INTENSIVE CULTURE FOR FLAT-DWELLERS.

Sowing early mustard and cress on winter underclothingINTENSIVE CULTURE FOR FLAT-DWELLERS.Sowing early mustard and cress on winter underclothing.

Sowing early mustard and cress on winter underclothing.

"The National War Savings Committee is issuing a two-penny cookery book, giving a host of simple remedies for economical dishes."Birmingham Daily Mail.

Some of them do upset the internal economy, no doubt.

"St. Quentin Canal, in spite of the damage reported to have been done to it by the Germans, will probably still be an important military obstacle. It is, for instance, when full of water, over eight feet deep."Daily News.

When full of beer it becomes absolutely impassable.

Extract from a regimental notice:—

"I am glad to inform you that a Special Order ... guarantees your admission to this Regiment on your release from the Postal Service.... If attested and passed into Class A for Service, you should apply to your Recruiting Officer, who will post you and forward you here on an A.F. B. 216."

An appropriate and convenient arrangement.

ERIN TAKES A TURN AT HER OWN HARP.ERIN TAKES A TURN AT HER OWN HARP.With Mr. Punch's sincere good wishes for the success of the Irish Convention.

With Mr. Punch's sincere good wishes for the success of the Irish Convention.

IN HAPPY DAYS TO COME.IN HAPPY DAYS TO COME.Non-Politician(in remote country-house, to wife on her midnight return from county town)."Mabel, you've been voting."

Non-Politician(in remote country-house, to wife on her midnight return from county town)."Mabel, you've been voting."

Monday, May 21st.—Mr.Maccallum Scottcomplained that a question of his relating to the prohibition of "dropped scones"—which CaptainBathurst, that encyclopædia of food-lore, described as falling "under the same category as the crumpet"—had been addressed to the Ministry of Munitions instead of the Ministry of Food. It was really a venial error on the part of the Clerk at the Table, for the modern scone distinctly suggests a missile of offence, and is much more like a "crump" than a crumpet. IfHindenburgwere acquainted with our London tea-shops (consuleDevonport) he would never have imagined that his famous phrase about "biting upon granite" would have any terrors for the British recruit.

When thePrime Ministerread from his manuscripts the proposed conditions of the Irish Convention—how it must include representatives not only of political parties, but of Churches, trade unions, commercial and educational interests, and ofSinn Feinitself; and must be prepared to consider every variety of proposal that might be brought before it—an Irish colleague whispered to me, "Sure, the Millennium will be over before we get it."

Nothing could have been handsomer than Mr.Redmond'swelcome to the proposal. All he was concerned for, I gathered, was that his Unionist opponents should be generously represented. Ulster, in the person of SirJohn Lonsdale, made no corresponding advance. He would submit the proposal to his constituents, but not apparently with letters commendatory.

Pessimist's design for costume of Chairman of Irish Convention.Pessimist's design for costume of Chairman of Irish Convention.

Pessimist's design for costume of Chairman of Irish Convention.

I daresay Mr.William O'Brienset out with the honest intention of blessing the Government plan, of which indeed he claims to be the "onlie begetter." But the sound of his own voice—in its higher tones painfully provocative—stimulated him to proceed to a dramatic indictment of his former colleagues. I felt sorry for the prospective Chairman, charged with the task of attempting to reconcile these opposites.

Mr.Healy, cowering beneath the shelter of his ample hat, as Mr.O'Brien'sarms waved windmill-like above him, must have felt likeSancho Panzawhen theDonwas in an extra fitful mood; but he kept silence even from good words.

The briefest and most helpful speech of the afternoon came from SirEdward Carson, who, while declaring that he would never desert Ulster, nevertheless made it plain that Ulster on this occasion should take her place beside the rest of Ireland. Only Mr.Ginnellremained obdurate. In his ears the Convention sounds "the funeral dirge of the Home Rule Act."

Tuesday, May 22.—If you should happen to see of a Sabbath morning a stream of official motor-cars leaving London with freights of the brave and the fair you may be sure they are going on some National business. Both the War Office and the Admiralty keep log-books, in which are faithfully entered—I quote Dr.Macnamara—"full particulars of each journey, the number and description of passengers carried and the amount of petrol consumed." Do not therefore jump to the hasty and erroneous conclusion that the gallant fellows and their charming companions are "joy-riding;" such a thing is unknown in Government circles.

TheHome Secretarymoved the second reading of the Representation of the People Bill with a suavity befitting aCaveof Harmony; and by the clearness of his exposition very nearly enabled the House to understand the mysteries of proportional representation, though even now I should not like to have to describe off-hand the exact working of "the single transferable vote."

The opponents of the Bill were well-advised in selecting ColonelSandersas their champion. With his jolly round face, bronzed by the suns of Palestine, he looks the typical agriculturalist. He may, as he says, have forgotten in the trenches all the old tricks of the orator's trade, but he has learned some useful new ones, and while delighting the House with his sporting metaphors struck some shrewd blows at a measure which he regards as unfair and inopportune.

For almost the first time since the War LordHugh Cecilwas discovered in quite his best form. The House rippled with delight at his refusal to be forcibly fed with a peptonized concoction, prepared by theSpeaker'sConference in the belief that the Mother of Parliaments was too old and toothless to chew her own victuals. "This Bill is Benger's Food, and you, Sir, and your Committee are Bengers."

TheSolicitor-General'ssolid and solemn arguments in favour of the Bill fell a little flat after this sparkling attack. He should have said, "The noble Lord reminds me, not for the first time, ofGilbert's'Precocious Infant,' who

'Turned up his nose at his excellent pap—"My friends, it's a tapDat is not worf a rap."(Now this was remarkably excellent pap).'"

'Turned up his nose at his excellent pap—

"My friends, it's a tap

Dat is not worf a rap."

(Now this was remarkably excellent pap).'"

Wednesday, May 23rd—The Russian officers who adorned the Distinguished Strangers' Gallery this afternoon must be a little puzzled by the vagaries of British politics. They had been informed, no doubt, that the most urgent problem of the day was caused by the desire of one of the British Isles to manage its own affairs. Yet the first thing they heard at Westminster was the petition of another of these Isles—that of Man—begging release from the burden of Home Rule and demanding representation in the Imperial Parliament. Perhaps this little incident will help our visitors to appreciate why Englishmen do not invariably form a just judgment of events in other countries—Russia, for instance.

Madam! Madam! Will you kindly put down your umbrella? It's keeping the rain off my allotment.Our Win-the-War Garden Suburb Enthusiast(as the storm bursts). "Madam! Madam! Will you kindly put down your umbrella? It's keeping the rain off my allotment."

Our Win-the-War Garden Suburb Enthusiast(as the storm bursts). "Madam! Madam! Will you kindly put down your umbrella? It's keeping the rain off my allotment."

Oh, for grapes a-growingIn Ludgate and the Fleet!Cauliflowers blowingDown Regent's Street!Oranges and LemonsClustered by St. Clemen's,And Sea Kale careering past the kerb on London Wall!And oh, for private Mushroom beds rolling down the Mall!Motor engines, motor engines, do not wear a bonnet!You have artificial heat—grow something on it!Precious artificial heat, costly to instal;Turn it into a hot-bed, growing food for all!Mustyou have a superstructure? Let it be a hot-houseForcing (say) some early peas—the only decent pot-house;Oh, if I could only see in walking down the streetNo unpatriotic waste of all that lovely heat!Motor lorries for Marrows!Taxis for Nectarines!No more coster-barrows,But lemon-house Limousines!Oh, to see TomatiesSkidding by Frascati's!Grand heads of Celery passing the Carlton Grill,And fine forced Strawberries—forced up Denmark Hill!Hard's the fight with Nature in our uncongenial climate,Cuddling plants and coaxing 'em, and oh, the weary time itTakes to get a slender crop—we toil the Summer through;England, needing quick returns, is looking now to you!Food that comes from tropic lands, needing heat upon it,You could grow without a thought, if you'd doff your bonnet;Thousands of you, growing food on your daily trips,Helping to economise the tonnage of our ships.Oh, to count the numbersOf Cabbages on the march,Jostling with CucumbersJust at the Marble Arch!Oh, for Piccadilly'sCapsicums and Chilies!Oh, for Peckham's Peaches (not the sort that's canned),And oh, for ripe Bananas roaring down the Strand!

Oh, for grapes a-growing

In Ludgate and the Fleet!

Cauliflowers blowing

Down Regent's Street!

Oranges and Lemons

Clustered by St. Clemen's,

And Sea Kale careering past the kerb on London Wall!

And oh, for private Mushroom beds rolling down the Mall!

Motor engines, motor engines, do not wear a bonnet!You have artificial heat—grow something on it!Precious artificial heat, costly to instal;Turn it into a hot-bed, growing food for all!

Motor engines, motor engines, do not wear a bonnet!

You have artificial heat—grow something on it!

Precious artificial heat, costly to instal;

Turn it into a hot-bed, growing food for all!

Mustyou have a superstructure? Let it be a hot-houseForcing (say) some early peas—the only decent pot-house;Oh, if I could only see in walking down the streetNo unpatriotic waste of all that lovely heat!

Mustyou have a superstructure? Let it be a hot-house

Forcing (say) some early peas—the only decent pot-house;

Oh, if I could only see in walking down the street

No unpatriotic waste of all that lovely heat!

Motor lorries for Marrows!Taxis for Nectarines!No more coster-barrows,But lemon-house Limousines!Oh, to see TomatiesSkidding by Frascati's!Grand heads of Celery passing the Carlton Grill,And fine forced Strawberries—forced up Denmark Hill!

Motor lorries for Marrows!

Taxis for Nectarines!

No more coster-barrows,

But lemon-house Limousines!

Oh, to see Tomaties

Skidding by Frascati's!

Grand heads of Celery passing the Carlton Grill,

And fine forced Strawberries—forced up Denmark Hill!

Hard's the fight with Nature in our uncongenial climate,Cuddling plants and coaxing 'em, and oh, the weary time itTakes to get a slender crop—we toil the Summer through;England, needing quick returns, is looking now to you!

Hard's the fight with Nature in our uncongenial climate,

Cuddling plants and coaxing 'em, and oh, the weary time it

Takes to get a slender crop—we toil the Summer through;

England, needing quick returns, is looking now to you!

Food that comes from tropic lands, needing heat upon it,You could grow without a thought, if you'd doff your bonnet;Thousands of you, growing food on your daily trips,Helping to economise the tonnage of our ships.

Food that comes from tropic lands, needing heat upon it,

You could grow without a thought, if you'd doff your bonnet;

Thousands of you, growing food on your daily trips,

Helping to economise the tonnage of our ships.

Oh, to count the numbersOf Cabbages on the march,Jostling with CucumbersJust at the Marble Arch!Oh, for Piccadilly'sCapsicums and Chilies!Oh, for Peckham's Peaches (not the sort that's canned),And oh, for ripe Bananas roaring down the Strand!

Oh, to count the numbers

Of Cabbages on the march,

Jostling with Cucumbers

Just at the Marble Arch!

Oh, for Piccadilly's

Capsicums and Chilies!

Oh, for Peckham's Peaches (not the sort that's canned),

And oh, for ripe Bananas roaring down the Strand!

"A reaper and binder was destroyed, also a foster mother incubator with 43 young children."—Chester Chronicle.

The paragraph is headed "Fire at a Farm"—a baby-farm, we fear.

On Sunday, June 10th, Mr.George Robeyis to give a Concert, at 7 P.M., at the Palladium, in aid of the Metropolitan and City Police Orphanage, which is in special need of funds on account of the losses sustained at the Front among members of the Police Force.

Mr.George Robeywill be assisted by MissIrene Vanbrugh, MissHelen Mar, Mr.John Hassall, Mr.Harry Dearthand others, as well as by the Royal Artillery String Band, the Canadian Military Choir and the Metropolitan Police Minstrels.

Tickets are on sale at the National Sunday League Offices, 34, Red Lion Square, W.C., and applications for boxes will be received personally by Mr.Robeyat the Hippodrome.

"Wanted, Housemaid and Kitchenmaid; Paying Guests."

"Sculleryor Between Maid required immediately for Derbyshire; wages £218."Morning Post.

"Sculleryor Between Maid required immediately for Derbyshire; wages £218."

Morning Post.

"On Wednesday evening a fire broke out in Mr. J. Elkin's scutch mill at Kilmore, near Omagh, which resulted in the complete destruction of the premises. It is surmised in the absence of anything which would indicate the origin of the outbreak that it resulted from a heated journal."—Belfast News Letter.

An unusual quantity of inflammatory matter has been observed recently in the Irish Press.

The Telephone.Rr-rr-rr-rr.

The Marshal. Curse the infernal telephone! A man doesn't get a moment's peace. Tush, what am I talking about? Who wants peace? If we were all to be quite candid there might be—

The Telephone. Rr-rr.

The Marshal. All right, all right, I'm coming. Yes, I'm MarshalVon Hindenburg. Who are you? What? I can't hear a single word. You really must speak up. Louder—louder still, you fool. What? Oh, I really beg your Majesty's pardon. I assure you it was impossible to hear distinctly, but it's all right now. I thank your Majesty, I am in my usual good health. Yes. No, not at all. Yes, I have good hope that we shall now maintain ourselves for at least two days. Yes, if we are forced to retire we must say it is according to plan. No, I don't like it either, but what is to be done? Their guns are more numerous and heavier than ours, and weight of metal must tell. Will I hold the line? Yes, certainly, till your Majesty returns and graciously resumes the conversation. Oh, you didn't mean that line? You meant the Siegfried line, or the Wotan line, or the Hindenburg line? Yes, I see, it was aWitz, a play of words. Yes, I am sorry I could not at once see what your Majesty was driving at, but now I see it is good. I must practise my joking. Ha-ha-ha! Are you there? No, he's gone (rings off). (To himself) He is a queer Emperor who is able to make jokes while his soldiers are dying by thousands and thousands. It can't last like this—and as for the Hindenburg line, I'm perfectly tired to death of the words; and the thing itself doesn't exist.

The Telephone. Rr-rr-rr-rr.

The Marshal. What, again? This is too much—who are you? Who?Who? GeneralVon Kluck? Impossible. GeneralVon Kluck's dead. What—not dead? Anyhow, nobody's heard of him for months. If you're really GeneralVon KluckI'm afraid we must consider you to be dead. TheEmperorwon't regard it as very good taste on your part to come to life again like this. He's very unforgiving, you know. You don't care? But, my dear dead GeneralVon Kluck, you must care. What is it you say you wanted to do? Congratulate me? What on? My splendid defence of the Hindenburg line? Now, look here. As one German General to another do you mean to tell me you believe in the Hindenburg line? No, of course you don't. You thought I believed in it? Was that what you said? Come, don't wriggle, though you are a dead man. Yes, that was what you said. Well, then understand henceforth that there is no Hindenburg line and there never was anything of the sort. Why am I retreating then? Because I must. That's the whole secret. Why didyouretreat after your famous oblique march during the Battle of the Marne? Because you had to, of course. There—that's enough. I can't waste any more time. What? Oh, yes, you can congratulate me on anything you like except that. And now you had better return to the grave of your reputation and remain there (rings off).

The Telephone. Rr-rr-rr-rr.

The Marshal. To h-ll with the telephone! Who is it now? What—an editor of a newspaper? That's a little bit too thick. What is it you want? To thank God for that masterpiece of bold cunning, the Hindenburg line? Is that what you want? Well, make haste, for the masterpiece doesn't exist. No, I'm not joking. I can't joke. Enough (rings off).

HALT, FRIEND! WHO GOES THERE?Nervous Recruit(on guard for the first time). "Halt, friend! Who goes there?"

Nervous Recruit(on guard for the first time). "Halt, friend! Who goes there?"

Four years I spent beneath his rule,For three of which askance I scanned him,And only after leaving schoolCame thoroughly to understand him;For he was brusque in various waysThat jarred upon the modern mother,And scouted as a silly crazeThe theory of the "elder brother."Renowned at Cambridge as an oarAnd quite distinguished as a wrangler,He felt incomparably morePride in his exploits as an angler;He held his fishing on the TestAbove the riches of the Speyers,And there he lured me, as his guest,Into the ranks of the "dry-flyers."He made no fetish of the caneAs owning any special virtue,But held the discipline of pain,When rightly earned, would never hurt you;With lapses of the normal brandI think he dealt most mercifully,But chastened with a heavy handThe sneak, the liar and the bully.We used to criticise his boots,His simple tastes in food and fiction,His everlasting homespun suits,His leisurely old-fashioned diction;And yet we had the savingnousTo recognise no worse disasterCould possibly befall the HouseThan the removal of its Master.For though his voice was deep and gruff,And rumbled like a motor-lorry,He showed the true angelic stuffIf any one was sick or sorry;So when pneumonia, doubly dread,Of breath had nearly quite bereft me,He watched three nights beside my bedUntil the burning fever left me.He served three Heads with equal zealAnd equal absence of ambition;He knew his power, and did not feelThe least desire for recognition;But shrewd observers, who could traceBack to their source results far-reaching,Saw the true Genius of the PlaceEmbodied in his life and teaching.The War's deep waters o'er him rolledAs he beheld Young England givingLife prodigally, while the oldLived on without the cause for living;And yet he never heaved a sighAlthough his heart was inly riven;He only craved one boon—to dieIn harness, and the boon was given.

Four years I spent beneath his rule,

For three of which askance I scanned him,

And only after leaving school

Came thoroughly to understand him;

For he was brusque in various ways

That jarred upon the modern mother,

And scouted as a silly craze

The theory of the "elder brother."

Renowned at Cambridge as an oarAnd quite distinguished as a wrangler,He felt incomparably morePride in his exploits as an angler;He held his fishing on the TestAbove the riches of the Speyers,And there he lured me, as his guest,Into the ranks of the "dry-flyers."

Renowned at Cambridge as an oar

And quite distinguished as a wrangler,

He felt incomparably more

Pride in his exploits as an angler;

He held his fishing on the Test

Above the riches of the Speyers,

And there he lured me, as his guest,

Into the ranks of the "dry-flyers."

He made no fetish of the caneAs owning any special virtue,But held the discipline of pain,When rightly earned, would never hurt you;With lapses of the normal brandI think he dealt most mercifully,But chastened with a heavy handThe sneak, the liar and the bully.

He made no fetish of the cane

As owning any special virtue,

But held the discipline of pain,

When rightly earned, would never hurt you;

With lapses of the normal brand

I think he dealt most mercifully,

But chastened with a heavy hand

The sneak, the liar and the bully.

We used to criticise his boots,His simple tastes in food and fiction,His everlasting homespun suits,His leisurely old-fashioned diction;And yet we had the savingnousTo recognise no worse disasterCould possibly befall the HouseThan the removal of its Master.

We used to criticise his boots,

His simple tastes in food and fiction,

His everlasting homespun suits,

His leisurely old-fashioned diction;

And yet we had the savingnous

To recognise no worse disaster

Could possibly befall the House

Than the removal of its Master.

For though his voice was deep and gruff,And rumbled like a motor-lorry,He showed the true angelic stuffIf any one was sick or sorry;So when pneumonia, doubly dread,Of breath had nearly quite bereft me,He watched three nights beside my bedUntil the burning fever left me.

For though his voice was deep and gruff,

And rumbled like a motor-lorry,

He showed the true angelic stuff

If any one was sick or sorry;

So when pneumonia, doubly dread,

Of breath had nearly quite bereft me,

He watched three nights beside my bed

Until the burning fever left me.

He served three Heads with equal zealAnd equal absence of ambition;He knew his power, and did not feelThe least desire for recognition;But shrewd observers, who could traceBack to their source results far-reaching,Saw the true Genius of the PlaceEmbodied in his life and teaching.

He served three Heads with equal zeal

And equal absence of ambition;

He knew his power, and did not feel

The least desire for recognition;

But shrewd observers, who could trace

Back to their source results far-reaching,

Saw the true Genius of the Place

Embodied in his life and teaching.

The War's deep waters o'er him rolledAs he beheld Young England givingLife prodigally, while the oldLived on without the cause for living;And yet he never heaved a sighAlthough his heart was inly riven;He only craved one boon—to dieIn harness, and the boon was given.

The War's deep waters o'er him rolled

As he beheld Young England giving

Life prodigally, while the old

Lived on without the cause for living;

And yet he never heaved a sigh

Although his heart was inly riven;

He only craved one boon—to die

In harness, and the boon was given.

"Dabrera.—Yesterday, at 6.55 a.m. 'Shernery,' Bambalapitiya, to Mr. and Mrs. Ossy Dabrera a daughter. Grand parents doing well.—Ceylon Independent.

"Mr. J.H. Minns (Carlisle) charged the brewers of his city with allowing their tenants to be placed under the heel of the Control Board.... It was the cloven hoof of the unseen hand that the trade had to face in Carlisle."—Derby Daily Express.

Mr.Minnsmust cheer up. The Trade has only to wait for

"That auspicious day when the velvet glove will be stripped for ever from the cloven hoof of the German Eagle."—London Opinion.

"The fact that a few girls earn abnormal wages has obscured in the public mind the the Board to accept the gift a Bill is to be age girl working 48 hours a week earned only 18s. or 19s. a week."—Daily Paper.

This statement should go far to clear up the obscurity in the public mind.

"Mr. —— gave one of his popular lectures on 'Alcohol' and its effects on March the 30th in the Wesleyan school."—True Blue Magazine.

What exactly did happen on March 30th in the Wesleyan school?

"Wanted, Smart Workman, aged 80, and exempt from military service, as handy man; must be steady; a job for life for careful man."—Cambria Daily Leader.

He must be particularly careful to guard against premature decease.

We have a very realistic mock-potato soup.Waitress. "We have a very realistic mock-potato soup."

Waitress. "We have a very realistic mock-potato soup."

It was all through Emily that I am to-day the man I am.

We were extraordinarily lucky to get her; there was no doubt about that. Her testimonials or character or references or whatever it is that they come to you with were just the last word. Even the head of the registry-office, a frigid thin-lipped lady of some fifty winters, with an unemotional cold-mutton eye, was betrayed, in speaking of Emily, into a momentary lapse from the studied English of her normal vocabulary.

"Madam," she said to my wife, "I have known many housemaids, but never one like this. She is, I assure you, Madam, absolutelyit."

So we engaged her; and ere long I came to hate her with a hatred such as I trust I shall never again cherish for any human being.

In almost every respect she proved perfection. She was honest, she was quick, she was clean; she loved darning my socks and ironing my handkerchiefs; she never sulked, she never smashed, her hair never wisped (a thing I loathe in housemaids). In one point only she failed, failed more completely than any servant I have ever known. She would not make my shaving-water really hot.

Cursed by nature with an iron-filings beard and a delicate tender skin, I was a man for whom it was impossible to shave with comfort in anything but absolutely boiling water. Yet morning after morning I sprang from my bed to find the contents of my jug just a little over or under the tepid mark. There was no question of re-heating the water on the gas stove, for I never allowed myself more than the very minimum of time for dressing, swallowing my breakfast and catching my train. It was torture.

I spoke to Emily about it, mildly at first, more forcibly as the weeks wore on, passionately at last. She apologised, she sighed, she wrung her hands. Once she wept—shed hot scalding tears, tears I could gladly have shaved in had they fallen half-an-hour earlier. But it made no difference; next morning my water was as chill as ever. I could not understand it. Every day my wrath grew blacker, my reproaches more vehement.

Finally an hour came when I said to my wife, "One of two things must happen. Either that girl goes or I grow a beard."

Mildred shook her head. "We can't possibly part with her. We should never get another servant like her."

"Very well," I said.

On the morrow I started for my annual holiday, alone. It was late summer. I journeyed into the wilds of Wiltshire. I took two rooms in an isolated cottage, and on the first night of my stay, before getting into bed, I threw my looking-glass out of the window. Next morning I began. Day by day I tramped the surrounding country, avoiding all intercourse with humanity, and day by day my beard grew.

I could feel it growing, and the first scrubbiness of it filled me with rage. But as time slipped by it became softer and more pliable, and ceased to irritate me. Freed, too, from the agony of shaving, I soon found myself eating my breakfast in a more equable frame of mind than I had enjoyed for years. I began also to notice in my walks all sorts of things that had not struck me at first—the lark a-twitter in the blue, the good smell of wet earth after rain, the pale gold of ripening wheat. And at last, before ever I saw it, very gradually I came to love my beard, to love the warm comfort and cosiness of it, and to wonder half timidly what it looked like.

When I left, just before my departure for the six-miles-distant station, I called for a looking-glass. They brought me a piece of the one I had cast away. It was very small, but it served my purpose. I gazed and heaved a sigh of rapturous content; a sigh that came from my very heart. My beard was short and thick, its colour a deep glorious brown, with golden lights here and there where the sunbeams danced in some lighter cluster of its curling strands. A beard that a king might wear.

I have never shaved again. Every morning now, while untold millions of my suffering fellows are groaning beneath their razors, I steal an extra fifteen minutes from the day and lie and laugh inside my beard.

"And what of Emily?" you ask.

Almost immediately after my return she left us. She gave no reason. She was not unhappy, she said. She wished to make a change, that was all. To this day my wife cannot account for her departure. But I know why she went. Emily was a patriot with a purpose. A month after she parted from us I received a letter from her:—

"Dear Sir,—May I ask you to take into consideration the fact that by having ceased to shave you will in future be effecting a slight economy in your daily expenditure? Might I also suggest to you that during the remainder of the War you should make a voluntary contribution to the national exchequer of every shilling saved under this head? The total sum will not be large, but everything counts. Yours is, if I may be allowed to say so, the finest beard I have been instrumental in producing during my two and a half years' experience in domestic service. I am now hard at work on my sixth case, which is approaching its crisis.

Apologising for any temporary inconvenience I may have caused you, I am,

Yours faithfully,Emily Johnson,

Foundress and President of theHousemaids' Society for thePromotion of Patriotic Beards."

I never showed the letter to my wife, but I have acted on Emily's suggestion. I often think of her still, her whole soul afire with her patriotic mission, flitting, the very flower of housemaids, from home to home, lingering but a little while in each, in each content for that little while to be loathed and stormed at by an exasperated shaver, whom she transforms into a happy bearded contributor to her fund.

"This terrible fire roused hundreds of people from their beds, and a great crowd gathered in the adjoining streets; but Sub-divisional Inspector Stock and Inspector Ping were on the spot within a few months after receiving the call."—Westminster and Pimlico News.

Mebbe cows won't come in if they see you in that there rig.Cowman(to new recruit, Women's Land Army). "You get behind that there water-butt. Mebbe cows won't come in if they see you in that there rig."

Cowman(to new recruit, Women's Land Army). "You get behind that there water-butt. Mebbe cows won't come in if they see you in that there rig."

Once upon a time there was a flourishing covey of fifteen: Pa Tridge, Ma Tridge, and thirteen little Tridges, all brown and speckled and very chirpy. They had been born in a hollow under some big leaves beside a hedge, and they now moved about the earth, pushing their way through the grass, all keeping close together when they could, and setting up no end of a piping when they couldn't and thought they were lost.

It was a large family from our point of view, and larger perhaps than a prudent French partridge would approve, but the world is wide, and there are no butcher's or baker's or tailor's or dress-maker's bills to pay for little birds. All that a Pa and Ma Tridge have to do after fledging is complete is to look out for cats and hawks and foxes, to beware of the feet of clumsy cattle, and to administer correction and advice. Above all there are no school bills, made so doubly ridiculous among ourselves by German measles and other epidemics during which no learning is imparted, but for which, educationalists being a wily crew, no rebate is offered.

There being so little to be done for their young, it is no wonder, in a didactic and over-articulate world, that parent Tridges take almost too kindly to sententiousness; and young Tridges, being so numerous as to constitute a public meeting in themselves, are specially liable to admonishment.

It was therefore that, strolling aimlessly amid the herbage or the young wheat with their audience all about them, Pa and Ma Tridge got into a habit of counsel which threatened to become so chronic that there was a danger of its dulling their sensibility to the approach of September the first.

"Never," Pa Tridge would say, "criticise anyone or anything on hearsay. See for yourself and then make up your own mind; but don't hurry to put it into words."

"Tell the truth as often as possible," Pa Tridge would say. "It is not only better citizenship to do so, but it makes things easier for yourself in the long run."

"Always bear in mind," Ma Tridge would say, "that after one has married one's cook she ceases to cook."

"Never tell anyone," Pa Tridge would say, "who it was you saw in the spinney with Mr. Jay or Mrs. Woodpecker."

"Indeed," he would add, "you might make a note that the world would not come to a miserable end if everyone was born dumb"—but he was very glad not to be dumb himself.

"Even though you should get on intimate terms with a pheasant," Ma Tridge would say, "don't brag about it."

"Forgive, but don't forget," Pa Tridge would say.

"Remember," Pa Tridge would say, "that, though it may be wiser to say No, most of the fun and all the adventure of the world have come from saying Yes."

"Bear in mind," Ma Tridge would say—but that is more than enough of the tiresome old bores.

And after each piece of advice the little Tridges would all say, "Right-O!"

And then one night—these being English Tridges in an English early summer—a terrible frost set in which lasted long enough to kill the whole covey, partly by cold and partly by starvation, so that all the good counsels were wasted.

But on the chance that one or two of them may be applicable to human life I have jotted them down here. One never knows which is grain and which chaff until afterwards.

We have had many studies of the War, in various aspects, from our own army. Now inMy·75(Heinemann) there comes a record of the impressions of a French gunner during the first year of fighting. It is a book of which I should find it difficult to speak too highly.Paul Lintier, the writer, had, it is clear, a gift for recording things seen with quite unusual sharpness of effect. His word-pictures of the mobilisation, the departure for the Front, and the fighting from the Marne to the Aisne (where he was wounded and sent home) carry one along with a suspense and interest and quite personal emotion that are a tribute to their artistry. His death (the short preface tells us that, having returned to the Front, he was killed in action in March, 1916) has certainly robbed France of one who should have made a notable figure in her literature. The style, very distinctive, shows poetic feeling and a rare and beautiful tenderness of thought, mingled with an acceptance of the brutality of life and war that is seen in the vivid descriptions of incidents that our own gentler writers would have left untold. The horror of some of these passages makes the book (I should warn you) not one for shaken nerves. But there can be no question of its very unusual interest, nor of the skill with which its translator, who should surely be acknowledged upon the title-page, has preserved the vitality and appeal of the original.

... these cigars in London would cost you close on a tanner apieceTommy(who has made a find in a German dug-out). "Now, Albert, aren't you glad you came? why, these cigars in London would cost you close on a tanner apiece."

Tommy(who has made a find in a German dug-out). "Now, Albert, aren't you glad you came? why, these cigars in London would cost you close on a tanner apiece."

The author ofHelen of Four Gates(Jenkins) has chosen to hide her identity and call herself simply "An Ex-Mill Girl." I am sufficiently sorry for this to hope that, if the story meets with the success that I should certainly predict for it, a lady of such unusual gifts may allow us to know her name. Of these gifts I have no doubt whatever. As a taleHelen of Four Gatesis crude, unnatural, melodramatic; but the power (brutality, if you prefer) of its telling takes away the critical breath. Whether in real life anyone could have nursed a lifelong hatred as oldMasondid (personally I cherish the belief that hatred is too evanescent an emotion for a life-tenancy of the human mind; but I may be wrong); whether he would have bribed a casual tramp to marry and torment the reputed daughter who was the object of his loathing, or whetherDayandHelenherself would actually so have played into his hands, are all rather questionable problems. Far more real, human and moving is the wild passion ofHelenforMartin, whom (again questionably as to truth) her enemies frighten away from her. A grim story, you begin to observe, but one altogether worth reading. To compare things small (as yet) with great, I might call it a lineal descendant ofWuthering Heights, both in setting and treatment. There is indeed more than a hint of theBrontëtouch about the Ex-Mill Girl. For that and other things I send her (whoever she is) my felicitations and good wishes.

I wonder if Mr. (or Mrs. or Miss) E.K.Weekeswould understand me if I put my verdict uponThe Massareen Affair(Arnold) into the form of a suggestion that in future its author would be well advised to keep quiet, Not with any meaning that he or she should desist from the pursuit of fiction; on the contrary, there are aspects ofThe Massareen Affairthat are more than promising—vigorous and unconventional characters, a gift of lively talk, and so on. But all this only operates so long as the tale remains in the calm waters of the ordinary; later, when it puts forth upon the sea of melodrama, I am sorry to record that this promising vessel comes as near shipwreck as makes no difference. To drop metaphor, the group of persons surrounding the unhappily-weddedAnthony Massareen—Claudia, who attempts to rescue him and his two boys, the boys themselves, and the clerical family whose fortunes are affected by their proximity to theMassareens—all these are well and credibly drawn. But when we arrive at the fanatic wife ofAnthony, in her Welsh castle, surrounded by rocks and blow-holes, and finally to that last great scene, where (if I followed events accurately) she trusses her ex-husband like a fowl, and trundles him in a wheel-barrow to the pyre of sacrifice, not the best will in the world could keep me convinced or even decorously thrilled. So I will content myself with repeating my advice to a clever writer in future to ride imagination on the curb, and leave you to endorse this or not as taste suggests.

I am seriously thinking of chainingGrand Fleet Days(Hodder and Stoughton) to my bookcase, for it is written by the author ofIn the Northern Mists, a book which has destroyed the morality of my friends. Be assured that I am not formulating any grave charge against the anonymous Chaplain of the Fleet who has provided us with these two delightful volumes; I merely wish to say that nothing can prevent people from purloining the first, and that drastic measures will have to be taken if I am to retain the second. In these dialogues and sketches I do not find quite so much spontaneity as in the first volume; once or twice it is even possible to imagine that the author, after taking pen in hand, was a little perplexed to find a subject to write about. But that is the beginning and the end of my complaint. Once again we have a broad-minded humour and the revelation of a most attractive personality. Above all we see our Grand Fleet as it is; and, if the grumblers would only read and soundly digest what our Chaplain has to say their question would be, "What is our Navynotdoing?"

"The sight was wonderful. From the grand lodge entrance to the lake-side quite 3,000 blue-breeched khaki-coated men and nurses lined one side of the long drive."—Manchester Evening News.

It must indeed have been a wonderful sight. Nevertheless we hope that nurses generally will stick to their traditional uniform.

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