Special Night" at the National Sporting Club on Monday, January 17th, commencing at 8P.M., are to be given to the Wounded Allies Relief Fund.

(Inspired by the sight, anywhere in France, of the notice: "Taisez-vous! Méfiez-vous! Les ennemies oreilles vous ecoutent!")

There is something in the air,Dinna doot!We shall shortly see someguerreHereaboot.Yes, we're going to make a rush,Starting Tuesday next at—Hush!Pourquoi?Les ennemies oreilles nous écoutent!We have got some special gunsFor to shoot,And to make the fleshy HunsUp and scoot.Would you care to hear the list?There's a grandmamma at—Hist!Silence!Les ennemies oreilles nous écoutent!It is more than patent toThe astuteThat a very big to-doIsen route.There's a million men, I'm told,Sailing round to land at—Hold!Doucement!Les ennemies oreilles nous écoutent!Tho' to you, my simple friend,It is mootWhen the War is going to end(Dat vas goot!)Icould say exactly whenPeace will be declared. But then,Hélas!Les ennemies oreilles nous écoutent!I should be the very lastTo disputeThat remarks, too freely passed,Come as lootTo those wicked people, spies;Yet what lots and lots of lies(Mon Dieu!)Les ennemies oreilles en écoutent!

There is something in the air,Dinna doot!We shall shortly see someguerreHereaboot.Yes, we're going to make a rush,Starting Tuesday next at—Hush!Pourquoi?Les ennemies oreilles nous écoutent!

There is something in the air,

Dinna doot!

We shall shortly see someguerre

Hereaboot.

Yes, we're going to make a rush,

Starting Tuesday next at—Hush!

Pourquoi?

Les ennemies oreilles nous écoutent!

We have got some special gunsFor to shoot,And to make the fleshy HunsUp and scoot.Would you care to hear the list?There's a grandmamma at—Hist!Silence!Les ennemies oreilles nous écoutent!

We have got some special guns

For to shoot,

And to make the fleshy Huns

Up and scoot.

Would you care to hear the list?

There's a grandmamma at—Hist!

Silence!

Les ennemies oreilles nous écoutent!

It is more than patent toThe astuteThat a very big to-doIsen route.There's a million men, I'm told,Sailing round to land at—Hold!Doucement!Les ennemies oreilles nous écoutent!

It is more than patent to

The astute

That a very big to-do

Isen route.

There's a million men, I'm told,

Sailing round to land at—Hold!

Doucement!

Les ennemies oreilles nous écoutent!

Tho' to you, my simple friend,It is mootWhen the War is going to end(Dat vas goot!)Icould say exactly whenPeace will be declared. But then,Hélas!Les ennemies oreilles nous écoutent!

Tho' to you, my simple friend,

It is moot

When the War is going to end

(Dat vas goot!)

Icould say exactly when

Peace will be declared. But then,

Hélas!

Les ennemies oreilles nous écoutent!

I should be the very lastTo disputeThat remarks, too freely passed,Come as lootTo those wicked people, spies;Yet what lots and lots of lies(Mon Dieu!)Les ennemies oreilles en écoutent!

I should be the very last

To dispute

That remarks, too freely passed,

Come as loot

To those wicked people, spies;

Yet what lots and lots of lies

(Mon Dieu!)

Les ennemies oreilles en écoutent!

Henry (Watch Dog).

Fickle Young Thing(revisiting Tattooist.) "Er—do you think you could possibly alter this badge on my arm? You see, I've—er—exchanged into another regiment."

From a report ofKing Ferdinand'saddress to the Sobranje:—

"The speech then exalts over victories won, and generally is couched in a rather orid strain."—Cork Constitution.

Like everything else thatFerdydoes.

New Ideas for War Weddings.

"The bride looked extremely well in a gown of ivory crepe-de-chene, trimmed with filet lace and ivory aeroplane. Her hat was of gathered aeroplane, adorned with real ospreys."Times of Ceylon."The ceremony and congratulations being of smilax and pom pom'mums."Wiarton Echo (Canada).

"The bride looked extremely well in a gown of ivory crepe-de-chene, trimmed with filet lace and ivory aeroplane. Her hat was of gathered aeroplane, adorned with real ospreys."

Times of Ceylon.

"The ceremony and congratulations being of smilax and pom pom'mums."

Wiarton Echo (Canada).

"The public simply hand in the order and cash to any tobacconist, with the name of the man to whom the cigarettes are to be sent, and the welcome gift will reach Tommy in time for Christmas."Advt. in Morning Paper, Dec. 31st, 1915.

"The public simply hand in the order and cash to any tobacconist, with the name of the man to whom the cigarettes are to be sent, and the welcome gift will reach Tommy in time for Christmas."

Advt. in Morning Paper, Dec. 31st, 1915.

Unless, as we all hope, Tommy is at home again before that.

Another Crisis Averted.

"Our London Correspondent says that he has offered to resign, but the Prime Minister refused to accept his resignation."Cork Examiner.

"Our London Correspondent says that he has offered to resign, but the Prime Minister refused to accept his resignation."

Cork Examiner.

"My birthday," I said, "is setting in with its usual severity."

"What," said Francesca, "has driven you to this terrible conclusion?"

"Little signs; straws showing how the wind blows."

"I wonder," she said, "how that came to be a proverb. Personally I don't keep packets of straws to test the wind by, and I never met anybody else who did. Handkerchiefs are much more certain, and men's hats are best of all."

"Yes," I said, "when I see my hat starting full tilt on an excursion I always know which way the wind is blowing right enough. Tell me, Francesca, why does a man's hat, when it's blown off, always bring up in a puddle?"

"And get run over by a butcher's cart?"

"And why does everybody laugh at the hat's owner?"

"And why does the boy who brings it back to you expect payment for the miserable and useless object?"

"And where," I said, "does the owner disappear to afterwards? You never see a man with a hat on his head that's been run over—no, I mean, with a hat that's been run over on his head—no, no, I mean, with a hat that's been run over off his head—Francesca, I give it up; I shall never get that sentence right, but you know what I mean. Anyhow I will put the dreadful vision by. What was I talking about when this hat calamity broke in?"

"You had made," said Francesca, "a cold and distant allusion to your birthday. It's coming to-morrow."

"Well," I said, "it can come if it likes, but I shall refuse to receive it. I don't want it. I'm quite old enough without it. At my age people don't have birthdays. They just go on living, and other people say how wonderful they are for their years, and they must be sixty if they're a day, but nobody would think so, and——"

"And that it's all due to early rising and regular habits."

"And smoking and partial abstemiousness."

"And general good conduct. But you can have all that sort of praise and yet celebrate your birthday."

"But I tell you I won't have my birthday celebrated. Those are my orders."

"Orders?" she said. "People don't give orders about absurdities like that."

"Yes," I said, "they do; but their orders are not obeyed. There's Frederick, for instance. He's only eight, I know, but he's got something up his sleeve. He asked me yesterday if I could lend him threepence, and did I think that a small notebook with a pencil would be a nice present for a sort of uncle on his birthday—not a father, mind you, but an uncle. There's a Machiavelli for you."

"And what did you say?"

"I told him I had never met an uncle who didn't adore notebooks, but that few fathers really appreciated them; and then he countered me. He said he had noticed that many fathers were uncles too."

"That child," said Francesca, "will be a Lord Chancellor. He'd look splendid on a woolsack."

"Yes, later on. At present his legs would dangle a bit, wouldn't they?"

"They're very-well-shaped legs, anyhow. Any Lord Chancellor would be proud to possess them."

"To resume," I said, "about the birthday. There's Alice too. She's engaged on some nefarious scheme with a paint-box and a sheet of paper. It's directed at me, I know, because, whenever I approach her, things have to be hustled away or covered up. However, it's all useless. My mind's made up. I willnothave a birthday."

"You can't prevent it, you know."

"Yes, I can," I said. "It's mine, and if I decide not to have it nobody can make me."

"But isn't that rather selfish?"

"It can't be selfish of me to deprive myself of a birthday."

"But you're depriving the children of it, and that's worse than selfish. It's positively heartless."

"Very well, then, I'm heartless. At any rate my orders are that there shall be no birthday; and don't you forget it, or, rather, forget it as hard as ever you can."

"I can't hold out the least prospect that your suggestion will meet with favourable consideration."

The birthday duly arrived, and I went down to breakfast. As I entered the room a shout of applause broke from the already assembled family. "Look at your place," said Frederick. I did, and beheld on the table a collection of unaccustomed articles. There was a box of chocolates from Muriel and Nina; there was a note-book with an appropriate pencil. "That," said Frederick, "is for Cousin Herbert's uncle. Ha, ha!" And there was, from Alice, a painted Calendar fit to hang on any wall. It represents a Tartar nobleman haughtily walking in a green meadow, with a background of snow-capped mountains. He has a long pig-tail and a black velvet cap with a puce knob. His trousers are blue striped with purple. He has a long blue cloak decorated with red figures, and his carmine train is borne by a juvenile page dressed in a short orange-coloured robe. It is a very magnificent design, and on the back of it is written:—

"This is but a Birthday rhymeWritten in this dark War-time.We can't afford to waste our ink,And so I'll quickly stop, I think."

"This is but a Birthday rhyme

Written in this dark War-time.

We can't afford to waste our ink,

And so I'll quickly stop, I think."

Thus I was compelled to have a birthday after all.

R. C. L.

Perusing the epistles I devotedly inditeYou long, I know, Lucasta dear, to see me as I write;Your fancy paints my portrait framed in hectic scenes of war—I'll try to show you briefly what my circumstances are.Your swain is now a troglodyte; as in a dungeon deepHe who so worshipped stars and you must write and eat and sleep;Like some swart djinnee of the mine your sunshine-loving slaveBuilds airy castles, meet for two, 'neath candles in a cave.Above, the sky is very grey, the world is very damp,His light the sun denies by day, the moon by night her lamp;Across the landscape soaked and sad the dull guns answer back,And through the twilight's futile hush spasmodic rifles crack.The papers haven't come to-day to show how England feels;The hours go lame and languidly between our Spartan meals;We've written letters till we're tired, with not a thing to tellExcept that nothing's doing, weather beastly, writer well.So when you feel for us out here—as well I know you will—Then sympathise with thousands for their country sitting still;Don't picture battle-pieces by the lurid Press adored,But miles and miles of Britishers, in burrows, badly bored!

Perusing the epistles I devotedly indite

You long, I know, Lucasta dear, to see me as I write;

Your fancy paints my portrait framed in hectic scenes of war—

I'll try to show you briefly what my circumstances are.

Your swain is now a troglodyte; as in a dungeon deepHe who so worshipped stars and you must write and eat and sleep;Like some swart djinnee of the mine your sunshine-loving slaveBuilds airy castles, meet for two, 'neath candles in a cave.

Your swain is now a troglodyte; as in a dungeon deep

He who so worshipped stars and you must write and eat and sleep;

Like some swart djinnee of the mine your sunshine-loving slave

Builds airy castles, meet for two, 'neath candles in a cave.

Above, the sky is very grey, the world is very damp,His light the sun denies by day, the moon by night her lamp;Across the landscape soaked and sad the dull guns answer back,And through the twilight's futile hush spasmodic rifles crack.

Above, the sky is very grey, the world is very damp,

His light the sun denies by day, the moon by night her lamp;

Across the landscape soaked and sad the dull guns answer back,

And through the twilight's futile hush spasmodic rifles crack.

The papers haven't come to-day to show how England feels;The hours go lame and languidly between our Spartan meals;We've written letters till we're tired, with not a thing to tellExcept that nothing's doing, weather beastly, writer well.

The papers haven't come to-day to show how England feels;

The hours go lame and languidly between our Spartan meals;

We've written letters till we're tired, with not a thing to tell

Except that nothing's doing, weather beastly, writer well.

So when you feel for us out here—as well I know you will—Then sympathise with thousands for their country sitting still;Don't picture battle-pieces by the lurid Press adored,But miles and miles of Britishers, in burrows, badly bored!

So when you feel for us out here—as well I know you will—

Then sympathise with thousands for their country sitting still;

Don't picture battle-pieces by the lurid Press adored,

But miles and miles of Britishers, in burrows, badly bored!

WAR ECONOMY.Mistress (to chauffeur, who is crawling down-hill)."Why are you driving so slowly?"Chauffeur(ex-coachman). "Well, Ma'am, you told me to be as economical as possible these times, so I was puttin' the brake on to make the down-'ill last as long as possible."

Mistress (to chauffeur, who is crawling down-hill)."Why are you driving so slowly?"

Chauffeur(ex-coachman). "Well, Ma'am, you told me to be as economical as possible these times, so I was puttin' the brake on to make the down-'ill last as long as possible."

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

Narcissus(Secker), by MissViola Meynell, is one of those books for which I cannot help feeling that my appreciation would have been keener two years ago than is possible to-day. It is the story of the growth to manhood of two brothers,VictorandJimmy, who live with their widowed mother in an outer suburb of London. That there is art, very subtle and delicate art, in the telling of it goes without saying. The characters of the brothers are realized with exquisite care.Victor, the elder, uncertain, violently sensitive and emotional, seeking always from life what he is never destined (at least so far as the present story carries him) to attain;Jimmy, placid, shallow, avoiding all emotion, attracting happiness like a magnet. Nothing, I repeat, could be better done in its kind than the pictures of these two, and of the not very interesting crowd of young persons among whom they move. But, for all its real beauty of style, I have to confess that the book left me cold, and even a little irritated. Perhaps we demand something more from our heroes these days than susceptibility, or indifference, to emotion. Was the purpose of life, one wonders, ever as delicately elusive as these bewildered young men seem to find it? I kept longing for LordDerby. Perhaps, again, this is but part of the cleverness of the writer, and MissMeynell, like the child in the poem, only does it to annoy. But I hardly think so. Her tenderness and sympathy forVictorespecially are obvious. He, I take it, isNarcissus(thoughNarcissiwould have been a truer title for the book, as each of the brothers is more in love with his own reflection than with anything else), and, since he is left unmarried at the close of the volume, I derived some quiet satisfaction from the thought that modified conscription might yet make a man of him.

Why will the heroes of historical fiction persist in that dangerous practice of leaving an angry and overmastered villain bound to a tree to await death or rescue? The result is rescue every time, and one way and another a mort of trouble for the good characters. Still it may be argued that if the protagonist ofThe Fortunes of Garin(Constable) had not followed this risky precedent those fortunes would not have led him where they eventually did, and we should have missed one of the best costume novels of the year. MissMary Johnstonis among the very few waiters whom I can follow without weariness through the mazes of mediævalism. This tale of the adventures of a knight and a lady in the days whenHenry II.sat on the throne of England, and his sonRichardprinced it in Angoulême, is told with an air that lifts it out of tushery into romance. She wields a picturesque and courtly style, sometimes indeed a trifle too charged with metaphor to be altogether manageable (as for example when she speaks of "pouring oil upon the red embers of a score unpaid"), but for the most part admirably pleasing to the ear. Her antique figures are alive; and the whole tale goes forward with a various andhigh-stepping movement and a glow of colour that reminded me of nothing more than that splendid pageant one follows round the walls of the Riccardi Palace in Florence. Of course the journey ends in lovers' meeting and the teaching of his place to the evil-minded. The fact that this latter was calledJaufre, a name that I would wish kindlier entreated, is almost my only complaint against a lively and entertaining story which more than once rises to real beauty.

Given a plot of the conventional order I dare say it is best to make very little fuss or mystery about it. So, at any rate, "Katharine Tynan" seems to think, for after about page 32 of her latest book,Since First I Saw Your Face(Hutchinson), there is really almost no guessing left to do, the authoress seeming principally concerned to ensure a smooth passage for one's prophecies. Thus, while the unknown son of a secret marriage, happening by good luck to thrash the ostensible claimant to the title and heroine, gets that successful start in the early pages that is so necessary to his happiness in the last, and the lady never really looks like straying far into disconcerting opinions of her own, even the rival himself obliges us by throwing up the sponge just when the game should really begin. All this is soothing enough, but it is also very thin stuff; and the addition of a ghostly ancestress, who lures her descendants to midnight assignations by smiling at them out of aLelypainting, does not stiffen things much. The fact is that away from such a purely Irish subject as, say, "Countrymen All," Mrs.Hinksonreally has not much to tell. Sweeney's New York Stores do not harmonise at all well with her atmosphere of wistful tragedy. The effect suggests a soap-bubble trying to cake-walk.

When cattle-ships put forth to seaFrom Montreal across the Atlantic,The life on board would not suit me,Nor you, I think. The cattle frantic,The tough steel plates beneath the mightOf crashing waters well-nigh riven—Ugh! Here it is in black and white,Clearly described byFrederick Niven.Published byHeinemann(six bob),The book relates the ceaseless battleWhich they must wage whose steady jobIs valeting a mob of cattle;And yet they pant to get a ship,For jobs the owners they importuneAt—mark you this!—one pound the trip!I wouldn't do it for a fortune.It's just a tale of common men,Who never went to school or college,Writ by a skilled and practised penMost certainly from first-hand knowledge;It has no very obvious plan,No movement, no connected story;And yet I don't see how you canFail to enjoy TheS.S. Glory.You'll meet some men you're sure to like—Men who would greet you as a brother;One is that honest fellow,Mike,AndCockney, possibly, another;Unpolished, quick to wrath and slow,When roused, to lay aside their cholor,Yet are they types you ought to knowAs well as did the hero,Scholar.

When cattle-ships put forth to sea

From Montreal across the Atlantic,

The life on board would not suit me,

Nor you, I think. The cattle frantic,

The tough steel plates beneath the might

Of crashing waters well-nigh riven—

Ugh! Here it is in black and white,

Clearly described byFrederick Niven.

Published byHeinemann(six bob),The book relates the ceaseless battleWhich they must wage whose steady jobIs valeting a mob of cattle;And yet they pant to get a ship,For jobs the owners they importuneAt—mark you this!—one pound the trip!I wouldn't do it for a fortune.

Published byHeinemann(six bob),

The book relates the ceaseless battle

Which they must wage whose steady job

Is valeting a mob of cattle;

And yet they pant to get a ship,

For jobs the owners they importune

At—mark you this!—one pound the trip!

I wouldn't do it for a fortune.

It's just a tale of common men,Who never went to school or college,Writ by a skilled and practised penMost certainly from first-hand knowledge;It has no very obvious plan,No movement, no connected story;And yet I don't see how you canFail to enjoy TheS.S. Glory.

It's just a tale of common men,

Who never went to school or college,

Writ by a skilled and practised pen

Most certainly from first-hand knowledge;

It has no very obvious plan,

No movement, no connected story;

And yet I don't see how you can

Fail to enjoy TheS.S. Glory.

You'll meet some men you're sure to like—Men who would greet you as a brother;One is that honest fellow,Mike,AndCockney, possibly, another;Unpolished, quick to wrath and slow,When roused, to lay aside their cholor,Yet are they types you ought to knowAs well as did the hero,Scholar.

You'll meet some men you're sure to like—

Men who would greet you as a brother;

One is that honest fellow,Mike,

AndCockney, possibly, another;

Unpolished, quick to wrath and slow,

When roused, to lay aside their cholor,

Yet are they types you ought to know

As well as did the hero,Scholar.

THE UNINTERNED PERIL IN OUR MIDST.Portrait of Herr Pfunk ("Sister Susie"), who edits "Our Mites' Corner" in the well-known weekly,Mum's Pets, and also conducts a column of "Hints to Mothers," which is having an alarming effect on infant mortality.

THE UNINTERNED PERIL IN OUR MIDST.

Portrait of Herr Pfunk ("Sister Susie"), who edits "Our Mites' Corner" in the well-known weekly,Mum's Pets, and also conducts a column of "Hints to Mothers," which is having an alarming effect on infant mortality.

In an eloquent foreword toThe Queen's Gift Book, (Hodder and Stoughton), we are told by Mr.Galsworthythat it is "in the nature of a hat passed round, into which, God send, many hundred thousand coins may be poured." The coin that we are asked to put into what I hope will be a very widely circulating hat is half-a-crown, and whatever you may or may not think of Gift Books I can promise you that in this instance to pay your money is to get its worth. It is true that some of the contributors have given us work that we have already had an opportunity to know; but even here I am not grumbling, for among the stories that have already been published is Mr.Leonard Merrick's"The Fairy Poodle," a tale so full of sparkle that the oftener I see it the better I shall be pleased. All tastes, however, are catered for. You can read tales by SirJ. M. Barrieor Mr.Joseph Hocking, verses by SirArthur Conan Doyle, Mr.John Oxenhamor Mrs.Henry de la Pasture, sketches by Mr.Conrador "Sapper." But I advise you to read the lot. An especial word of praise is, I feel, due to Mr.John Buchanfor a tale humorous enough in its dry way to squeeze a smile from a mummy, and to the artists who have helped to make this Gift the success that it is. In short, the book is good, nearly as good as the object for which it has been published. "In aid," we read on the cover, "of Queen Mary's Convalescent Auxiliary Hospitals. For Soldiers and Sailors who have lost their limbs in the War." Here then, by helping to provide our maimed heroes with the best mechanical substitutes for the limbs which they have lost, is a chance for us to pay a little of the unpayable debt we owe to them. Mr.Galsworthymay rest assured that his appeal to "our honour in this matter" will not be made in vain.

An extract from the Master of theTemple'ssermon on "Muddling Through":—

"When we rejoiced at the efficiency of our Navy we too seldom recollected that it was primarily due to a superbly effective system of education built up by the efforts of a few great men loyally supported by enthusiastic insubordinates."—Morning Paper.

Nelson's"blind eye" is not forgotten.

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