NEWS FROM THE SHIRES.

NEWS FROM THE SHIRES.NEWS FROM THE SHIRES.Customer. "WELL, JARVIS, WHAT'S THE LATEST?"Farrier. "I HEAR AS HOW THAT ADMIRAL BEATTY IS LIKELY TO BECOME A PUBLIC MAN."Customer. "HOW DO YOU MEAN?"Farrier. "WHY, I HEAR SOME TALK OF HIM BEING MASTER OF THE QUORN."

Customer. "WELL, JARVIS, WHAT'S THE LATEST?"

Farrier. "I HEAR AS HOW THAT ADMIRAL BEATTY IS LIKELY TO BECOME A PUBLIC MAN."

Customer. "HOW DO YOU MEAN?"

Farrier. "WHY, I HEAR SOME TALK OF HIM BEING MASTER OF THE QUORN."

The Colonel was, as usual, laying down the law.

"Economy!" he said with a snort; "economy's dead. No one cares about saving money any more. No one cares about the value of money. We are asked excessive prices and we pay them. We eat, drink and are merry—or approximately so—and be hanged to you! With the exception of the halfpenny stamp we put on circulars I can think of nothing that has not gone up or, in other words, lost buying power. I defy anyone to name a thing that hasn't."

He glowered fiercely and challengingly around.

"I repeat," he said, "that the purchasing power of money is not what it was in any respect. The other day, for instance, I bought a new hat. I used to pay a guinea; it is now thirty-two and six. And a worse hat probably. What do you think I was charged for soling and heeling shoes? One pound ten! And worse leather. That's partly what I mean by the loss of purchasing power; where the price may in some extraordinary way remain the same, the quality of the article paid for is inferior. There's a steady deterioration. Can anyone name a case where I am wrong?"

His red eyes again defied us.

"Yes, I can," said a meek voice.

The Colonel subjected the speaker to a long and ferocious scrutiny.

"You can'?" he said at last.

"Yes," replied the meek voice. "Will you bet on it?"

"Bet on it? Most certainly I will," said the Colonel, who has done fairly well in wagers in his time. "How much?"

"What you like," replied the meek voice.

"Very well," said the Colonel, "make it a tenner."

"With pleasure," was the rejoinder. "The bet is that I can't name a single thing which has not either increased in price or decreased in quality since the War?"

"Yes," said the Colonel.

We all sat up and waited, as though for the maroons in the old, old days.

"Well," said the meek voice, "the cost of pulling a communication cord is I still five pounds, and you can have just as good a pull as ever."

"Why, what's this, Ben, they're telling me?—Eighty and going to get a wife!Gaffer, I thought you'd surely beA snug old bachelor for life.""Well, Sur, ye see I allus meantTo take ole Martha some fine day;But 'wed in haste and then repent'I heer'd as many folks did say."But now, thinks I, there's sure no fearThrough too much haste o' goin' wrong;"An', anyways, at eighty yearI can't repent fur wery long."

"Why, what's this, Ben, they're telling me?—Eighty and going to get a wife!Gaffer, I thought you'd surely beA snug old bachelor for life."

"Why, what's this, Ben, they're telling me?—

Eighty and going to get a wife!

Gaffer, I thought you'd surely be

A snug old bachelor for life."

"Well, Sur, ye see I allus meantTo take ole Martha some fine day;But 'wed in haste and then repent'I heer'd as many folks did say.

"Well, Sur, ye see I allus meant

To take ole Martha some fine day;

But 'wed in haste and then repent'

I heer'd as many folks did say.

"But now, thinks I, there's sure no fearThrough too much haste o' goin' wrong;

"But now, thinks I, there's sure no fear

Through too much haste o' goin' wrong;

"An', anyways, at eighty yearI can't repent fur wery long."

"An', anyways, at eighty year

I can't repent fur wery long."

THE GREATEST PATRIOT OF ALL: A public servant who did not strike during the War—Big Ben.

EFFECT ON BALLROOM IF, OWING TO THE STRIKE MANIA, THE MUSICIANS WERE SUDDENLY TO 'DOWN INSTRUMENTS.'EFFECT ON BALLROOM IF, OWING TO THE STRIKE MANIA, THE MUSICIANS WERE SUDDENLY TO "DOWN INSTRUMENTS".

They tell me there is work for most,However tired they be,That there are Offices engrossedIn finding me a well-paid postOf suitable degree;That there are businesses that itchTo make the young lieutenant rich,Yet I have not discovered whichIs itching after me.And this is strange; for I could shineIn any place you please,Although, if there is any lineWhich is most obviously mine,It is the man of ease—The man whose intellect is suchHe never has to labour much,But does the literary touchIn comfort at "The Leas."Or I could be a splendid SquireAnd watch the harvest grow,Could urge the reaper to perspireAnd put the cattle in the byre(If that is where they go),And every morning do the roundsOf my immense ancestral groundsWith six or seven faithful hounds,And say, "It looks like snow."And there are moments when I feelThe diplomatic call;No trickery would long concealThe state of things at BubazeelWhen I was at the Ball,To spy across the "brilliant floors"On daughters of Ambassadors,And "obviate" impending warsBy dancing with them all.A bishopric I can't afford,Though I could give it tone,And often when the people snoredI've felt they would not be so boredBy sermons of my own;But if the Secretaries cryFor secretaries—here am I;Or nobly would I occupyThe taxi-driver's throne.For I should beam across the streetWhen people waved at me,And say, "My petrol's incomplete,I haven't had my bit of meatNor yet my bit of tea,But just because I like your faceI'll take you out to any placeHowever distant from my base—And ask no extra fee."And yet I doubt could England bearTo see my rest destroyed?A soul so delicate and fairShould simply saunter through the airAnd cultivate the void;One would not readily degradeOne's loveliness inanytrade,Only, of course, one must be paidFor being unemployed.

They tell me there is work for most,

However tired they be,

That there are Offices engrossed

In finding me a well-paid post

Of suitable degree;

That there are businesses that itch

To make the young lieutenant rich,

Yet I have not discovered which

Is itching after me.

And this is strange; for I could shineIn any place you please,Although, if there is any lineWhich is most obviously mine,It is the man of ease—The man whose intellect is suchHe never has to labour much,But does the literary touchIn comfort at "The Leas."

And this is strange; for I could shine

In any place you please,

Although, if there is any line

Which is most obviously mine,

It is the man of ease—

The man whose intellect is such

He never has to labour much,

But does the literary touch

In comfort at "The Leas."

Or I could be a splendid SquireAnd watch the harvest grow,Could urge the reaper to perspireAnd put the cattle in the byre(If that is where they go),And every morning do the roundsOf my immense ancestral groundsWith six or seven faithful hounds,And say, "It looks like snow."

Or I could be a splendid Squire

And watch the harvest grow,

Could urge the reaper to perspire

And put the cattle in the byre

(If that is where they go),

And every morning do the rounds

Of my immense ancestral grounds

With six or seven faithful hounds,

And say, "It looks like snow."

And there are moments when I feelThe diplomatic call;No trickery would long concealThe state of things at BubazeelWhen I was at the Ball,To spy across the "brilliant floors"On daughters of Ambassadors,And "obviate" impending warsBy dancing with them all.

And there are moments when I feel

The diplomatic call;

No trickery would long conceal

The state of things at Bubazeel

When I was at the Ball,

To spy across the "brilliant floors"

On daughters of Ambassadors,

And "obviate" impending wars

By dancing with them all.

A bishopric I can't afford,Though I could give it tone,And often when the people snoredI've felt they would not be so boredBy sermons of my own;But if the Secretaries cryFor secretaries—here am I;Or nobly would I occupyThe taxi-driver's throne.

A bishopric I can't afford,

Though I could give it tone,

And often when the people snored

I've felt they would not be so bored

By sermons of my own;

But if the Secretaries cry

For secretaries—here am I;

Or nobly would I occupy

The taxi-driver's throne.

For I should beam across the streetWhen people waved at me,And say, "My petrol's incomplete,I haven't had my bit of meatNor yet my bit of tea,But just because I like your faceI'll take you out to any placeHowever distant from my base—And ask no extra fee."

For I should beam across the street

When people waved at me,

And say, "My petrol's incomplete,

I haven't had my bit of meat

Nor yet my bit of tea,

But just because I like your face

I'll take you out to any place

However distant from my base—

And ask no extra fee."

And yet I doubt could England bearTo see my rest destroyed?A soul so delicate and fairShould simply saunter through the airAnd cultivate the void;One would not readily degradeOne's loveliness inanytrade,Only, of course, one must be paidFor being unemployed.

And yet I doubt could England bear

To see my rest destroyed?

A soul so delicate and fair

Should simply saunter through the air

And cultivate the void;

One would not readily degrade

One's loveliness inanytrade,

Only, of course, one must be paid

For being unemployed.

A. P. H.

(An authentic document.)

Will you please send me a fountain pen because nearly every boy but me has a fountain pen and I should so like to have one because I often want to write something outside and I carn't and then when I come in I don't no what it is and I miss something out of my letter then when I have writen my letter I remember what it was and genulry I remember it in lesons and when I begin to write my next letter I have for goten it and it goes on like that till at last I remember it and then some times I don't rember it all and that is why I want a fontin pen.

'DRY' HUMOUR."DRY" HUMOUR.PRESIDENT WILSON. "OUR FUTURE LIES UPON THE WATER!"BRITANNIA. "ALLUDING, I PRESUME, TO YOUR PROHIBITION MOVEMENT?"

PRESIDENT WILSON. "OUR FUTURE LIES UPON THE WATER!"

BRITANNIA. "ALLUDING, I PRESUME, TO YOUR PROHIBITION MOVEMENT?"

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.MR. LOWTHER TAKES THE CHAIR FOR "POSITIVELY THE LAST TIME." HIS ENTHUSIASTIC PROPOSER AND SECONDER (COLONEL MILDMAY AND SIR HENRY DALZIEL), BITTEN BY THE POPULAR CRAZE, PUT A BIT OF "JAZZ" INTO THE PROCEEDINGS.]

MR. LOWTHER TAKES THE CHAIR FOR "POSITIVELY THE LAST TIME." HIS ENTHUSIASTIC PROPOSER AND SECONDER (COLONEL MILDMAY AND SIR HENRY DALZIEL), BITTEN BY THE POPULAR CRAZE, PUT A BIT OF "JAZZ" INTO THE PROCEEDINGS.]

Tuesday, February 4th.—There is much virtue in horsehair. Few who attended the informal opening of the Third Parliament of KING GEORGE THE FIFTH would have guessed that under the full-bottomed wig and gorgeous black-and-gold robes of the dignified figure on the Woolsack lay the volatile personality of "F. E." He played his new part nobly. A trifling error in the setting of his three-cornered hat, whose rakish cock was for the moment reminiscent of the "Galloper," was quickly corrected on the advice of one of the Lords Commissioners at his side; and by the time the faithful Commons were admitted to hear the Commission read there was nothing to differentiate Lord BIRKENHEAD (as he had now become) from any previous occupant of his exalted position. Nor was there any lack of dignity in his delivery of the instructions to the Commons to "proceed to the choice of some proper person to be your Speaker"—though I fancy that when he bade them "repair to the place where you are to sit" he must have been tempted to add the words, "provided that you can find room there."

For the Lower House, when we returned there, was a seething mass of humanity. How many of the 707 duly elected Members were present I know not; but there were enough to swamp the floor and surge over into the Galleries. Seeing that the "Tubes" were closed and taxis few and far between, some of them were obliged to resort to unusual methods of locomotion. Sir HENRY NORMAN surprised the police in Palace Yard by arriving on a motor-scooter, and there is an unconfirmed rumour that the Editor ofJohn Bullmade hisrentréeto the House in a flying-boat drawn by fourcanards sauvages.Anyhow, there they were, so thick and slab that Mr. DE VALERA, who was reported to have escaped from durance vile with the intention of presenting himself at the House and creating a disturbance, would have found it impossible to gain entry unless preceded by a charge of gelignite. As it was, none of the Sinn Feiners was present, nor indeed any representative of Irish Nationalism at all, and the proceedings were as orderly as a Quaker funeral.

Not that they were by any means dull. For both Colonel MILDMAY, who proposed, and Sir HENRY DALZIEL, who seconded, the re-election of Mr. LOWTHER as Speaker, spiced their compliments with humour. The former was confident that even if Woman appeared on the floor of the House the SPEAKER-ELECT'S "consummate tact" would be equal to coping with her artfullest endeavours to get round the rules of procedure; while the latter attributed his priceless gift of humour to "Scottish ancestry on the mother's side."

Horsehair again! I hardly recognised in the quietly-dressed Member who rose from the Bench behind Ministers to acknowledge these encomiums the man whose awe-inspiring appearance (when clothed in wig and gown) has quelled so many storms in the last four Parliaments. Let us hope that the fifth, of which, being the outcome of his famous Conference, he may in a sense be described as the "onlie begetter," will not disgrace its parentage.

Already there are elements of difficulty. Through the non-return of Mr. ASQUITH the Opposition has lost its head literally and is in some danger of losing it figuratively, for the remnant of the un-"couponed" Liberals and the Labour Party are at present acutely divided on the question upon whom the lost Leader's mantle should fall. Today Sir DONALD MACLEAN, as senior Privy Councillor, took thepasand was able from personal experience to give his conception of the ideal Speaker, who "must not only have good vision but be sometimes quite blind; not only have acute hearing but occasionally be almost stone-deaf." Fortunately the SPEAKER-ELECT can assume these physical defects at will; for, despite its quiet opening, I doubt if the new Parliament when it gets to work will prove precisely a Lowther Arcadia.

Wednesday, February 5th.—To the Lords again, where the SPEAKER-ELECT, attired in Court dress and accompanied by the SERGEANT-AT-ARMS dandling the Mace as if it ware a refractory infant, presented himself at the Bar to hear from the LORD CHANCELLOR the pleasing intelligence that HIS MAJESTY was convinced of his "ample sufficiency" to execute his arduous duties, and readily approved his election. Thereupon Sir COLIN KEPPEL swung the Mace on to his shoulder and escorted the SPEAKER, now confirmed in his rank, back to the Commons.

There was an unusual rush of Members to take the oath. This was not entirely due to the new Members, naturally desirous of completing their initiatory rites, but was shared by many of the older hands, for the good and sufficient reason that, until a Member is certified as having been duly sworn, he cannot recover his one hundred and fifty pounds deposit from the Returning Officer. In their zeal to be in a position to reimburse themselves Members crowded in such numbers to the tables that there was some danger that they would be overturned. As one of our Latinists remarked, "It looks as if we should havenovae resoutside andnovae tabulaeinside."

Thursday, February 6th.—The process, once immortalized by a Lords' reporter in the sentence, "A few Bishops looked in, swore, and went away again," went on in both Houses; but in the Commons in a more orderly fashion than yesterday. For the SPEAKER, ever ready, as he said on his election, "to carry out the old rules in a modern spirit," directed the waiting Members to form up in line. One of the Coalitionists evinced a little surprise. He had always understood that when coupons were issued queues were superfluous.

Donald (who a short time before had put the bottle in the cupboard "for another day" breaking long silence)."SAXPENCE FOR YOUR THOUGHTS, SANDY."Sandy."WEEL, I'M THENKIN' IT'S JEST TWA MEENITS SEN THE CLOCK STRUCK TWELVE—AN' IT'LL BE ANITHER DAY."

Donald (who a short time before had put the bottle in the cupboard "for another day" breaking long silence)."SAXPENCE FOR YOUR THOUGHTS, SANDY."

Sandy."WEEL, I'M THENKIN' IT'S JEST TWA MEENITS SEN THE CLOCK STRUCK TWELVE—AN' IT'LL BE ANITHER DAY."

"Wanted a Certificated (Resilient) Lady Teacher for Std. V."—Times of India.

A sort of WINSTON in petticoats, we suppose.

(Being some extracts from the daily Press of, say, 1925).

.... The bi-monthly strike of Clyde workers took place yesterday. The proceedings were quite orderly. The matter in dispute this time is a very simple affair. The men, who are now working on a full half-hour a week basis at one hundred and sixty-eight hours' pay, with three snap meal-times of ten minutes each per day, are not pressing for any alteration in pay or hours, but demand the dismissal of Mr. John Smith, the managing director of one of the large shipbuilding yards, who rudely refused to fetch a pint of beer for one of the rivetters. The Government department dealing with strike questions is full up for three months yet, but hopes are entertained that, unless a critical by-election should intervene, it will be possible to deal with the matter at the expiration of that period.

.... Much interest was aroused last evening by the production of a new musical show, both the book and music of which have been written by natives of this country. A strong protest has been lodged by the United States Embassy.

.... A passenger on one of the Tube railways alleges that he entered a train at Oxford Circus Station last evening. No confirmation is as yet forthcoming, and the rumour must be treated with reserve.

.... The Peace Conference held a sitting yesterday and definitely decided that the ex-Kaiser should be tried one of these days. It is confidently stated in the inner circles of Paris that peace will inevitably be concluded within the next ten or twelve years.

.... Dancing still holds its own as the principal amusement of the bulk of the population. The latest dance, the Guzz-Jinx, which is danced on the hands with the right foot placed in the mouth of one's partner, is stated to be very graceful indeed. The correct music is provided by a band performing entirely on hair-combs and tea-trays.

.... A reduction is promised in the price of tobacco shortly. An ounce recently changed hands at a well-known Piccadilly shop at two hundred and seven pounds, but the new season's prices are not expected to be much above one hundred and fifty pounds.

A man was charged at Bow Street yesterday with endeavouring to ride in a motor-bus on Tuesday, the 12th of the month, when his permit was only for Thursday, the 15th of each month. He was severely cautioned and ordered to get a new calendar.

BEFORE THE COMBAT.BEFORE THE COMBAT.Excited Duellist."WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"Nervous Opponent."I'M PUTTING MAGIC DROPS ON MY SWORD, WHICH WILL MAKE IT IRRESISTIBLE."Excited Duellist."BUT THAT'S NOT FAIR TO ME."Nervous Opponent (relieved)."ALL RIGHT, YOU CAN HAVE SOME AND WE'LL CALL IT A DRAW."

Excited Duellist."WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"

Nervous Opponent."I'M PUTTING MAGIC DROPS ON MY SWORD, WHICH WILL MAKE IT IRRESISTIBLE."

Excited Duellist."BUT THAT'S NOT FAIR TO ME."

Nervous Opponent (relieved)."ALL RIGHT, YOU CAN HAVE SOME AND WE'LL CALL IT A DRAW."

Dear Lydia, long before your time,When I was half the 'teen you own to,Don Valentine was in his prime,The world not yet the thing it's grown to.The postman then with double knocksThis morning many a heart was thrilling,And brought a shining cardboard boxWith round red hearts in paper frilling.A simpler world, and well contentWith what seems small by modern measure;And winters came and roses went,Yet Time dulls pain as well as pleasure.Though, with this fashion out of date,His hand to-day weighs almost lightlyIf this my war-time chocolateMakes two dark eyes to shine more brightly.

Dear Lydia, long before your time,

When I was half the 'teen you own to,

Don Valentine was in his prime,

The world not yet the thing it's grown to.

The postman then with double knocks

This morning many a heart was thrilling,

And brought a shining cardboard box

With round red hearts in paper frilling.

A simpler world, and well contentWith what seems small by modern measure;And winters came and roses went,Yet Time dulls pain as well as pleasure.Though, with this fashion out of date,His hand to-day weighs almost lightlyIf this my war-time chocolateMakes two dark eyes to shine more brightly.

A simpler world, and well content

With what seems small by modern measure;

And winters came and roses went,

Yet Time dulls pain as well as pleasure.

Though, with this fashion out of date,

His hand to-day weighs almost lightly

If this my war-time chocolate

Makes two dark eyes to shine more brightly.

To those who are about to re-establish their herbaceous borders it will come as a welcome surprise that restrictions as to the sale of the following foodstuffs by nurserymen have now been withdrawn:—

Stucky'sGermania(Lamb's Ear).

Scolopendrium(Hart's Tongue).

No coupons will be required for these in future.

Fatsia Horrida.—This is no longer grown by nurserymen, but can be obtained at any butcher's, large quantities having recently arrived from Greece. Smith minor, possibly a prejudiced witness, says he gets it at school; that it is beastly and only another name for Cod Liver Oil.

Sambucus(the Elder).—A correspondent inquires if anything is known of the younger branch of this family. On being appealed to the Secretary of the Linnaean Society sent the followingsomewhat enigmatic telegram: "Recommend CLEMENCEAU non-Papa, who may know something of Uncle Sam."

Hydrangea.—This hardy shrub is so called as it was originally raised by the Ranger of Hyde Park. The American variety "radiata" succeeds well indoors if grown on hot-water pipes.

Pirus.—There are several varieties of this species. The best known, however, comes from Cornwall and was raised by the late Sir W.S. GILBERT, who introduced the Savoy cabbage. It is called thePirus of Penzance.

[It is said that demobilised officers, anxious to dance, are finding it almost impossible to buy dress-shirts and evening pumps.]

Now that I've been demobilisedI'm going again to dances—I do not care with whom or where,I'm taking any chances.And evening dress, I've been advised,Will never become transitional;Yet once or twice I've been surprisedTo find my khaki pals disguisedIn new dress suits and old trench boots,Which scarcely seems traditional.I met my Colonel at a hopJazzing in his goloshes,With a dress-tie pert on a cricket-shirtThat had shrunk in various washes;And my Major was doing the Donkey-DropBetween a couple of rippers—Yet his pink-and-white pyjama-topIf anything seemed a shadede trop,And his faultless coat hardly echoed the noteOf his worsted bedroom slippers.But the world long since went off its chump,And the cry of the man from France is,"I simply refuse to let shirts and shoesPrevent me from going to dances.I'll take the shine out of collar and pump,And their wearerswilllook sillyWhen I once begin the Giraffe-Galump,The Chicken-Run and the Jaguar-Jump,The Wombat-Walk and the Buffalo-Bump,With a chamois vest on my manly chest,And football-boots and the smartest of suitsThey can cut in Piccadilly."

Now that I've been demobilised

I'm going again to dances—

I do not care with whom or where,

I'm taking any chances.

And evening dress, I've been advised,

Will never become transitional;

Yet once or twice I've been surprised

To find my khaki pals disguised

In new dress suits and old trench boots,

Which scarcely seems traditional.

I met my Colonel at a hopJazzing in his goloshes,With a dress-tie pert on a cricket-shirtThat had shrunk in various washes;And my Major was doing the Donkey-DropBetween a couple of rippers—Yet his pink-and-white pyjama-topIf anything seemed a shadede trop,And his faultless coat hardly echoed the noteOf his worsted bedroom slippers.

I met my Colonel at a hop

Jazzing in his goloshes,

With a dress-tie pert on a cricket-shirt

That had shrunk in various washes;

And my Major was doing the Donkey-Drop

Between a couple of rippers—

Yet his pink-and-white pyjama-top

If anything seemed a shadede trop,

And his faultless coat hardly echoed the note

Of his worsted bedroom slippers.

But the world long since went off its chump,And the cry of the man from France is,"I simply refuse to let shirts and shoesPrevent me from going to dances.I'll take the shine out of collar and pump,And their wearerswilllook sillyWhen I once begin the Giraffe-Galump,The Chicken-Run and the Jaguar-Jump,The Wombat-Walk and the Buffalo-Bump,With a chamois vest on my manly chest,And football-boots and the smartest of suitsThey can cut in Piccadilly."

But the world long since went off its chump,

And the cry of the man from France is,

"I simply refuse to let shirts and shoes

Prevent me from going to dances.

I'll take the shine out of collar and pump,

And their wearerswilllook silly

When I once begin the Giraffe-Galump,

The Chicken-Run and the Jaguar-Jump,

The Wombat-Walk and the Buffalo-Bump,

With a chamois vest on my manly chest,

And football-boots and the smartest of suits

They can cut in Piccadilly."

"The following are some alternative routes which could be used by people going home this evening from the City or West End:—"Clapham Common.—By Elephant, trams and 'buses."—Evening News.

"The following are some alternative routes which could be used by people going home this evening from the City or West End:—

"Clapham Common.—By Elephant, trams and 'buses."—Evening News.

I ran upstairs after lunch to-day to see old Harris. He has the flat over mine, you know. In addition to this Harris is an author. Sometimes he even gets money for it.

"Doin' a bit of work to-day, Harris?" I remarked casually.

"I'm doing a little flying story," he informed me with dignity.

"Oh, yes," I agreed carelessly, then woke up and stared hard.

"Flying?" I repeated. "But what the—I mean, what do you know about flying, anyway?"

Brutality is the only thing with Harris. He was very hurt. He gasped and glared at me in a most annoyed manner.

"I know a pretty good lot," he announced with some asperity. "I've talked to dozens of pilots about it and I've read books on flying—and the newspapers—"

"And don't forget you once passed Hendon in the train too, old son," I soothed him. "I'd no idea you were so well up in it. Sorry I spoke. Let's see it; may I?"

Harris picked up a couple of sheets of paper from the desk and, coughing imposingly, proceeded to read out his masterpiece:—

"Lionel Marchant came slowly out of the hangar, drawing on his long fur gloves and studying his maps with an intent and keen face.

"His machine, a single-seater scout of the latest type, was just being wheeled out and now stood glistening in the bright autumn sunshine, which danced on the shining brasswork and threw deep shadows on the grass beneath.

"The airman swung lightly into his seat; a final word or two with his commanding officer and he flung over the levers and gave a sharp turn to the starting handle.

"The powerful engine in front of him woke into life deafeningly and, waving away the mechanics holding the wings, he pressed the clutch pedal and moved slowly forward.

"His face is very grim and determined—he throws across another lever and the low hum of the motor changes into a deep-throated roar. Gathering speed, he goes faster and faster—now he is in the air—now a little speck in the sky, heading for the enemy's lines—"

"Oh, no, please," I broke in feebly. "I can't stand any more just now. You're not seriously thinking of having this published, are you?"

As in a dream I took the manuscript from his fingers and gazed blankly at it whilst his indignant flow of speech passed harmlessly over my head.

"But, Harris," I said at length, with infinite compassion in my voice, "Harris, I love you as a brother, but this really is awful—why—well, listen here"—

"'As the second German machine came down on them in a steep dive Lionel gave a hasty glance behind him, where the huge engine raced madly, and shouted excitedly to his observer.

"'The latter, swinging the machine gun round sharply, took rapid aim and pressed the trigger—'"

I stopped.

"Well?" demanded the author icily.

"No, it's too frightful," I bleated. "Harris, thismightconceivably be read by a real pilot. Heaven forbid, of course! And he'd simply hate this scout 'bus with the engine ahead to change into a 'pusher' two-seater in six paragraphs."

Harris was routed, absolutely demoralised. "They told me to put in lots of flying talk," he murmured abjectly, "and tons of local colour to make it lifelike."

"Yes," I said grimly, "but this colour's too local for words."

"Of course, if you think you could do it better yourself," Harris observed with heavy sarcasm, "well, then—"

"Certainly," I agreed heartily. "I don't mind showingyou, Harris, seeing you're a pal of mine. Just pass the ink and let your uncle get to work."

Behold my effort!—

"'Orderly, what about tea?'

"'Very nearly ready, Sir.'

"'Right. Then I think a small piece of toast is indicated;' and he proceeded to hack the loaf to pieces with great vigour.

"'Hun over somewhere, sounds like,' said a sleepy voice as the throb of an engine was heard overhead.

"'Oh, I can't help his troubles,' observed the toast-maker airily. 'He's got no right to come at tea-time. In about half-an-hour or so I might think about—'

"Here the telephone bell rang.

"'Now that's a splendid joke,' said his unfeeling friend as he laid down the receiver. 'You've got to go up after that chap. They're getting your 'bus out now, so—'

"'What!' came in disgusted tones from the fireside. 'Don't be so dam funny. What do you mean?'

"'Not ragging, really, Bill. The C.O. said he wanted you to have a shot at that fellow. Run like a hare. You may catch him up over Berlin somewhere. I'll eat your toast for you.'

I SAY, TAXI, I'VE ONLY GOT ENOUGH CHANGE TO PAY THE EXACT FARE. D'YOU MIND TAKING A CHEQUE FOR THE TIP?"I SAY, TAXI, I'VE ONLY GOT ENOUGH CHANGE TO PAY THE EXACT FARE. D'YOU MIND TAKING A CHEQUE FOR THE TIP?"

"'Oh, will you?' grunted the other. 'What awful rot it is! Oh, the devil—where's my hat?' and out he plunged.

"Two minutes later he was struggling into a heavy leather coat and, feeling thoroughly ill-used, climbed into his machine.

"The propeller was swung, emitting one hollow cough.

"'Switch off. All right, contact.'

"At the third attempt the engine remembered its manners and started up with a jerk. A few moments to get her running smoothly, a rapid test to see that she was 'giving her revs.' and the chocks, were waved away from the wheels.

"Within twenty yards he was off the ground and, throttle wide open, climbing towards the little white dot thousands of feet above.

"And all the time he was grumbling.

"'What awful rot it is! I've about as much chance of reaching the blighter as ... Running my engine to bits as it is ... May be able to cut him off when he's dropped his eggs.'

"Which is precisely what happened. The last gift had been thankfully received in a ploughed field beneath and the Hun was turning for home when the scout struggled to his level.

"The watchers on the ground saw the small machine press determinedly towards the bigger and a faint crackle of gun-fire broke out.

"It was answered by all the guns on board the enemy craft and the single-seater wavered undecidedly.

"Then he got his adversary fairly in his ring sight again and' risking everything, fired burst after burst.

"All at once the big machine heeled over and dived—a flash and a sudden sheet of flame from the engine and down dropped the raider, to dash to pieces in the French fields three miles below.

"Ten minutes later the British machine slithered on to the ground and switched off in front of the sheds.

"'By Jove, Bill,' said his friend, rushing up excitedly, 'that was the best show—'

"'Not so much of it,' interposed the 'hero,' scrambling out of his seat. 'What about my tea? Did you look after my toast for me? No, might have known you wouldn't.'"

"They who faced the terrors of the deep, Who guarded our snores-while we were asleep."Scottish Paper.

"They who faced the terrors of the deep, Who guarded our snores-while we were asleep."

Scottish Paper.

"Though his career was entirely that of a public servant, he had personality and that self-evident efficiency which mark a man out for promotion."—Times.

That "though" is rather cynical.

[Discussing the unruliness of modern children, a correspondent in the Press suggests that parents might exchange offspring for educational purposes.]

Hector, one thought alone forbadeYour stout progenitor to squirmThrough all the months the Huns essayedTo pink his epiderm—The thought that you, through what he'd done,Might find a better world, my son.Now must you do your bit for me,For, guided by the sage's lore,I mean to barter progenyWith Brown, the man next door,And educate in place of youBertram, his brazen-lunged Yahoo.Too long, too long have I been bannedFrom giving what he's been denied,The checkings of a chiding hand,Impartially applied,But now he's going to get it, Hec(Though not exactly in the neck).Exile from your ancestral hutAt first may fill your soul with pain;If so, this filial thought should cutYour tears off at the main:The hours he spends across my kneeWill mean a better world for me.

Hector, one thought alone forbade

Your stout progenitor to squirm

Through all the months the Huns essayed

To pink his epiderm—

The thought that you, through what he'd done,

Might find a better world, my son.

Now must you do your bit for me,For, guided by the sage's lore,I mean to barter progenyWith Brown, the man next door,And educate in place of youBertram, his brazen-lunged Yahoo.

Now must you do your bit for me,

For, guided by the sage's lore,

I mean to barter progeny

With Brown, the man next door,

And educate in place of you

Bertram, his brazen-lunged Yahoo.

Too long, too long have I been bannedFrom giving what he's been denied,The checkings of a chiding hand,Impartially applied,But now he's going to get it, Hec(Though not exactly in the neck).

Too long, too long have I been banned

From giving what he's been denied,

The checkings of a chiding hand,

Impartially applied,

But now he's going to get it, Hec

(Though not exactly in the neck).

Exile from your ancestral hutAt first may fill your soul with pain;If so, this filial thought should cutYour tears off at the main:The hours he spends across my kneeWill mean a better world for me.

Exile from your ancestral hut

At first may fill your soul with pain;

If so, this filial thought should cut

Your tears off at the main:

The hours he spends across my knee

Will mean a better world for me.

"Mr. —— held that purchased meat would be better than that supplied by contractors, who were not saints. He knew of one case where cattle were actually killed after they died."—Irish Times.

"The following has been issued by the Sinn Fein Executive:—

"At the weekly meeting of the Executive it was unanimously decided to appeal to the subscribers to the Mansion House Anti-Subscription Fund."—Irish Times.

"This enabled him [Mr. Bottomley] to provide a sum sufficient to yap the other shareholders 12. in the pound."—Evening Paper.

We always thought him a bit of a dog.

Now that most of us are on the point of escaping into civil life, the relentless department to whom the W.O. entrusted the stewardship of Army blankets is calling us to strict account as to our dealings with these articles.

Between us and freedom rise the accusing phantoms of blankets we signed for and failed to return, blankets we misused as carpets, curtains and table-cloths. The bright dawn of the new era is overcast by their threatening shadow.

The A.A.L.R.B.G.S.—Acting-Assistant Local Recorder of Blankets General Service, a very important Hat indeed—some time last winter paid us a visit and went away without complaint. We had specialised in cherishing Blankets G.S. For fear of loss or damage none had been issued for use, and the enthusiasm of all ranks was so warm that the men were glad to sleep without them, if only they might go and see for themselves the full tally of blankets folded correctly to a hair's-breadth and piled irreproachably and unapproachably in the stores.

Then, three days ago, arrived a chit asking us to explain a curt quotation from the report of the A.A.L.R.B.G.S., to the effect that

"There was a blanket on the tablein the store."

"There was a blanket on the table

in the store."

By a civilian this might be interpreted as a word of praise for our care of the table or for the comfortabletout ensembleof the Quartermaster-Sergeant's treasure-house; but we know better. We read it with the sensations of a householder who, after the call of a Scotland Yard official, should be invited to explain, in an otherwise satisfactory account of his visit, the sentence—

"There was a corpse in the bootcupboard."

"There was a corpse in the boot

cupboard."

It suggested criticism, suspicion, disapproval. In his dilemma the O.C. replied as follows:—

"Owing to the fact that, in view of the paper scarcity, the keeping of Individual History Sheets for the Blankets under my command was discontinued early in the War, I have found it difficult to collect evidence. I beg, however, to submit the likeliest explanations that offer.

"(1) Possibly the blanket was placed on the table, folded and compressed beneath the weight of the various utensils, literature and stationery necessary to the functioning of a B.Q.M.S., in order that the correct regimental wrinkles, as laid down in the various handbooks, might be made and maintained; the blanket to be used as a model at lectures to young soldiers on the care of equipment.

"(2) The distance between the Main Blanket Dump and the table under suspicion is only four feet. It is in the experience of all familiar with conditions in the Field that blankets with long service frequently develop extreme activity. I beg to suggest that the blanket in question may have absented itself without leave from the main dump and proceeded as far as the table by its own locomotive power.

"(3) About the date of the inspection the name of an N.C.O. was submitted with a recommendation for the O.B.E., but was withdrawn on compassionate grounds. I cannot trust my memory, but possibly the justification of this recommendation was the N.C.O.'s zealous care of the property of H.M. THE KING, in that he sacrificed his own blanket for the welfare of the table." (On paper, of course, our blankets are issued in the normal way.) "The weather at the time was inclement, either (a) wet and dirty or (b) extremely cold. The N.C.O. was determined that this table should be protected from the deleterious effects of (a) moisture likely to result from the vicinity of the Q.M.S., damp from out-door duties or (b) very low temperature, which is known to injure such articles of furniture.

"(4) The blanket may have been known to be likely to try to escape from custody, and have been placed conspicuously on the table so as to be directly under the observation of the Q.M.S.

"(5) The table may have intended illegally to absent itself without leave, and have concealed itself beneath the accused blanket in the hope of eluding the vigilance of the sentries, disguised as a civilian table, i.e. covered with a table-cloth. This theory is unlikely, the table bearing an excellent character and never having been known to attempt desertion or be in any way guilty of conduct contrary to good order and military discipline.

"(6) The Storeman—now demobilised and dispersed—may have committed the irregularity suggested, with the idea of increasing the amenity of the stores during the inspection, as a humble compliment to the A.A.L.R.B.G.S.

"(7) No. 55,442, Procter, Mary, a member of the Q.M.A.A.C., may be correct in her statement that the article described as a 'blanket' was not a blanket, but a rug, travelling. She says she is 'in a position to know this,' as the article is her own property, and supports the claim by demonstrating the presence of her initials embroidered across one corner.

"I await your reply." And so we all do.

Here's a lady come to townPuts us all to shame;Walking in with noiseless feet,Very light and very fleet,Over-night she came.Not a beauty in the land,Though she knew no peerBoth for comeliness and grace,But must take a second place—The snow is here.Never monarch wore, I swear,Such a radiant dress;All the whitenesses we prizeSuddenly before our eyesTurn to dinginess.Gone are all the shining joysThat we held so dear;Linens, marbles, gleaming plumesWe must hide in shadowed glooms—The snow is here.Veil your brows, you pretty maids,With your falling curls;Should you venture forth to-dayTuck your milky throats away,Cover up your pearls.Naught shall match your lovelinessLater in the year(Who so foolish as to dareSay the lily is more fair?)But—the snow is here.

Here's a lady come to town

Puts us all to shame;

Walking in with noiseless feet,

Very light and very fleet,

Over-night she came.

Not a beauty in the land,

Though she knew no peer

Both for comeliness and grace,

But must take a second place—

The snow is here.

Never monarch wore, I swear,Such a radiant dress;All the whitenesses we prizeSuddenly before our eyesTurn to dinginess.Gone are all the shining joysThat we held so dear;Linens, marbles, gleaming plumesWe must hide in shadowed glooms—The snow is here.

Never monarch wore, I swear,

Such a radiant dress;

All the whitenesses we prize

Suddenly before our eyes

Turn to dinginess.

Gone are all the shining joys

That we held so dear;

Linens, marbles, gleaming plumes

We must hide in shadowed glooms—

The snow is here.

Veil your brows, you pretty maids,With your falling curls;Should you venture forth to-dayTuck your milky throats away,Cover up your pearls.Naught shall match your lovelinessLater in the year(Who so foolish as to dareSay the lily is more fair?)But—the snow is here.

Veil your brows, you pretty maids,

With your falling curls;

Should you venture forth to-day

Tuck your milky throats away,

Cover up your pearls.

Naught shall match your loveliness

Later in the year

(Who so foolish as to dare

Say the lily is more fair?)

But—the snow is here.

R. F.

The Leicester Galleries for laughter just now! For the walls of the inner room are hung with drawings by Mr. H.M. BATEMAN, not a few of which—such as "The Leave Wangler," and "The Man who Clung to the Railings," and "The Infectious Hornpipe"—have already rejoiced the readers ofPunch.

Mr. BATEMAN'S appeal is double, for, having enjoyed his broad or subtle farce and his keen satirical observations, one may turn to the admiration of his technique, orvice versâ*. He did not invent the idea of the humorous sequence—the accumulative pictorial comedy; CARAN D'ACHE had come before, and before CARAN D'ACHE was WILHELM BUSCH, the German; but he has made it his own to-day. Some of his series are irresistible. As a delineator of types, accurate beneath the caricature, he is deadly; particularly, perhaps, when he turns his attention to the Senior Service. But his Brigadiers and his Clubmen are also always within an ace of being identifiable.

For anyone in the dumps Mr. Punch prescribes a speedy visit to the Leicester Galleries.

"Curate wanted. £22. 2 churches. E.P."Church Times.

"Curate wanted. £22. 2 churches. E.P."

Church Times.

Mabel (to newly-married sister)."YOU DON'T MIND ME STILL CALLING YOU 'SYBIL,' DO YOU?"

MR. JOHN GALSWORTHY is a most deceptive writer. He lures a reader on by a display of gentleness and smoothness and moderation, and then turns on him and makes it plain that he is really a most provocative fellow and is engaged in matching his mind against yours. He tries to commit you to some such statement as this: "The allegiance of the workman in time of peace is not rendered to the State, but to himself and his own class." Or this: "I think editors, journalists, old gentlemen and women will be brutalised [by the War] in larger numbers than our soldiers." Or this: "This is at once a spiritual link with America and yet one of the great barriers to friendship between the two peoples. We are not sure whether we are better men than Americans." Or this: "My mind is open, and when one says that, one generally means that it is shut." Disconcerting, very, and all to be found inAnother Sheaf(HEINEMANN). Mr. GALSWORTHY'S chief object in his little book is to arouse us to the disgrace and destruction of our State and race if we continue to allow ourselves to be fed, not by our own resources, but by alien corn and meat, which may so easily become hostile corn and meat. Incidentally Mr. GALSWORTHY finds that we are in the mass far too ugly. For instance, how few of us have chiselled nostrils! We ought not to eat so much pure white flour.

On the second page ofThe Secret City(MACMILLAN) Mr. HUGH WALPOLE (or, to be meticulously correct,Durward, into whose mouth the story is put) says that "there is no Russian alive for whom this book can have any kind of value except as a happy example of the mistakes that the Englishman can make about the Russian." Well, after finishing the book, which is in some ways a sequel toThe Dark Forest, I felt so very disinclined to believe this statement that I consulted a Russian, who is very much alive, and received the opinion that, if Mr. WALPOLE has not succeeded in drawing the real average Russian, he has given us a type whose faults and virtues sound the keynote of the situation as it is to-day. Such an opinion is worth a thousand times more than any judgment of mine, and I am glad of the opportunity to record it. From a literary point of view it seems to me that Mr. WALPOLE, in allowingDurwardto tell the tale, has created innumerable difficulties for himself—difficulties which to a great extent have been cleverly overcome, but which nevertheless make the story wobble dangerously and once or twice threaten it with devastation. To me, however, the interest never really flagged, for granted that one has a sympathy with Russia one feels acutely what Mr. WALPOLE is aiming at and how wonderfully he succeeds. It is not difficult to find faults: to complain, for instance, that a strong man likeSemyonovwould not have taken such elaborate measures to get himself killed; but these points are trivial in a book which is not to be read so much for its story as for its idea. And the idea is great.

Rollo Johnsonwas incautious enough to be born the natural son of a peer. This fact caused just sufficient complications to keep MARY L. PENDERED'S latest story,The Silent Battlefield(CHAPMAN AND HALL), from any threat of stagnation while she was developing the theme that really intrigued her. This was the struggle between increasing wealth and early-acquired Socialism as it arose in the mind of a hero working his way up from poverty to millionairedom, a seat in the House and the opportunity of hobnobbing with lords, suffragettes and other notables. When I say that the two sides of the Socialist case are presentedwith rather uncommon fairness you may think that is only because my own particular creed is upheld; but really and truly I was frowning quite as much as purring while the silent battle proceeded, and the end is neutral enough to bring despair to all true believers. Lest you should suppose the book all made up of election addresses I hasten to add that, in the quiet and thoughtful way one expects of the author, the story is a good one, the pictures of a small country town are true to life, and the characters without exception real creatures of flesh and blood. Remembering the puppets that so often have been made to represent their country in a political novel, this is saying more than a little, and if it is true that, among the ladies of the cast, one still finds those the most attractive who have no pronounced opinions to speak or vote about, no doubt this is just old prejudice, and, anyway, the book is one that can be heartily commended.

The scene ofIn Happy Valley(HODDER AND STOUGHTON) is laid spiritually, if not strictly geographically, in that part of the continent of America which everybody who has gone to a cinema, hoping against hope, knows so well. I mean the country where people have "shooting irons" and use them on the slightest provocation to insist that other people shall carry their hands at an absurd and wearisome elevation, and all the men wear fringy trousers, and all the women shawls, save the heroine, who has to be suitably arrayed for the performance of athletic feats. I admit that I didn't feel quite at homeIn Happy Valley, because I missed the sheriff and his posse, and nobody held up the stage-coach; still the young doctor and the school teacher and the ladies at the mission did their best for me, and I found it a great help to know the language, an attainment of which I am justifiably a little vain, for not everyone could translate at sight to "thud" the road or "shoot up" a Christmas party. Mr. JOHN FOX, Junr., has not placed his largest strawberries—and some of them are quite nice ones—at the top of the basket. His first story did not attract me as much as others further on, such as, for instance, that excellently humorous one, "The Angel from Viper," though here and in other places a lady calledSt. Hilda, obviously not she of Whitby, confused me a little. I fancy that we were supposed to have made her acquaintance in some previous book. But my real quarrel with Mr. Fox is that he has only given walking-on parts to the actors who do best when such tales are told upon the screen—I mean the horses.

When it is granted that books on flying by fliers have at present a peculiar fascination, the fact still remains that what I will call The Library of Aviation has usually been remarkably fortunate in its contributors.Cavalry of the Air(SIMPKIN, MARSHALL) is the last flying work which it has been my good fortune to read, and the only conceivable reason for finding fault with it is that "FLIGHT COMMANDER" occasionally becomes a little facetious. But when that small complaint is made I have nothing left except praise. The author was first of all an Observer—or, as he calls it, a "Shock Absorber"—in France, and he describes his life so that we groundlings may understand and sympathise with every phase of it. Especially I like the way in which he pays tribute to the infantry. In the second part of his book he tells us of his training as a pilot; and here he gives information which deserves to be most thoroughly studied. The illustrations by Mr. GEOFFREY WATSON add to the charm of this attractive volume. Of another contribution to the literature of the air which lies before me I cannot speak so well. Lieut.-Colonel CURTIES has an inventive mind, and inBlake of the R.F.C.(SKEFFINGTON) he uses it unsparingly. But although I am ready to believe almost anything in a book of this kind, I am bound to confess that I found myself bewildered by this breathless romance. Indeed the pace is so hot at the outset that even the author seems to have lost control of it. If, however, you are craving for excitement you will find it here. The scene is laid in Cairo, and we all know that funny things happen in that city. Not the least funny thing that happened to the characters in this story was the careless ease with which they drank whisky-and-soda. But this—let me warn you—happened nearly two years ago.

"I felt a very proud woman when I walked into the ballot-box, for the first time, and cast my vote. And it took me 4-1/2 hours to get there and back."—Local Paper.

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