AFTER THE INSPECTION.

AFTER THE INSPECTION.Orderly (to Colonel). "CAN I GET YOU A TAXI, SIR?"Colonel. "YES, PLEASE, DEAR."

Orderly (to Colonel). "CAN I GET YOU A TAXI, SIR?"

Colonel. "YES, PLEASE, DEAR."

Everyone must have observed a phenomenon of the London streets which becomes continually more noticeable. And not only must they have observed it, but have suffered from it.

At one time the omnibuses, which are rapidly becoming the only means of street transport for human beings, had regular stopping-places at the corner's of streets, at Piccadilly Circus, at Oxford Circus, and so forth.

The corner was the accepted spot; the crowds gathered there, and the omnibus, stopping there, emptied and refilled. But there has been a gradual tendency towards the abandonment of the corners, causing the omnibuses to pull up farther and farther from them, so that it seems almost as if a time may come when, instead of Piccadilly Circus, for example, the stopping-place for west-bound omnibuses will be St. James's church.

Everyone, as I say, must have noticed this change in traffic habits, and most people believe that police regulations are at the bottom of it.

But I know better; and the reason why I know better is a little conversation I have had with a driver.

It was during one of the finest efforts towards depressing dampness that even this Summer has put up, and the driver dripped. A great crowd of miserable mortals awaited his omnibus at a certain recognised halt, all desperately anxious for a seat or even standing room; but these he disregarded and carefully urged the vehicle on for another twenty yards.

While the wretched people were running along the pavement to begin their struggle for a place, I asked him why he had put them to all that trouble.

"I suppose it's the police," I said, to make it easier for him.

"Not as I know of," he replied.

"But why not stop where the public expect you to?" I asked.

"Why?" he inquired.

"Well, it would be more reasonable, more helpful," I suggested.

"Who wants to help or be reasonable?" he replied. "Here, look at me. I'm driving this bus for hours and hours every day. I'm cold and wet. I'm putting on the brakes from morning to night, saving people's silly lives, until I'm sick of the sight of them. If you was to drive a motor bus in London you'd want a little amusement now and then, too."

"So it's just for entertainment that you dodge about over the stopping-places and keep changing them?" I asked.

"Yes," he replied.

"I was sorry to hear that Lady Diana had met with a nasty motor accident; but had escaped with only slight injuries."—Mrs. Gossip in "The Daily Sketch."

"STOP-PRESS NEWS.GERMAN OFFICIAL."Also ran: Julian, The Vizier, Siller and Pennant."—Manchester Evening Chronicle.

"Also ran: Julian, The Vizier, Siller and Pennant."—Manchester Evening Chronicle.

It is not often that the German official communiqués admit defeat.

"The Poor's Piece appears to be a sort of No Man's Land, and ever since the extinction of Vestrydom has been within the parochial administrative parvenu of the Urban District Council."—Essex Paper.

Who is this municipal upstart?

A SIGNIFICANT STEP.TheEvening Post'sWashington correspondent states: "Mr. Lloyd George's speech at Glasgow is a significant step in the process of winning the war by liplomatic strategy."—Sydney Daily Telegraph.

TheEvening Post'sWashington correspondent states: "Mr. Lloyd George's speech at Glasgow is a significant step in the process of winning the war by liplomatic strategy."—Sydney Daily Telegraph.

There's many a slip 'twixt the dip and the lip; but "liplomatic" is not a bad word.

Nobody out here seems exactly infatuated with the politicians nowadays. The Front Trenches have about as much use for the Front Benches as a big-game hunter for mosquitoes. The bayonet professor indicates his row of dummies and says to his lads, "Just imagine they are Cabinet Ministers—go!" and in a clock-tick the heavens are raining shreds of sacking and particles of straw. The demon bomber fancies some prominent Parliamentarian is lurking in the opposite sap, grits his teeth, and gets an extra five yards into his bowling.

But I am not entirely of the vulgar opinion. The finished politician may not be a subject for odes, but a political education is a great asset to any man. Our Mess President, William, once assisted a friend to lose a parliamentary election, and his experience has been invaluable to us. The moment we are tired of fighting and want billets, the Squadron sits down where it is and the Skipper passes the word along for William. William dusts his boots, adjusts his tie and heads for the most prepossessing farm in sight. Arrived there he takes off his hat to the dog, pats the pig, asks the cow after the calf, salutes the farmer, curtseys to the farmeress, then turning to the inevitable baby, exclaims in the language of the country, "Mong Jew, kell jolly ong-fong" (Gosh, what a topping kid!), and bending tenderly over it imprints a lingering kiss upon its indiarubber features and wins the freedom of the farm. The Mess may make use of the kitchen; the spare bed is at the Skipper's disposal; the cow will move up and make room for the First Mate; the pig will be only too happy to welcome the Subalterns to its modest abode.

Ordinary billeting officers stand no chance against our William and his political education. "That fellow," I heard one disgruntled competitor remark of him, "would hug the Devil for a knob of coke." Once only did he meet his match, and a battle of Titans resulted.

In pursuit of his business he entered a certain farm-house, to find the baby already in possession of another officer, a heavy red creature with a monocle, who was rocking the infant's cradle seventy-five revolutions per minute and making dulcet noises on a moustache comb.

William's heart fell to his field boots; he recognised the red creature's markings immediately. This was another politician; no bloodless victory would be his; fur would fly first, powder burn—Wow!

The red person must have tumbled to William as well, for he increased the revolutions to one hundred and forty per minute and broke into a shrill lullaby of his own impromptu composition:—

"Go to sleep, Mummy's liddle Did-ums;Go to sleep, Daddy's liddle Thing-ma-jig."

"Go to sleep, Mummy's liddle Did-ums;

Go to sleep, Daddy's liddle Thing-ma-jig."

Nevertheless this did not baffle our William. He approached from a flank, deftly twitched the infant out of its cradle by the scruff of its neck, and commenced to plaster it with tender kisses. However the red man tailed it as it went past and hung on, kissing any bits he could reach. When the mother reappeared they were worrying the baby between them as a couple of hound puppies worry the hind leg of a cub. She beat them faithfully with a broom and hove both of them out into the wide wet world, and we all slept in a bog that night, and William was much abused and loathed. But that was his only failure.

If getting billets is William's job, getting rid of them is the Babe's affair. William, like myself, has far too great a mastery of thepatoisto handle delicate situations with success. For instance, when the fanner approaches me with tidings that my troopers have burnt two ploughshares and a crowbar and my troop horses have masticated a brick wall I engage him in palaver, with the result that we eventually part, I under the impression that the incident is closed, and he under the impression that I have promised to buy him a new farm. This leads to all sorts of international complications.

The Babe, on the other hand, regards a knowledge of French as immoral and only knows enough of it to order himselfa drink. He is also gifted with a slight stutter, which under the stress of a foreign language becomes chronic. So when we evacuate a billet William furnishes the Babe with enough money to compensate the farmer for all damages we have not committed, and then effaces himself. Donning a bright smile the Babe approaches the farmer and presses the lucre into his honest palm.

"Hi," says the worthy fellow, "what is this, then? One hundred francs! Where is the seventy-four francs, six centimes for the fleas your dog stole? The two hundred francs, three centimes for the indigestion your rations gave my pig? The eight thousand and ninety-nine francs, five centimes insurance money I should have collected if your brigands had not stopped my barn from burning?—and all the other little damages, three million, eight hundred thousand and forty-four francs, one centime in all—where is it,hein?"

"Ec-c-coutez une moment," the Babe begins, "Jer p-p-poovay expliquay tut—tut—tut—tut—sh-sh-shiss—" says he, loosening his stammer at rapid fire, popping and hissing, rushing and hitching like a red-hot machine-gun with a siphon attachment. In five minutes the farmer is white in the face and imploring the Babe to let by-gones be by-gones. "N-n-not a b-bit of it, old t-top," says the Babe. "Jer p-p-poovay exp-p-pliquay b-b-bub-bub-bub—" and away it goes again like a combined steam-riveter and shower-bath, like the water coming down at Lodore. No farmer however hardy has been known to stand more than twenty minutes of this. A quarter-of-an-hour usually sees him bolting and barring himself into the cellar, with the Babe blowing him kisses of fond farewell through the keyhole.

We are billeted on a farm at the present moment. The Skipper occupies the best bed; the rest of us are doing theal frescotouch in tents and bivouacs scattered about the surrounding landscape. We are on very intimate terms with the genial farmyard folk. Every morning I awake to find half-a-dozen hens and their gentleman-friend roosting along my anatomy. One of the hens laid an egg in my ear this morning. William says she mistook it for her nest, but I take it the hen, as an honest bird, was merely paying rent for the roost.

The Babe turned up at breakfast this morning wearing only half a moustache. He said a goat had browsed off the other half while he slept. The poor beast has been having fits of giggles ever since—a moustache must be very ticklish to digest.

Yesterday MacTavish, while engaged in taking his tub in the open, noticed that his bath-water was mysteriously sinking lower and lower. Turning round to investigate the cause of the phenomenon he beheld a gentle milch privily sucking it up behind, his back. There was a strong flavour of Coal Tar soap in thecafé au laitto-day.

This morning at dawn I was aroused by a cold foot pawing at my face. Blinking awake, I observed Albert Edward in rosy pyjamas capering beside my bed. "Show a leg, quick," he whispered. "Rouse out, and Uncle will show boysey pretty picture."

Brushing aside the coverlet of fowl I followed him tip-toe across the dewy mead to the tarpaulin which he and MacTavish call "home."

Albert Edward lifted a flap and signed me to peep within. It was, as he had promised, a pretty picture.

At the foot of our MacTavish's mattress, under a spare blanket lifted from that warrior in his sleep, lay a large pink pig. Both were occupied in peaceful and stertorous repose.

"Heads of Angels, by Sir JOSHUA REYNOLDS," breathed Albert Edward in my ear.

PATLANDER.

Old Lady from the Country. "I'VE ASKED FOUR PORTERS, AND THEY ALL TELL ME DIFFERENT."Porter. "WHAT CAN YOU EXPECT, MISSUS, IF YER ASKS FOUR DIFFERENT PORTERS?"

Old Lady from the Country. "I'VE ASKED FOUR PORTERS, AND THEY ALL TELL ME DIFFERENT."

Porter. "WHAT CAN YOU EXPECT, MISSUS, IF YER ASKS FOUR DIFFERENT PORTERS?"

"1913 Touring Ford, in splendid condition, fitted with new coils, parafin vaporiser; has been little use."—Irish Times.

I had as usual two letters to write. There are always two and often twenty, but this morning there were two only. One was to my old friend, A., who had just gone into bankruptcy; the other was to my young friend, B., whose sporting efforts in France have won him very rapid promotion. He was just bringing his new captain's stars to England on a few days' leave.

A. is a somewhat austere and melancholy man; B. is just as different as you can imagine.

I wrote thus. First to A.:—

"MY DEAR MAN,—I am sorry to hear your bad news. The times are sufficiently depressing without such a blow as this having to fall on you. I am certain that you don't deserve such treatment, and you have all my sympathy. As for the disgrace—there is none. You are simply a victim of the War. If there is anything I can do to cheer you up, let me know."I am, yours, etc.,—."

"I am, yours, etc.,—."

To B. I wrote thus:—

"DEAR OLD TOP,—This is the best news I have heard for a long time. I always knew you would bring it off soon; but I wasn't prepared for anything quite so sudden. There is, of course, only one thing to do when a man fulfils his destiny in this way. The custom is immemorial, and, war or no war, we must crack a bottle. Tell me where you would like to dine, and when, and I'll fix it up, and some jolly show afterwards. Occasions like This must be celebrated."I am, yours, etc.,—."

"I am, yours, etc.,—."

So far it is a somewhat feeble narrative, nor has it any point beyond the circumstance that I posted the letters in the wrong envelopes.

"The Ministry of Munitions has for disposal approximately 75 TONS WEEKLY of PRESS MUD."—Advt. in "The Engineer."

"In consequence of the epidemic at the Royal Naval College, Osborne, in the spring of this year, it has been decided to reduce the number of cadets at the College from 500 to 300. This reduction will not affect the numbers to be entered, as a larger number of cadets will be accommodated at Dartmouth Colliery."—Scotsman.

Where they will be trained, we suppose, as mine-sweepers.

THE REDUCED TRAIN SERVICE AT SLOWGRAVE."NO NEED TO IDLE YOUR TIME AWAY. JUST GET A SHEET OF EMERY-PAPER AND TAKE THE RUST OFF O' THEM RAILS."

"NO NEED TO IDLE YOUR TIME AWAY. JUST GET A SHEET OF EMERY-PAPER AND TAKE THE RUST OFF O' THEM RAILS."

TRIALS OF A CAMOUFLAGE OFFICER.Sergeant-Major. "BEG PARDON, SIR, I WAS TO ASK YOU IF YOU'D STEP UP TO THE BATTERY, SIR."Camouflage Officer. "WHAT'S THE MATTER?"Sergeant-Major. "IT'S THOSE PAINTED GRASS SCREENS, SIR. THE MULES HAVE EATEN THEM."

Sergeant-Major. "BEG PARDON, SIR, I WAS TO ASK YOU IF YOU'D STEP UP TO THE BATTERY, SIR."

Camouflage Officer. "WHAT'S THE MATTER?"

Sergeant-Major. "IT'S THOSE PAINTED GRASS SCREENS, SIR. THE MULES HAVE EATEN THEM."

O singer sublime of Beeyah-byyah-bunniga-nelliga-jong,It isn't envy, the green and yellow,That makes me take up my lyre, old fellow,And burst with a fierce cacophonous bellowAcross the path of your song.I want to propose another name,Unknown to you and unknown to fame;It is like the sound of a hand-sawn logOr the hostile hark of a husky dog:Chagogagog-munchogagog-chabun-agungamog!This cracker of jaws is a lake, I'm told, a lake in the U.S.A.,And first the Indians, the red sort, owned it,But later to Uncle Sam they loaned it,Who afterwards made no bones, but boned itIn the fine Autolycus way;And though life wasn't a matter vitalHe kept with the lake its rasping title,Which recalls the croak of an amorous frogOr a siren heard in an ocean fog:Chagogagog-munchogagog-chabun-agungamog!

O singer sublime of Beeyah-byyah-bunniga-nelliga-jong,

It isn't envy, the green and yellow,

That makes me take up my lyre, old fellow,

And burst with a fierce cacophonous bellow

Across the path of your song.

I want to propose another name,

Unknown to you and unknown to fame;

It is like the sound of a hand-sawn log

Or the hostile hark of a husky dog:

Chagogagog-munchogagog-chabun-agungamog!

This cracker of jaws is a lake, I'm told, a lake in the U.S.A.,And first the Indians, the red sort, owned it,But later to Uncle Sam they loaned it,Who afterwards made no bones, but boned itIn the fine Autolycus way;And though life wasn't a matter vitalHe kept with the lake its rasping title,Which recalls the croak of an amorous frogOr a siren heard in an ocean fog:Chagogagog-munchogagog-chabun-agungamog!

This cracker of jaws is a lake, I'm told, a lake in the U.S.A.,

And first the Indians, the red sort, owned it,

But later to Uncle Sam they loaned it,

Who afterwards made no bones, but boned it

In the fine Autolycus way;

And though life wasn't a matter vital

He kept with the lake its rasping title,

Which recalls the croak of an amorous frog

Or a siren heard in an ocean fog:

Chagogagog-munchogagog-chabun-agungamog!

"Two thousand cabbage butterflies have been captured by Huntingdon school-children, but more stern measures for their capture must be introduced."—Evening Paper.

In order to capture the cabbage butterfly the first thing to do is to interest the creature by giving it a cabbage-leaf to play with. Then take the kitchen-chopper in the right hand, lift it high and bring it down with a crash on the third vertebra. Few butterflies repeat any offence after this is severed.

"There is a most useful Navy, including two or three super-Dreadnoughts, and the best-bred racehorses in the world."—Irish Times.

"Further instructions as regards the allowance to householders which have increased in size will be issued later. The issue of temporary cards is under consideration."—Food Control Notice in "Liverpool Daily Post."

"Who have increased in size" would be better grammar and just as good sense.

Words under a picture inThe Daily Mail:—

"Chiropodists are attending to the feet of America's new army, and dentists are paying attention to the teeth."

Whereas in the British Army it might so easily have been the other way round.

FromThe Tatleron the subject of the little Stork, which is the badge of Capt. Guynemer's squadron:—

"What emblem could, indeed, be more appropriate as well as beautiful as the bird which is the symbol of Alsace?"

"Wanted, Girls, age 18 to 22, for Jam Jars."—Manchester Evening Chronicle.

As a substitute for sugar, we presume; but wouldn't "Sweet Seventeen" be even more suitable?

"In almost every part of England and Wales there are now some 200,000 women who are doing a real national work on the land."—Mr. PROTHERO'S letter in "The Daily Telegraph."

If there are 200,000 women in almost every part of England there can't be much chance for the men, particularly the single men.

Never confuse the "War dog" with the "dog of War." The War dog is a direct product of the War, but you never yet met him collecting for a hospital, or succouring the wounded, or assisting the police, or hauling a mitrailleuse if he could help it. Yet the War dog worships the Army; it represents a square meal and a "cushy" bed. The new draft takes him for a mascot; but the old hand knows him better. A shameless blend of petty larceny, mendacity, fleas, gourmandism, dirt and unequalled plausibility.

You meet the War dog on some endless road. He will probably be wearing round his neck a piece of dirty card analogous to the eye patch and drooping Inverness cape of some mendicants nearer home—a "property" in fact, and put there by himself, the writer is convinced, although he has not yet actually caught the War dog dressing for the part. The War dog on the road has "spotted" you long before you have seen him, and he has marked you for his own. You become conscious of a piteous whine just behind you and, turning, see the War dog, his eyes filled with tears of entreaty, crawling towards you on his stomach. He advances inch by inch, and on being encouraged with comfortable words of invitation the parasite wriggles his lean body (it is trained tolooklean—actually it is well padded with stolen food from officers' kitchens) up to your feet, and, selecting a puddle in token of his deep humility, rolls upon his back and smiles tearfully up at you from between his grimy fore-paws. Then the game goes forward merrily as per schedule.

Of course you take him back to camp and give him your last piece of Blighty cake. You introduce your protégé—always crawling on his stomach—to the cook; swear to the dog's immaculate conduct; beg a trifle of straw from the transport, and in short see him comfortably settled for the night.

The War dog has you now well beneath his paws. He joins the Mess and listens with an ill-concealed grin as each in turn boasts of the rat-catching powers of his dog at home. Then the War dog retreats hurriedly as a mouse appears; and you, his victim, apologise for him and explain how he has been shaken by adversity and what a noble creature a few days of good food and kind treatment will make of him. The rest is simple. The War dog (with his court) invades your bed and home parcels, and brings you into disrepute with all and sundry—especially the Cook and Quarter. He is fought and soundly thrashed by the regimental mascot (half his size), and the battalion wit composes limericks about you and your pet.

Then suddenly your War dog disappears. You are just beginning to live him down—having moved into another area—when you espy him from the street, the centre of a noisy group in a not too reputable wine-shop. But the War dog never recognises you. He has finished with you—grown tired of you, in fact (he rarely "works" the same victim for more than three weeks). You and your battalion are to him as it were a bone picked clean; and you depart with a prayer that he may die a stray's death at the hands of the Military Police.

One month travelling snugly in a G.S. waggon (you never catch him marching like an honest mascot), the next "swinging the lead" in some warm dug-out—there are few moves on the board of the great War game that he does not know. He will patronise a score of regiments in three months; travel from one end of the Western Front to the other and back again, taking care never to attempt to renew an old acquaintance. Occasionally he makes the mistake of running across a mitrailleuse battery with its dog-teams needing reinforcements, or tries to billet himself on a military pigeon-loft and meets a violent death. But whatever fortune may bring him we can confidently assert that he is much too fly to chance his luck across the border and into the land where the sausage-machines guard the secret of perpetual motion.

Dwarfing the town that to the hillside clingsOn terraced slopes, the castle, nobly plannedAnd noble in its ruined greatness, flingsIts double challenge to the sea and land.Oh, if the ancient spirit of the placeCould win free utterance in articulate tones,What tales to hearten and inspire and braceWould issue from these grey and lichened stones!Once manned and held by paladin and peer,Now tenanted by jackdaws, bats and owls,Save when the casual tourist through its drearAnd grass-grown courts disconsolately prowls.Once famous as the scene of Border fights,Now watching, in the greatest war of all,Old men, with their bilingual acolytes,Beating, outside its gates, a little ball;While on the crumbling battlements on high,Where mail-clad men-at-arms kept watch and ward,Adventurous sheep amaze the curious eyeInstead of grazing on the level sward.But though such incongruities may jarThe sense of fitness in a mind fastidious,Modernity has wholly failed to marThe face of Nature here, or make it hideous.Inland the amphitheatre of hillsSweeps round with Snowdon as their central crest,And murmurs of innumerable rillsBlend with the heaving of the ocean's breast.Already Autumn's fiery finger laidOn heath and marsh and woodland far and wideIn all their gorgeous pageantry has arrayedThe tranquil beauties of the countryside.Here every prospect pleases, and the spot,Unspoilt, unvulgarised by man, remains,Thanks largely to a System which has notAccelerated or improved its trains.Yet even here, amid untroubled ways,Far from the city's fevered, tainted breath,Yon distant plume of yellow smoke betraysThe ceaseless labours of the mills of death.

Dwarfing the town that to the hillside clingsOn terraced slopes, the castle, nobly plannedAnd noble in its ruined greatness, flingsIts double challenge to the sea and land.

Dwarfing the town that to the hillside clings

On terraced slopes, the castle, nobly planned

And noble in its ruined greatness, flings

Its double challenge to the sea and land.

Oh, if the ancient spirit of the placeCould win free utterance in articulate tones,What tales to hearten and inspire and braceWould issue from these grey and lichened stones!

Oh, if the ancient spirit of the place

Could win free utterance in articulate tones,

What tales to hearten and inspire and brace

Would issue from these grey and lichened stones!

Once manned and held by paladin and peer,Now tenanted by jackdaws, bats and owls,Save when the casual tourist through its drearAnd grass-grown courts disconsolately prowls.

Once manned and held by paladin and peer,

Now tenanted by jackdaws, bats and owls,

Save when the casual tourist through its drear

And grass-grown courts disconsolately prowls.

Once famous as the scene of Border fights,Now watching, in the greatest war of all,Old men, with their bilingual acolytes,Beating, outside its gates, a little ball;

Once famous as the scene of Border fights,

Now watching, in the greatest war of all,

Old men, with their bilingual acolytes,

Beating, outside its gates, a little ball;

While on the crumbling battlements on high,Where mail-clad men-at-arms kept watch and ward,Adventurous sheep amaze the curious eyeInstead of grazing on the level sward.

While on the crumbling battlements on high,

Where mail-clad men-at-arms kept watch and ward,

Adventurous sheep amaze the curious eye

Instead of grazing on the level sward.

But though such incongruities may jarThe sense of fitness in a mind fastidious,Modernity has wholly failed to marThe face of Nature here, or make it hideous.

But though such incongruities may jar

The sense of fitness in a mind fastidious,

Modernity has wholly failed to mar

The face of Nature here, or make it hideous.

Inland the amphitheatre of hillsSweeps round with Snowdon as their central crest,And murmurs of innumerable rillsBlend with the heaving of the ocean's breast.

Inland the amphitheatre of hills

Sweeps round with Snowdon as their central crest,

And murmurs of innumerable rills

Blend with the heaving of the ocean's breast.

Already Autumn's fiery finger laidOn heath and marsh and woodland far and wideIn all their gorgeous pageantry has arrayedThe tranquil beauties of the countryside.

Already Autumn's fiery finger laid

On heath and marsh and woodland far and wide

In all their gorgeous pageantry has arrayed

The tranquil beauties of the countryside.

Here every prospect pleases, and the spot,Unspoilt, unvulgarised by man, remains,Thanks largely to a System which has notAccelerated or improved its trains.

Here every prospect pleases, and the spot,

Unspoilt, unvulgarised by man, remains,

Thanks largely to a System which has not

Accelerated or improved its trains.

Yet even here, amid untroubled ways,Far from the city's fevered, tainted breath,Yon distant plume of yellow smoke betraysThe ceaseless labours of the mills of death.

Yet even here, amid untroubled ways,

Far from the city's fevered, tainted breath,

Yon distant plume of yellow smoke betrays

The ceaseless labours of the mills of death.

"William Arthur Fletcher, ship's apprentice, of South Shields, was remanded for a week on a charge of being absent from his ship. His captain alleged that he had found Fletcher asleep on the bridge."—Daily Dispatch.

It must have been his mind that was absent.

"At St. Peter's, Vere Street, where he is going to preach from the 30th of this month to the end of this year, the Rev. R.J. Campbell will speak from the pulpit of Frederick Denison Maurice, like himself a convert to the Church of England ... To hear him was an experience never forgotten."—Guardian.

And this although MAURICE rarely preached for more than one month on end.

MANNERS IN MACEDONIA.LADIES FIRST.

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

I can't help thinking thatGyp, the central figure in Mr. JOHN GALSWORTHY'S new story,Beyond(HEINEMANN), was unhappy in her encounters with the opposite sex. But if memory serves me this is an experience familiar to Mr. GALSWORTHY'S heroines. Men were always wanting to kissGyp, or to marry her, or both, and after a time kept going off and repeating the process with somebody else; so that one can't fairly be astonished if towards the end of the book her outlook had become rather cynical. The character who might have preserved her estimate of mankind in general, and the best and most sympathetically drawn figure in the book, isGyp'sperfectly delightful old father, who throughout the conspicuous failure of her two unions, legitimate and other, retained his fine and chivalrous regard and unfailing care for a daughter who might well have been a thorn in the flesh of a conventional parent. But the relations of these two were never conventional.Gyphad been herself a love-child, and the knowledge of this is shown very clearly in its influence upon their mutual attitude. As for her own affairs, these were, first—to her father's unbounded astonishment—marriage with a temperamental violinist, who ran rapidly down the scale from adoration of his own wife to intrigue with another's; second, clandestine relations with a man of her own race and breed, who loved her to idolatry, and within a few months was found embracing his cousin. PoorGyp! I jest; but you will need no telling that for sincerity and beauty of writing here is a book that you cannot afford to miss. Sometimes I am a little uncertain what Mr. GALSWORTHY is driving at, but I never fail to admire his drive.

Unless Mr. S.P.B. MAIS learns to curb his enthusiasms and to rid himself of certain prejudices he will be wantonly seeking trouble.Rebellion(GRANT RICHARDS) is in some respects a more thoughtful and promising book thanInterlude, but it is marred by what can only be called the same narrow point of view. With everybody and everything modern Mr. MAIS shows an ardent sympathy, but if he is ever to give a comprehensive picture of life he must contrive to be more patient with the old-fashioned. Here his strong personality obtrudes itself too often, and he is inclined to forget that he is a novelist and not a preacher. I could imagine him throwing off a fine comminatory sermon from the text, "Cursed be he who does not admire the genius of Mr. COMPTON MACKENZIE." This homily is drawn from me with reluctance, because in the main I am a strong believer in Mr. MAIS, and (with his connivance) have every intention of retaining that attitude. With all its faultsRebellionremains gloriously distinct from the rubbish-heap of fiction by virtue of its intense sincerity and its frequent flashes of fine descriptive writing. The question of sex dominates it, and those of us who still think that such problems are merely sustenance for the prurient-minded may cast it impatiently aside. But others who like to watch a clever man feeling his way towards the light, and regard a novel as neither a bait nor a bauble, can be confidently advised to read it. They may be irritated, but they will be intrigued.

On the cover ofOne Woman's Hero(METHUEN) you will read that "This book has been designed to cheer and strengthen those for whom, from bereavement owing to the War, the days and nights are sometimes only a procession of sad and torturing visions." Which of coursedisarms criticism, other than what may be expressed in a question whether a book less exclusively preoccupied by the War might not more surely have attained this end. But again, of course, maybe it wouldn't. The tale (for all our pretendings) is not yet written that can actually bring oblivion to bereavement, so perhaps the next best thing is topical chatter of the bright and unsentimental kind with which SYBIL CAMPBELL LETHBRIDGE has filled her entertaining pages. Chatter is the only term for it, though it is quite good of its style; the form being a series of letters written to a friend by the young wife of a soldier at the front. Her neighbours, their households and dinners and affectations and courage, are what she writes about; especially do I commend her handling of the "Let us Forget and Forgive" tribe. To all such (and most of us know at least one) I should suggest the posting of a copy ofOne Woman's Hero, with the page turned down (an act permissible in so good a cause) at the report of the annihilation of one of these well-intentioned but infuriating philosophers. The combined logic and equity of this suggest that the Government might do worse than commandeer the services of Miss LETHBRIDGE as a dinner-table propagandist.

I think BEATRICE GRIMSHAW tortures overmuch her tough bronzed Australian hero, who "could fight his weight in wild cats," and her beautiful slender heroine, "daughter of castles, descendant of crusaders." First the twain fall desperately in love, andEdith, the Catholic, discoversBento be an innocentdivorcé. Marriage impossible, they part. But it is apparently quite in order for her to marry, without loving, a cocoa king who drinks—anything but cocoa; which done, to add to the bitterness of the cup,Ben'swife is reported dead. Whereafter the king in a drunken fit poisons himself, and the widow, fearing to be suspect, flies with her bigBento his secretNobody's Island(HURST AND BLACKETT), off the New Guinea coast, where they live comfortably off ambergris. Eventually tracked down by the dead king's brother, who allows himself to be persuaded ofEdith'sinnocence on what seems to me the most inadequate evidence, the lovers, after protracted mental agonies and physical dangers, are about to enjoy deserved peace whenBen'swife turns up again, necessitating further separation; till finallyEdith, with a handsome babe and the news that after allBen'sfirst wife wasn't a wife at all, finds her way back to Nobody's Island. Now that does seem to be rather overdoing it. But I hasten to credit the writer with a very happy gift of description, which brings the Papuan forests and mountains (or something plausibly like them) vividly before the reader, while the characters, including a boy villain ingenuously bizarre, are amusing puppets capably manipulated.

Mrs. BARNES-GRUNDY possesses a wonderful supply of sprightly humour.Her Mad Month(HUTCHINSON) is funny without being flippant, and although the heroine is very naughty she is never naughty enough to shock her creator's unhyphened namesake. PerhapsCharmian'sexploits in escaping from a severe grandmother, and going unchaperoned to Harrogate (where a very pretty piece of philandering ensued), do not amount to much when seriously considered, but it is one of Mrs. BARNES-GRUNDY'S strong points that you cannot take her seriously. I am on her side all the time when she is giving me light comedy, but when she leaves that vein and bathes her heroine in tears I cannot conjure up any real sympathy. I never for a moment doubted thatCharmian'slover, though reported as having "died from wounds," would turn up again. I am afraid the War is responsible for a great deal of rather obvious fiction.

Miss MARIE HARRISON has investigated the condition of Ireland, and inDawn in Ireland(MELROSE) she presents the results of her studies. The book is inspired by a great deal of the right kind of enthusiasm, and the advice given is so excellent as to arouse the fear that it will not be taken. Yet Miss HARRISON is justified of her endeavours. She shows how often the English governors of Ireland have failed, in spite of the best intentions, only because they applied their remedy too late and thus, to their own great surprise, wasted the generosity of which they were perhaps too conscious. According to Miss HARRISON the gombeenman is the curse of Ireland, the serpent whose presence, if only he can be reduced to being an absentee, warrants us in regarding Ireland as a possible Eden. Miss HARRISON will please to take the preceding sentence as proving my entire sympathy with Irish modes of thought and expression and, generally, with Ireland. Against the gombeener (who is a shop-keeper running his business on the long-credit system) she invokes a vision of the blessings of co-operation. One of her heroes is Sir HORACE PLUNKETT, and, indeed, the work of the Irish Agricultural Organisation Society, over which he has presided, has been an unmixed benefit to Ireland. I heartily endorse Miss HARRISON'S hope that "at no distant period all will be well with Ireland." Her book should certainly help towards this result.

Captain VERE SHORTT fell at Loos in September of 1915, and left twelve chapters of a story,The Rod of the Snake(LANE), which his sister has finished and very capably finished; helped by the recollection of many intimate conversations about the plot and its development. It tells how youngCharlie Shandross, bidding his preposterous soldier uncle be hanged, shook the stale dust of Ballybar off his feet, served three years in the C.M.R., and so prepared himself for the deadly adventure of the rod of the snake, the image of the ape, the Haytian attaché and the sinister priestess of Voodoo rites—Paris its setting. I won't spoil your pleasure by giving the details away; I will only say it is all very splendidly incredible, but not unplausible, and the authors do take pains with their puzzles, as where the hero and his party find the secret spring of the panel in the vault by the blood tracks of their enemy, who has been thoughtfully wounded in the hand. A small point but significant; too many writers in this kind being given to whisking their favourites out of danger in the most arbitrary manner. A good railway book, of the sort you can confidently pass on to the soldiers' hospitals after reading it.

THE LAST VISITOR AND THE NATIONAL ANTHEM.

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