COMMERCIAL CONSCIENTIOUSNESS.

COMMERCIAL CONSCIENTIOUSNESS.COMMERCIAL CONSCIENTIOUSNESS.TRAPPING IMITATION ERMINE.

"The letter about the Bloomsbury cat that bought her own cat's meat in your issue of December 6th is interesting."A Correspondent in "The Spectator."

"The letter about the Bloomsbury cat that bought her own cat's meat in your issue of December 6th is interesting."

A Correspondent in "The Spectator."

The cat would, however, have shown more regard for the feelings of our justly-esteemed contemporary if it had wrapped up its purchase in some other publication.

"In his defence, —— said that he had really intended marrying the girl, but that he came to the realization that she was extremely ejaljoujs, hence his bjreach.jThe court found that this was sufficient ground to justify jjjustify jujjjj jstjijfjy his breach of promise."—Canadian Paper.

"In his defence, —— said that he had really intended marrying the girl, but that he came to the realization that she was extremely ejaljoujs, hence his bjreach.

jThe court found that this was sufficient ground to justify jjjustify jujjjj jstjijfjy his breach of promise."—Canadian Paper.

It is evident, however, that the Court did not arrive at this decision without considerable hesitation.

"The revellers passed the time in dancing and singing until St. Paul's clock struck midnight. Then 'Auld Lang Syne' was sung with enthusiasm and, after repeated cheers, the crowd dispersed."—Times.

"It was typical of the largest crowd that has watched round the cathedral the passing of the year that at the moment when midnight struck it should be engaged in one tremendous jostle and push, rough and tumble, and that no one thought to strike up the tune—traditional to the occasion—of 'Auld Lang Syne.'"—Star.

"The gigantic Hindenburg figure of Militarism in the centre of the room melted away with the appearance of the Peace Angel, reputed to be the fairest lady in Chelsea, who had climbed a ladder within his leviathan bulk."—Times.

"When twelve o'clock struck The God of Warshouldhave collapsed gracefully to give place to the most beautiful artist's model in Chelsea, draped as the Goddess of Peace. But something went wrong with the ropes, and the God of War floated a yard or two into the air, just sufficiently high to show us the feet and knees of the Goddess of Peace."—Evening Standard.

"The famous flood-test of the Parisian, the stone ouave on the Bridge of Alma, is in water up to his waist."—Provincial Paper.

Surely an understatement. The "ouave" seems to have had his Z washed away.

From afeuilleton:—

"James put his cold hands in his pockets and buttoned up his coat collar before turning out to his work."—Weekly Paper.

This is not so easy as it sounds.

Teuton (released after internment for the duration....Teuton (released after internment for the duration, to old business friend who is trying to avoid him)."Well, mine frient, and where haf you peen hiding yourself the last four or fife years?"

Teuton (released after internment for the duration, to old business friend who is trying to avoid him)."Well, mine frient, and where haf you peen hiding yourself the last four or fife years?"

"Come, all you young seamen, take heed now to me,A hard-case old sailorman bred to the sea,As sailed the seas over afore you was born,An' learned 'em by heart from the Hook to the Horn."Don't hold by the ratlines when going aloft(Which I've told you afore but can't tell you too oft),Or you'll strike one that's rotten as sure as you live,And it's too late to learn when you've once felt it give;If you don't hit the bulwarks you'll sure hit the sea,For them rotten ratlines—they're the devil," says he."Now if you should see, as you like enough may,When tramping the docks for a ship some fine day,A spanking full-rigger just ready for sea,And think she's just all that a hooker should be,Take 'eed you don't ship with a skipper that drinks—You'd better by half play at fan-tan with Chinks!—For that'll mean nothing but muddle an' mess,It may be much more and it can't be much less,What with wrangling and jangling to drive a man daft,And rank bad dis-cip-line both forrard and aft,A ship that's ill-found and a crew out of 'and,And a touch-and-go chance she may never reach land,But go down in a squall or broach to in a sea,For them drunken skippers—they're the devil," says he."And if you go further and pause to admireA ship that's as neat as your heart could desire,As smart as a frigate aloft and alow,Her brasswork like gold and her planking like snow,Look round for a mate by whose twang it is plainThat his home port is somewhere round Boston or Maine,With a jaw that's the cut of a square block of wood,And beat it, my son, while the going is good!There'll be scraping and scouring from morning till nightTo keep that brass shiny and keep them decks white,And belaying-pin soup both for dinner and tea,For them smart down-easters—they're the devil," says he."But if by good fortune you chance for to getA ship that ain't hungry or wicked or wet,That answers her hellum both a-weather and lee,Goes well on a bowline and well running free,A skipper that's neither a fool nor a brute,And mates not too free with the toe of their boot,A sails and a bo'sun that's bred to their trade,And a slush with a notion how vittles is made,And a crowd that ain't half of 'em Dagoes or Dutch,Or Mexican greasers or niggers or such,You stick to her close as you would to your wife,She's the sort that you only find once in your life;And ships is like women, you take it from me,That, if theyarebad 'uns, they're the devil," says he.C. F. S.

"Come, all you young seamen, take heed now to me,A hard-case old sailorman bred to the sea,As sailed the seas over afore you was born,An' learned 'em by heart from the Hook to the Horn.

"Come, all you young seamen, take heed now to me,

A hard-case old sailorman bred to the sea,

As sailed the seas over afore you was born,

An' learned 'em by heart from the Hook to the Horn.

"Don't hold by the ratlines when going aloft(Which I've told you afore but can't tell you too oft),Or you'll strike one that's rotten as sure as you live,And it's too late to learn when you've once felt it give;If you don't hit the bulwarks you'll sure hit the sea,For them rotten ratlines—they're the devil," says he.

"Don't hold by the ratlines when going aloft

(Which I've told you afore but can't tell you too oft),

Or you'll strike one that's rotten as sure as you live,

And it's too late to learn when you've once felt it give;

If you don't hit the bulwarks you'll sure hit the sea,

For them rotten ratlines—they're the devil," says he.

"Now if you should see, as you like enough may,When tramping the docks for a ship some fine day,A spanking full-rigger just ready for sea,And think she's just all that a hooker should be,Take 'eed you don't ship with a skipper that drinks—You'd better by half play at fan-tan with Chinks!—For that'll mean nothing but muddle an' mess,It may be much more and it can't be much less,What with wrangling and jangling to drive a man daft,And rank bad dis-cip-line both forrard and aft,A ship that's ill-found and a crew out of 'and,And a touch-and-go chance she may never reach land,But go down in a squall or broach to in a sea,For them drunken skippers—they're the devil," says he.

"Now if you should see, as you like enough may,

When tramping the docks for a ship some fine day,

A spanking full-rigger just ready for sea,

And think she's just all that a hooker should be,

Take 'eed you don't ship with a skipper that drinks—

You'd better by half play at fan-tan with Chinks!—

For that'll mean nothing but muddle an' mess,

It may be much more and it can't be much less,

What with wrangling and jangling to drive a man daft,

And rank bad dis-cip-line both forrard and aft,

A ship that's ill-found and a crew out of 'and,

And a touch-and-go chance she may never reach land,

But go down in a squall or broach to in a sea,

For them drunken skippers—they're the devil," says he.

"And if you go further and pause to admireA ship that's as neat as your heart could desire,As smart as a frigate aloft and alow,Her brasswork like gold and her planking like snow,Look round for a mate by whose twang it is plainThat his home port is somewhere round Boston or Maine,With a jaw that's the cut of a square block of wood,And beat it, my son, while the going is good!There'll be scraping and scouring from morning till nightTo keep that brass shiny and keep them decks white,And belaying-pin soup both for dinner and tea,For them smart down-easters—they're the devil," says he.

"And if you go further and pause to admire

A ship that's as neat as your heart could desire,

As smart as a frigate aloft and alow,

Her brasswork like gold and her planking like snow,

Look round for a mate by whose twang it is plain

That his home port is somewhere round Boston or Maine,

With a jaw that's the cut of a square block of wood,

And beat it, my son, while the going is good!

There'll be scraping and scouring from morning till night

To keep that brass shiny and keep them decks white,

And belaying-pin soup both for dinner and tea,

For them smart down-easters—they're the devil," says he.

"But if by good fortune you chance for to getA ship that ain't hungry or wicked or wet,That answers her hellum both a-weather and lee,Goes well on a bowline and well running free,A skipper that's neither a fool nor a brute,And mates not too free with the toe of their boot,A sails and a bo'sun that's bred to their trade,And a slush with a notion how vittles is made,And a crowd that ain't half of 'em Dagoes or Dutch,Or Mexican greasers or niggers or such,You stick to her close as you would to your wife,She's the sort that you only find once in your life;And ships is like women, you take it from me,That, if theyarebad 'uns, they're the devil," says he.

"But if by good fortune you chance for to get

A ship that ain't hungry or wicked or wet,

That answers her hellum both a-weather and lee,

Goes well on a bowline and well running free,

A skipper that's neither a fool nor a brute,

And mates not too free with the toe of their boot,

A sails and a bo'sun that's bred to their trade,

And a slush with a notion how vittles is made,

And a crowd that ain't half of 'em Dagoes or Dutch,

Or Mexican greasers or niggers or such,

You stick to her close as you would to your wife,

She's the sort that you only find once in your life;

And ships is like women, you take it from me,

That, if theyarebad 'uns, they're the devil," says he.

C. F. S.

"With regard to prison labour, it is stated that the manufacture of war stories had continued to employ every available inmate."Christian Science Monitor.

"With regard to prison labour, it is stated that the manufacture of war stories had continued to employ every available inmate."

Christian Science Monitor.

We had wondered where some of them came from.

SOUNDING THE 'ALL CLEAR.'SOUNDING THE "ALL CLEAR."WITH GRATEFUL COMPLIMENTS TO THE GALLANT VOLUNTEERS OF THE BRITISH MINE CLEARANCE FORCE.

'Hullo, George! And when's the War going to be over, eh?'"Hullo, George! And when's the War going to be over, eh?"

"Hullo, George! And when's the War going to be over, eh?"

William, my hitherto unventuresome friend William, is going abroad. I cannot be certain why. Perhaps he no longer feels his heroism equal to the strain of living in a country fit for heroes. It may be that he has unwittingly incubated a bacillus which figures in novels as the "Call of the Wild." Anyhow, William is going abroad—so much so that, if he went any farther, he would be on his way home again.

I need not say that I felt called upon to help William through this trying period, and our preparations proceeded satisfactorily until the clever geographers who arrange these things nowadays discovered that William could fetch the Far East by way of the Far West. Then the international complications set in. First, William's passport—a healthy enough document at the start—had to be carried round the diplomatic quarter of London until it broke out into a thick rash of supplementaryvisas. Next we sought out the moneychangers in their dens, to transmute William's viaticum bit by bit into four foreign currencies. Then a Great Power through whose territory William will have to pass apparently was nervous of his approach and instituted a grand inquisition into the status and antecedents of the Alien (William).

We unfolded the paper on our table and stared at it aghast. Its area was rather less than a square yard; in colour it favoured the yolk of bad eggs; while all over its broad expanse were ruled compartments, half of them filled with questions that no gentleman would ask another, the other half left blank for William's indignant replies. We managed with great difficulty to squeeze into the panel provided all his baptismal titles—there are four of these besides "William"—and then attacked the first real poser:—

Are you in possession of 100 dollars, or less? If less, by how much?

William groaned. "Reach me down Todhunter's Arithmetic, will you?" said he.

I did so, and turned up the Money Market page of our daily paper. Nothing was heard for the next five minutes but grunts and sighs of despair. We then gave it up on the understanding that William must make a point of winning heavily at bridge—or would it be euchre?—on the way across.

Have you ever been in the territory of the Great Power before?

"No," breathed William devoutly, "and, please Heaven, it shan't occur again!"

What is your reason for coming now?

"I suppose I'd better tell the truth," he said; "they'll never believe me if I say I've come to putDempseyup to that right drive ofCarpentier's."

Were you ever in prison, an almshouse, or an institution for the treatment of the insane? If so, which?

"Take your time, William," I said; "think carefully."

He gave a bitter laugh. "Do they want to knowallthe gaols and asylums I've been in," he asked, "or only the more recent?"

Are you a polygamist?

William turned deathly pale. He then fixed me with a terrible stare of accusation and reproach.

"No, no, William," I protested frantically, "I assure you on my honour thatIhaven't been talking."

This assurance calmed him somewhat. Bit by bit thecolour came back to his cheeks and at length he was able to remark more hopefully: "Well, there's this to be said for it, most of my wives are sportswomen. I don'tthinkthey'll give me away."

Are you an anarchist?

"No," answered William frankly, "but I possess a brother-in-law who has leanings towards Rosicrucianism. Next, please."

The next was a very searching, legally-worded inquiry. It demanded at great length to be informed whether William was a person who advocated the overthrow by force or violence of the Government of the Great Power, or all forms of Law, or believed in the propriety of assassinating any or every officer of the Great Power because of his official character.

William took up the paper-knife with an expression of sheer animal ferocity. "Yes," he hissed, "the whole lot. Torturing them, too!"—and fell back into his chair with peal upon peal of maniacal laughter.

* * * * * * *

William was practically a wreck before the inquisition came to an end. He had not even sufficient spirit left to fly at me for entering his distinguishing marks as "a general air of honesty, tempered by a slight inward squint."

Runner. 'Beautiful scent in cover to-day, Sir.'Runner."Beautiful scent in cover to-day, Sir."Post-War Sportsman."Oh—er—is there? I haven't noticed it, but I've got a cold in my head."

Runner."Beautiful scent in cover to-day, Sir."

Post-War Sportsman."Oh—er—is there? I haven't noticed it, but I've got a cold in my head."

"The Board of Trade have awarded a silver cup to Mr. John Bruce, D.S.C., skipper of the steam drifterPansy, of Wick, in recognition of the promptitude and ability with which he rescued the domestic servant, Strawberry Bank, Hardgate, pleaded guilty to having bemusic, stolen a gold safety pin, a fountain pen, two pairs of gloves, two blouses and several other articles of clothing."—Fishing News.

We never believe these fishing stories.

When Jimmy, our small but significant son,Is prey of a temper capricious and hot,And tires of a project as soon as begun,And wants what he hasn't, and hates what he's got,A dutiful father, I ponder and brood,Essaying by reason and logic to findThe radical cause of the juvenile moodIn the intricate growth of the juvenile mind.But women and reason were never allies;The rule of a mother is logic of thumb;The trouble concerns, she is quick to surmise,His rum-ti-tiddily-um-ti-tum.O woman (though angel in moments of pain,When angels of pity are mostà propos),Why, why won't you listen when husbands explainThe things they have thought and the knowledge they know?And why do you smile when they beg to repeat?And why are you bored when they make it all clear?And why do you label their emphasis "heat,"And bid them "Be careful; the servants may hear"?The argument leaves me, though ever more sure,Reproachful and angry and sullen and dumb:It leaves her reforming my diet, to cureMyrum-ti-tiddily-um-ti-tum.Henry.

When Jimmy, our small but significant son,

Is prey of a temper capricious and hot,

And tires of a project as soon as begun,

And wants what he hasn't, and hates what he's got,

A dutiful father, I ponder and brood,

Essaying by reason and logic to find

The radical cause of the juvenile mood

In the intricate growth of the juvenile mind.

But women and reason were never allies;The rule of a mother is logic of thumb;The trouble concerns, she is quick to surmise,His rum-ti-tiddily-um-ti-tum.

But women and reason were never allies;

The rule of a mother is logic of thumb;

The trouble concerns, she is quick to surmise,

His rum-ti-tiddily-um-ti-tum.

O woman (though angel in moments of pain,When angels of pity are mostà propos),Why, why won't you listen when husbands explainThe things they have thought and the knowledge they know?And why do you smile when they beg to repeat?And why are you bored when they make it all clear?And why do you label their emphasis "heat,"And bid them "Be careful; the servants may hear"?

O woman (though angel in moments of pain,

When angels of pity are mostà propos),

Why, why won't you listen when husbands explain

The things they have thought and the knowledge they know?

And why do you smile when they beg to repeat?

And why are you bored when they make it all clear?

And why do you label their emphasis "heat,"

And bid them "Be careful; the servants may hear"?

The argument leaves me, though ever more sure,Reproachful and angry and sullen and dumb:It leaves her reforming my diet, to cureMyrum-ti-tiddily-um-ti-tum.

The argument leaves me, though ever more sure,

Reproachful and angry and sullen and dumb:

It leaves her reforming my diet, to cure

Myrum-ti-tiddily-um-ti-tum.

Henry.

Living in a remote country district, where the difficulty of obtaining servants is at present insurmountable—the nearest "pictures" are twelve miles off—I have been much impressed and encouraged by two letters in recent issues ofThe Spectator. One describes a Bloomsbury grocer's cat that bought her own cat's-meat; another recounts the exploits of a spaniel belonging to a house painter and glazier at Yarmouth (Isle of Wight), which, if given a penny, would immediately amble off to a grocer's shop and purchase a cake.

Visitor. 'How is Mrs. Brown to-day?'Visitor."How is Mrs. Brown to-day?"Maid."Well 'm, she ebbs and flows."

Visitor."How is Mrs. Brown to-day?"

Maid."Well 'm, she ebbs and flows."

Viewed in their true perspective, these exhibitions of animal intelligence seem to indicate fruitful possibilities of the employment of our dumb friends to assist us in these trying times. Many years ago I remember reading of a baboon which discharged the duties of a railway porter at a station in Cape Colony with great efficiency. I have unfortunately mislaid the reference, but so far as I can remember no mention was made of wages or tips; consequently the importation and employment of skilled simian labour on a large scale might go a long way towards reducing the expenses of our railway system.

But in view of certain obvious difficulties it is perhaps better to restrict our attention to the sphere of domestic service and farm labour. And here I would urge with all the power at my command the employment of the elephant. The greatest burden of household work is the washing of plates, and this is a task which elephants are peculiarly well fitted to undertake; also the cleaning of windows without the use of a ladder. A well-trained and amiable elephant, again, would enable parents to dispense with a perambulator. I admit that the initial outlay might be considerable, but the longevity of elephants is notorious, and it would always be possible to hire them out to travelling menageries.

Another neglected asset is the well-known aptitude shown by poodles for digging out truffles, an accomplishment of which I often read in my youth. If truffles, why not potatoes?

The extraordinary intelligence and affectionate disposition of the runner duck has often been commented on by our serious weeklies, but so far little attempt has been made to turn these qualities to practical account. They forage for themselves. Why should they not be taught to do so for their owners as well?

One more point and I have done. Greek and Latin are going or gone, but a modicum of Mathematics seems to be indispensable to the modern curriculum. The domestic pig has on many occasions shown a capacity for mastering simple arithmetical processes, and we know that the pupil always ends by bettering his master. Under a more enlightened and humanerégimeI confidently look forward to the time when our children will learn the Rule of Three, not from highly-paid and incompetent governesses, but from unsalaried porcine instructors, trained in the best Montessorian methods.

"A gold course is being laid out in Ryde House Park, Isle of Wight."—Sunday Paper.

"Working Man (36) requires Lodgings, full or part board; car ride or convenient Rolls-Royce."—Provincial Paper.

"Lady requires gentleman Chauffeur, repair and clean car; good dancer."—Times.

One who can "reverse," it is hoped.

"Considering the greatness of the provocation, Centralia, Wash., yesterday showed a calmness worthy of an American community. There were no farther attempts at lynching after the hanging of the secretary of the I.W.W. organisation on Tuesday night."American Paper.

Oh, my friends, let us strive to emulate the calmness of Centralia, Wash.

Dear Ginger,—A Merry Christmas to you! A bit late, you say? On the contrary, in plenty of time. It is next Christmas I am referring to. Over there, in your tropical land, when the sun stings your skin through your shirt and the sand blisters your feet through your boot-soles, when you butter your bread with a soup-ladle and the mercury boils merrily in the barometer, then, vainly pawing the air for mosquitoes with one hand and reaching for the siphon with the other, you gasp, "Gad! it must be getting on for Christmas-time."

But over here in England, where the seasons wheel round without any appreciable difference in temperature, where, if it were not for the gentleman who writes the calendars, nobody would know whether to wear straw-hats or snow-shoes, Christmas comes sneaking up behind you and grabs you by the pocket before you have time to dodge. "Christmas Eve already!" you exclaim. "Christmas Eve! and there's dear old Tom in Penang and good old Dick in Patagonia and poor old Harry in Princetown, and I've not written a word of cheer to any of them and now have no time to do so." That's what happened to me this year, anyhow; but I'm determined it shall not occur again, so—A Merry Christmas to you, Ginger.

This my first Yule in the Old Country, after many in foreign climes, was not an unqualified success. On the morning of Christmas Eve I went for a walk and lost myself. After wading through bog systems and bramble entanglements for some hours I came out behind a spinney and there spied a small urchin with red cheeks and a red woollen muffler standing beneath a holly-tree. On sighting me he gave vent to a loud and piteous howl. I asked him where his pain was, and he replied that he wanted some holly for decorations, but was too short to reach it. I thereupon swarmed the shrub, plucked and tossed the richly berried boughs to the poor little chap. In return he showed me where I lived—which indeed was not two hundred yards distant, but concealed by the thicket.

Later in the day Edward came in to tea, much annoyed. Bolshevism, he declared, was within our gates. He had been out to collect Christmas decorations in his own private fenced spinney, and confound it if some scoundrels hadn't been and gone and stripped his pet holly-tree of every twig! Anarchy was yapping at the door.

The Aunt soothed him, saying she had that very afternoon purchased a supply of splendid holly from a sweet little boy who had come round hawking it at sixpence a bough. I asked her if by any chance the dear little fellow had worn a red woollen comforter, and was not surprised when I heard that he had.

No sooner had I fallen asleep that same night than I was aroused by an extraordinary din. I lay there, comatose and semi-conscious in the pitchy darkness, and wondered what had happened. Presently I distinguished the bray of trumps, and I knew. "Golly!" I whispered to myself, "I'm dead. Cheer-o!" Then I recollected something I had read concerning ye sports and customs of ye Ancient British and decided it must be "Waits." I crept to the window and by a glow of lanterns beheld the St. Gwithian Independent Brass Band grouped round the porch, blasting "Christians, awake!" through their brazen fog-horns. I fumbled about on the dressing-table, missed the matches but found a half-crown. "Take that and trot!" I snarled, hurling it at them with all my strength. The coin hit the trombone a glancing blow on the snout, ricochetted off the bassoon and bounded into the rockery.

The music stopped abruptly as the bandsmen swarmed in pursuit of fortune. In half-an-hour's time they had pulled all Edward's cherished sedums and saxifrages up by the roots and turned over most of the smaller rocks without discovering the treasure. A conference in loud idiomatic Cornish then took place, with the result that two musicians were despatched to a neighbouring farm for picks, crow-bars and more lanterns; the remainder squatted on the flower-beds and whiled away the time of waiting by blasting "Good King Wenceslas" to the patient stars.

In due course the messengers returned and the quarrying of the rockery began in earnest. By 4.15a.m.they had most of it littered over the drive, but had struck some granite boulders which defied even the crowbars. A further conference was then held, but at this point Edward made a dramatic appearance, clad in lilac pyjamas, odd boots and a kimono of the Aunt's, which he had worn as King Alfred in some charades the night before, and in the darkness had donned in mistake for his dressing-gown. His address was impassioned and moving, but had no effect on the Waits, who could only be persuaded to abandon their silver mine at the price of a second half-crown.

A day or so before Christmas I began to notice that everybody was getting presents—everybody except me, that is. This caused me pain. It gave the impression that I was not appreciated. I took thought for a space, then rode into Penzance, bought several articles I had been wanting for some time, wrote a few affectionate notes in disguised handwriting, such as "With dearest love from Flossie," "With hugs and kisses from Ermyntrude," etc., enclosed them with the articles, addressed and posted them to myself and rode home again.

On Christmas morning I opened them in public with a vast flourish, and left the touching little dedications lying carelessly about where anybody could read them. From the glances of wonder and respect which flashed at me from all sides I gathered that everybody did. The sensation was both novel and pleasing. One parcel, however, there was which I had not sent myself. It had been forwarded on by the "Punch" Office, marked, "Please do not crush," and carefully tied and sealed. My heart leapt. "By Jove!" said I, "a genuine Christmas present. Somebody loves me after all. Perhaps a duchess has sent me her tiara."

With trembling fingers I unlaced the strings. The household crowded about me, panting with envy and excitement. Reverently I folded the multitudinous wrappings back and revealed a very old, very dilapidated silk slipper, severely busted at the toe and stuffed with sticky sweets, a small female doll, and a note—"With all best wishes toPatlanderfor a happy Christmas, and many thanks for useful hints contained inPunchissue, December 10th, 1919."

I may remind you that in the issue mentioned was an epistle from me to you recommending the Post as a means of disposing of rubbish, with special reference to worn-out foot-gear. I only wish I knew who played this trick on me, Ginger; I would like to give him something in return—say an old footer-boot—with my foot inside.

Thine in sorrow,

Patlander

"Mr. —— then holed his fourth for a three."—Sunday Paper."—— played very fine golf on the outward journey and stood 5 up at the second hole."Evening Paper.

"Mr. —— then holed his fourth for a three."—Sunday Paper.

"—— played very fine golf on the outward journey and stood 5 up at the second hole."

Evening Paper.

We suppose that in each case the player's opponent wasn't looking.

"Pretty Light Grey Georgette Jumper, trimmed Grey Wool and Saxe Blue.Usually 5 gns. 6½ gns."

"Pretty Light Grey Georgette Jumper, trimmed Grey Wool and Saxe Blue.

Usually 5 gns. 6½ gns."

No wonder they call it a jumper.

"ST. ——'S CHURCH.6.30 p.m.—Preacher: The Vicar.7.45 p.m.—Bach's Church Cantata,'Sleepers, Wake.'"

Provincial Paper.

We suspect the organist of being a bit of a wag.

Slightly deaf Footman (announcing each guest in character) 'Mr. Jones--the Last of the Bandies.'Slightly deaf Footman (announcing each guest in character)."Mr. Jones—the Last of the Bandies."

Slightly deaf Footman (announcing each guest in character)."Mr. Jones—the Last of the Bandies."

"Look here," I said, "this is indeed serious. The what-not's moulting."

"It's been like that for a long time," said Anna. "But I suppose it's getting worse."

"I'm afraid so. And wemusthave something reliable," I said, "to stand dishes and things on at meals. We can't pile them all on the table at once like a cairn. To tell you the truth," I added, "I've had my eye on an old oak dresser at Smalley's for a long time. It would be a good investment—at a price."

"Yes," said Anna; "but I suppose the price would be the earth and the fulness thereof."

"That is precisely what I propose to find out, and if they'll take anything less than thirty pounds it's ours. In the meantime," I added, "we'll dope the poor old what-not with furniture cream and see about driving it to market."

There are two accepted methods of dealing at old furniture shops. The first is to approach them, well-groomed, be-ringed and perfumed, smoking a jewelled gasper and entering the shop with a circular movement of the arm to expose the gold wrist-watch thatwillcrawl up the sleeve at wrong moments, and to ask in a commanding voice, "How much is the—ah—oak-dresser—what?"

The presiding genius (and being a dealer he is usually a genius), who had really ticketed the article thirty pounds, approaches it, removes the ticket by a little sleight-of-hand and says, "Thirty-eight guineas, Sir," without a blush (the dealer who blushes is hounded from the ring). This method of dealing is direct action of the most dangerous kind.

The other method, and the one I most usually adopt, I can best illustrate by detailing my interview with the proprietor of Smalley's on the occasion when I went dressering.

I sidled into the shop in garments carefully selected from my pre-wardrobe and wearing a vacant expression. Picking up a piece of china I examined it carefully, turning it upside down, as though to search for a pottery mark, which I probably should never have recognised.

"H'm, not bad," I said.

"One of the best bits of Dresden I've ever had," said the dealer. "I want——"

"Ah, German," I said, putting the thing down hurriedly as though it might be mined. "It may be a good piece, but—what is the price of that brass fender?"

"Seven-ten, old Dutch and a bargain," said the dealer laconically.

"But probably wouldn't fit the fireplace in my mind. Though," I added to myself, "it might fit the one in our dining-room."

I thought it about time to notice the dresser, not to attempt to buy it yet—oh dear no, but merely to fire the first shot in the campaign as it were.

"What kind of a dresser do you call this?" I said. "Slightly moth-eaten, isn't it?"

"That's nothing; merely age. It's Welsh," he added, "and a beauty. I wish I could get hold of more like it. Look at those legs; I'll guarantee you won't——Excuse me, Sir."

An immaculately dressed individual had entered the shop, and the gentleman trading as Smalley called an assistant to serve him. By the time he returned to me I had wandered far into the recesses of the emporium and wasbusily examining a walnut stool with a woolwork seat.

"You haven't one like this in oak, I suppose? This one," I said, "would hardly suite my suit. That sounds wrong, but you apprehend my meaning."

"I haven't," he said simply. I could see that he was tiring rapidly, but wasn't absolutely ripe for plucking.

So I priced about a dozen pieces of china, admired several pictures and pieces of Stuart needlework, descanted on the beauties of a set of wheatear chairs, pulled a small rosewood table about until its claw and ball feet nearly dropped off from exhaustion, and finally led him back to the Welsh dresser.

"What's the price of the Scotsman?" I said easily, having seen thirty guineas on the ticket during the preliminary examination.

"Twenty-nine pounds to you," he said wearily. He evidently knew the strict rules of the game.

"But look at those legs," I said. "They're frightfully bent, aren't they?"

"That's one of the best features about it," he said. "Real Queen Anne, those legs are."

"Oh, were hers like that? I didn't know," I said. "Look here, I'll give you twenty-eight pounds, spot cash."

"Very well," he said. "I like to do business."

"I beg pardon," said a voice behind me, which, in turning, I discovered to belong to the assistant, "but that dresser's sold. The gentleman who's just left bought it."

As I was looking for the ticket (which had disappeared), I couldn't help overhearing the assistant's aside to his employer.

"Thirty-five guineas cash," he said.

There is something, after all, to be said for direct action.

On the day of the party the Chief Constable has arranged for a staff of Special Constables to escort home any person requiring assistance."—Provincial Paper.

This bears out what has recently appeared about the terrible results of the tea-drinking habit.

"Wanted.—Skates and Boots for Leghorn Pullets."—Advt. in Canadian Paper.

They need a lot of exercise in the cold weather.

A HORSE-SENSE OF HUMOUR.A HORSE-SENSE OF HUMOUR.PipchinMr.Stanley Lupino.Baroness BeauxchampsMr.Will Evans.

It is a very delicate task that the annual pantomime imposes upon Mr.Arthur Collins. He has to "surpass himself," but he must not do it once for all or he would rob the critics of their most cherished phrase. He reminds me of the constructors of our Atlantic "greyhounds," each longer by a yard or two than the last, each swifter by a fraction of a knot, each with a few more tons displacement, all pronounced to be the final word in scientific invention, yet all reserving something for the next time.

Certainly the present year marks an advance in one respect at least—that the grotesque and the beautiful are kept reasonably apart; the lovely colour-scheme, for instance, of the garden in Fairyland is undisturbed by any element of buffoonery. There was a revival too of topical allusiveness after the reticence proper to war-time; and theGeddesfamily must be justifiably flattered by their admission to a choric refrain.

The humour, of which Mr.Stanley Lupinobore the brunt, was here and there a little thin, and it is time that somebody let the Management of Drury Lane into the open secret that the pun, as an instrument of mirth, has long been a portion of the dreadful past. Mr.Will Evans, as theBaroness Beauxchamps, seldom let himself go, being no doubt held in restraint by a consciousness of his resemblance to MissEllen Terry. Not enough chance was given to MissLily Long(theElder Sister), who has a very nice sense of fun. As for Mr.Claff, who played the operaticBaron, his most humorous moment was when he meant to be most serious. This was in a song in praise ofPrince Charming, "featuring" H.R.H. in a portrait curiously unlike the original.

The two most effective incidents were borrowed from the Circus and the Halls. Mr.Du Calion, who had no other very obvious claims to play the part of a humorous courtier, did his famous ladder-feat—a perfectly gratuitous performance, for, though he was supposed to be rescuingCinderellathrough a top-storey window, she had the good sense to descend by the staircase, having ignored, as is the way of Love, the locked door that made this impossible.

The other imported business was the work of a black horse, who preserved an expression of extreme gravity and detached boredom during the play of human wit around his person, dissimulating his own superior gifts of humour until called upon to illustrate them with some excellent circus-tricks.

On the sentimental side, MissMarie Blanche, obedient to the inexorable tradition that a young hero of pantomime must be a woman, playedPrince Charmingwith the right manners that makyth man; and asCinderellaMissFlorence Smithsononce more breathed that air of innocence which still remains unstaled by years of steady addiction to the heroine habit. Her vocal intrusions, always well received, were not always well timed; certainly it was an error of judgment to insert a solo at the cross-roads after she had told us that she hadn't a moment to spare if she was to get home from the ball before the rest of the family. But here again it was a matter of obedience to some unwritten and inscrutable law of pantomime which it is not for us, the profane, to question.

And in this spirit I tender a grateful acknowledgment not only of the good things that my intelligence could appreciate in this lavish entertainment, but also of the other things that I can never hope to understand.

O. S.

"Good Boots . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25/-No Better . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37/6."

Speaker (endeavouring to cultivate a patriotic spirit in the young). 'And now, children,...'Speaker (endeavouring to cultivate a patriotic spirit in the young)."And now, children, if you saw our glorious flag waving triumphantly over the battle-field, what would you think?(Prolonged pause)Come, come, what would you —— Well, my little man, what would you think?"Small Boy."Please, Zur, the wind were blowin'."

Speaker (endeavouring to cultivate a patriotic spirit in the young)."And now, children, if you saw our glorious flag waving triumphantly over the battle-field, what would you think?(Prolonged pause)Come, come, what would you —— Well, my little man, what would you think?"

Small Boy."Please, Zur, the wind were blowin'."

"I remember, I remember...." Still on every side echoes the poet's cry, while scarce a publisher but can prove that the thoughts of age make long, long books. Certainly not the shortest of these, but among the most readable, isA Medley of Memories(Arnold), in which the Right Rev. SirDavid Hunter-Blairhas embodied the recollections of his very active career as Benedictine monk and a leading figure in the world of British Catholicism. Eton, Oxford, Rome, and (of course) his own famous monastery at Fort Augustus, are the chief scenes of it; and about them all SirDavidtalks vividly, even brilliantly. I am not saying that all this pleasant garrulity would not have been the better for the blue pencil, especially in those chapters in which the writer's memory dwells almost to excess upon the births, marriages, deaths and dinner-parties of the orthodox Peerage. Elsewhere, however, SirDavidfinds occasion in plenty for the exercise of a wit so dextrously handled that often his thrust is delivered before you have realized that the rapier has left its sheath. I had marked a score of examples for quotation (and now have space for none) and twice as many good stories. In the Oxford recollections it was pleasant to renew my own lively memories of a certain notorious lecture by Mr.Walter Walshon Ritualistic Societies, when violence was narrowly averted by the tactful chairmanship of the presentLord Chancellor—a lecture from which (as Mr.Bellocobserved at the time) "each member of the large audience departed confirmed and strengthened in whatever convictions he might previously have entertained." I sincerely hope that SirDavidhas yet in store for us those latter-day gleanings which he has been compelled to dismiss for the present as being too recent for print.

Mr.G. B. Sternhas set himself to study with sympathy and a candour which extenuates nothing the Jew in England in the circumstances of war, and in particular the Jew of German origin completely loyal to the country of his adoption, but suspected and persecuted by such simple folk (and journals) as are content to put their faith in equally simple proverbs about leopards and spots. I suppose ifChildren of No Man's Land(Duckworth) has a hero and heroine you will find them inRichard Marcusand his sisterDeborah. YoungRichard, passionately English, with all the simple unquestioning loyalty of the public-school boy, counts the months to the day when he can testify to this by bearing arms in his country's defence, but finds nothing open but internment or (by much wangling) a possible niche in a Labour battalion.Deborah'sadventures are chiefly of the heart, or what passes for the heart with a common type of modern girl anxious to wring every sensation out of life that playing with fire can give. It does not do to betray one's age by expressing too confidently the idea that much of all the goings-on ofDeborahand her friendsGillianandAntoniaseems impossible. Mr.Sterncertainly writes as if he knew what he was writing about, and there is so rich an exuberance in the way he crowds his canvas, and so much humour expressed and repressed in his point of view, that I found this a distinctly entertaining and instructive book.

Living Bayonets: A Record of the Last Push(Lane) is a fourth of the enthusiastic and fiery war-books of that eminently enthusiastic and inextinguishably fiery warrior-author, LieutenantConingsby Dawson, of the CanadianField Artillery. If he evinces, blatantly at times, the motives and perspective of the propagandist, he is justified by the fact that he most ardently practised the Hun hatred which he preaches. He states that he enjoyed the dangers and discomforts of so doing, and his assertion is proved to be a true one by his having returned again and again to the fray, notwithstanding every excuse and temptation to leave it. The book follows on after hisKhaki Courage, and is also in the form of letters to his people at home. It takes up the narrative at April 14th, 1917, and carries it to the triumphant end. When, by reason of his wounds, he had to leave the Front and work in London and elsewhere, he naturally lost touch with the real business of the battle; even after his return to the Front in April, 1918, his letters lack their original sense of actuality, and I, reading them, began to wonder if he was ever going to recover his former style. Happily he does so, and with his letter of July 11th he gives a striking picture of a terrible incident of war, of which I don't remember to have read before, but, as I read it now, I seem to be witnessing it myself. From this point on he steadily develops his best, so that he ends on a fitting climax to all his writings of the War in his long final letter of October 6th—propaganda unashamed. The book should be thrust under the noses of those pacifists who now labour to minimise the past and to magnify the virtue and the value of their personal loving-kindness.

It has ever been my misfortune that the presence in a story of two characters confusably alike, or a setting within drowning distance of a tide-race, will produce in me an almost insuperable sense of its having been "made on purpose." I had therefore a double stroke of bad luck in finding both these elements present inThe Splendid Fairing(Mills and Boon). But the more credit to MissConstance Holmethat, despite my increasing conviction that the wrong prodigal would return, and that the powers of nature were throughout almost visibly preparing to engulf him, the gentle and unforced power of her story did hold my attention till the final wave. Distinction shown in apparent absence of effort would, I think, be my verdict on her writing; she clearly knows her Northern farmer-folk with the sympathy of intimate experience. I hope I have not already suggested too much of the plot, a little tragedy of the commonplace dealing with the relations between two farming brothers, of whom the younger prospers while the elder fails, and the life-long jealousies of their women. MissHolmeworks, one may say, on a minute scale; the short but simple annals of the poor interest her to the extent of providing an entire volume of three hundred odd pages from the events of a single day. But though now and then the old Northern counsel to "get eendways wi' it" does hover in the background of one's mind I repeat that sincerity carries the thing through. For all that, however,The Splendid Fairingdid but confirm me in a previous impression that these Mary-call-the-cattle-home localities must remain more convenient to the local colourist than attractive to the inhabitants.

The publication, as a foreword, of a "Glossary of Native Words" used in the text made me wonder whether I should be bored or instructed, or both, byThe Death Drum(Hurst and Blackett). Most happily I was neither. MissMargaret Petersonhas built her novel, perhaps a trifle hastily, about a quite uncommon theme and given it, in Uganda, a quite uncommon setting. It is the story of a half-caste who marries a white girl in order to avenge, in her degradation, his sister whom the English girl's brother had betrayed. I must not say thatTom Davis, the half-caste, is too much a white man—for MissPeterson, to do her justice, has distributed goodness and badness among her blacks and whites with a quite impartial hand—but he is too fine a fellow to carry out his own plan, and, before he has done any lasting harm to the girl he has come to love, he takes himself, by way of a native rising, to a lotus-covered lake, and so out of her life. It seems a pity that the happiness of the story's end couldn't includeTom, but his ancestry effectually barred the way, and MissPetersonhas had to rely upon a very strong and not quite silent Englishman of the best type for her satisfactory finish.

Few authors have a shrewder idea than Mr.P. G. Wodehouseof what the British and American public want in the way of humour, and I do not know anyone more determined to supply their requirements. He would be a dull fellow indeed who did not appreciate the high spirits and humorous situations to be found inA Damsel in Distress(Jenkins). It is no small feat to maintain a riot of irresponsible fun for more than three hundred pages, but Mr.Wodehousegets going at once, and keeps up the pace to the end without even a pause to get his second wind. If some of the characters—a ridiculous peer, his more ridiculous sister and his most ridiculous butler—are of the "stock" variety, Mr.Wodehouse'sway of treating them is always fresh and amusing. But in his next frolic I beseech him to give golf and its tiresome lingo a complete rest.

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