BLIMP!

"I always recommend Violet," he said, sprinkling my head profusely.

More rubbing, more towels, more electricity and finally a brush and comb.

"I've a hair-lotion here, Sir—"

"No, thank you."

I meant it.

He helped me on with my coat, brushed off a deal of imaginary dust, said something about skin softeners and bath requisites, but I'd had enough for one morning, and I was yearning to get those cigarettes and have a smoke.

I tendered my pound note.

He took it, and with his best smile said—

"Another sixpence, Sir, please."

'MOTHER, I HAVE BEEN GOOD TO-DAY—SO PATIENT WITH NURSE.'"MOTHER, IHAVEBEEN GOOD TO-DAY—SO PATIENT WITH NURSE."

There are many things Dora kept darkThat she's now letting into the light,And to-day an astounding aerial barqueHas suddenly sailed into sight;But its past makes no sympathies burn,And its future leaves interest limp,Compared with the rapture I feel when I learnThat its name is the Blimp.Who gave it its title, and why?Was it old EDWARD LEAR from the grave?Since Jumblies in Blimps would be certain to flyWhen for air they abandon the wave.Was it dear LEWIS CARROLL, perhapsSent his phantom to christen the barque,Since a Blimp is the obvious vessel for chapsWhen hunting a snark?And to-day, in the first-fruits of joy,I scarcely believe it is trueThat Blimp is a word we shall one day employAs lightly as now Bakerloo;And my reason refuses to jumpTo the fact that a man, not an imp,Can flash through the other and land with a bumpFrom a trip in a Blimp.

There are many things Dora kept dark

That she's now letting into the light,

And to-day an astounding aerial barque

Has suddenly sailed into sight;

But its past makes no sympathies burn,

And its future leaves interest limp,

Compared with the rapture I feel when I learn

That its name is the Blimp.

Who gave it its title, and why?Was it old EDWARD LEAR from the grave?Since Jumblies in Blimps would be certain to flyWhen for air they abandon the wave.Was it dear LEWIS CARROLL, perhapsSent his phantom to christen the barque,Since a Blimp is the obvious vessel for chapsWhen hunting a snark?

Who gave it its title, and why?

Was it old EDWARD LEAR from the grave?

Since Jumblies in Blimps would be certain to fly

When for air they abandon the wave.

Was it dear LEWIS CARROLL, perhaps

Sent his phantom to christen the barque,

Since a Blimp is the obvious vessel for chaps

When hunting a snark?

And to-day, in the first-fruits of joy,I scarcely believe it is trueThat Blimp is a word we shall one day employAs lightly as now Bakerloo;And my reason refuses to jumpTo the fact that a man, not an imp,Can flash through the other and land with a bumpFrom a trip in a Blimp.

And to-day, in the first-fruits of joy,

I scarcely believe it is true

That Blimp is a word we shall one day employ

As lightly as now Bakerloo;

And my reason refuses to jump

To the fact that a man, not an imp,

Can flash through the other and land with a bump

From a trip in a Blimp.

"It needs no very profound knowledge of the politics of South-Western Europe to surmise that neither Rumania nor Greece would lend military assistance of this kind without being promised something in return.—Manchester Guardian.

But a rather more profound knowledge of the geography might be useful.

It is late in the day to draw attention to Mr. Punch as a prophet. Everyone knows that his eyes have always discerned the farthest horizon. None the less it is pleasant now and again to succumb to the temptation of saying "I told you so," and especially when it is the finger of a friendly reader that points the way to the Sage's triumph. Were we in the habit of quoting from past numbers, as many of our contemporaries do, we should print the following paragraph from the issue of September 2nd, 1871:—

"'According toLe Havre, about forty Prussian officers in mufti leave Dieppe every morning for England, their object being to visit the military establishments of Great Britain.'

"Here at last is an actual invasion! Prussian officers landing on our defenceless shores, on the transparently flimsy pretext of making themselves acquainted with our military establishments, at the rate (excluding Sundays) of 240 a week, or in this present September, of 1,080 a month, or, amazing and terrifying total, of 12,520 a year! We commend this startling announcement to the attention of the Cabinet (Parliament, unfortunately, is not sitting), the Commander-in-Chief, the War Office, the Commanders of all Volunteer Corps, the Author of 'The Battle of Dorking,'Sergeant Blower, andCheeks the Marine."

Tommy, homeward bound.Tommy(homeward bound, and determined not to disappoint). "WHY, MISSY, THREE DAYS BEFORE THE ARMISTICE THE AIR WAS THAT THICK WITH AEROPLANES THE BIRDS HAD TO GET DOWN AND WALK."

[To any English composer who has not yet contributed to the wave of music and dance which is now sweeping the country the writer offers the following as the basis of an entirely new and original dance, strictly national in character and full of that quaint old rustic, not to say aboriginal, grace which distinguishes modern dance-music.]

Oh say, won't you stay down-away at the Sausage Farm?It's a scream, it wouldn't seem you could dream such perfect ch-e-arm;You can bet that Jazz'll be beat to a frazzle,And the old Fox Trot'll be a pale green mottle,When they gauge what's the rage of the age at the Sausage Farm.(CRASH! BANG! TINKLE!)Come along, you'll be wrong if you miss that Sausage Roll.Every pig does the jig, for he's in this heart and so-ul:See the old sow shout, "What about my litter?"But she dries those tears when she hears, poor crittur,That they're all at the Ball in the Soss-Soss-Sausage Roll.(TZING! BOOM! The lights go out.)Oh, haste, life's a waste till you're based at the Sausage Farm,Where the dog and the hog and the frog go arm-in-arm;And the farm-yard bosses can all do Sosses;The old man's crazy, and his poor Aunt Maisie,Over this hit of bliss (have a kiss) at Sausage Farm.(CLATTER! BUMP! The walls begin to crack.)Come a-quick, you'll be sick if you miss that Sausage Roll,For the cow does it now and the cat we can't contro-ol,And I heard as she purred, "Oh, I've found my kittens,You could bet they'd get with the best-born Britons,For they're all at the Ball in the Soss-Soss-Sausage Roll."(CRASH! BANG! The roof falls in.)

Oh say, won't you stay down-away at the Sausage Farm?

It's a scream, it wouldn't seem you could dream such perfect ch-e-arm;

You can bet that Jazz'll be beat to a frazzle,

And the old Fox Trot'll be a pale green mottle,

When they gauge what's the rage of the age at the Sausage Farm.

(CRASH! BANG! TINKLE!)

Come along, you'll be wrong if you miss that Sausage Roll.Every pig does the jig, for he's in this heart and so-ul:See the old sow shout, "What about my litter?"But she dries those tears when she hears, poor crittur,That they're all at the Ball in the Soss-Soss-Sausage Roll.(TZING! BOOM! The lights go out.)

Come along, you'll be wrong if you miss that Sausage Roll.

Every pig does the jig, for he's in this heart and so-ul:

See the old sow shout, "What about my litter?"

But she dries those tears when she hears, poor crittur,

That they're all at the Ball in the Soss-Soss-Sausage Roll.

(TZING! BOOM! The lights go out.)

Oh, haste, life's a waste till you're based at the Sausage Farm,Where the dog and the hog and the frog go arm-in-arm;And the farm-yard bosses can all do Sosses;The old man's crazy, and his poor Aunt Maisie,Over this hit of bliss (have a kiss) at Sausage Farm.(CLATTER! BUMP! The walls begin to crack.)

Oh, haste, life's a waste till you're based at the Sausage Farm,

Where the dog and the hog and the frog go arm-in-arm;

And the farm-yard bosses can all do Sosses;

The old man's crazy, and his poor Aunt Maisie,

Over this hit of bliss (have a kiss) at Sausage Farm.

(CLATTER! BUMP! The walls begin to crack.)

Come a-quick, you'll be sick if you miss that Sausage Roll,For the cow does it now and the cat we can't contro-ol,And I heard as she purred, "Oh, I've found my kittens,You could bet they'd get with the best-born Britons,For they're all at the Ball in the Soss-Soss-Sausage Roll."(CRASH! BANG! The roof falls in.)

Come a-quick, you'll be sick if you miss that Sausage Roll,

For the cow does it now and the cat we can't contro-ol,

And I heard as she purred, "Oh, I've found my kittens,

You could bet they'd get with the best-born Britons,

For they're all at the Ball in the Soss-Soss-Sausage Roll."

(CRASH! BANG! The roof falls in.)

A.P.H.

"SHANGHAI MUNICIPAL COUNCIL POLICE FORCE.—Police recruits are now required. Applicants must be unmarried, of good physique, with sound teeth, about 20 to 25 years of age, not less than 57 ft. 10 in. in height."—Weekly Paper.

"Lloyd's agent at Chriseiansund telegraphs that wreckage marked 'Wilson Line' drifted ashore near Switzerland."—Provincial Paper.

Following the WILSON line the seas appear to be already behaving with unusual freedom.

"'George Eliot' (Mary Ann Evans), the gifted Warwickshire authoress, who wrote 'Adam Bede' and several other popular works."—Daily Telegraph.

We have noticed the name from time to time, and we are glad to know who "GEORGE ELIOT" was.

From a "multiple shop" catalogue:—

"SMOKING ROOM.—The decorations are well worth a special note, and are quite unique of their kind, being without a match anywhere."

Surely not "unique." We know a lot of smoking-rooms equally matchless.

THE FIRST GERMAN VICTORY.THE FIRST GERMAN VICTORY.[The German Elections have resulted in a signal defeat for the Extremists.]

Hostess and small guest.Hostess(to small guest, who is casting lingering glances at the cakes). "I DON'T THINK YOU CAN EAT ANY MORE OF THOSE CAKES, CAN YOU, JOHN?"John. "NO, I DON'T THINK I CAN. BUT MAY I STROKE THEM?"

Hostess(to small guest, who is casting lingering glances at the cakes). "I DON'T THINK YOU CAN EAT ANY MORE OF THOSE CAKES, CAN YOU, JOHN?"

John. "NO, I DON'T THINK I CAN. BUT MAY I STROKE THEM?"

An evening newspaper informs its readers that arrangements are being made for "a school for M.P.'s"—"a weekly meeting of Unionist M.P.'s new to Parliamentary life, who will receive instruction in the forms of the House. They will be taught how to address the SPEAKER, how to frame a question," and so forth.

This intelligence is of particular interest in that it conveys an admission that our new M.P.'s do not know everything.

Interviewed by a correspondent, Mr. Raleigh Quawe, the able young educationist, who, it is understood, is watching the experiment with some concern, said, "While I do not wish to seem to be giving away too much to the gloom of youth, I cannot help feeling that the school may be run on wrong lines unless the greatest care is exercised. Will the opportunity be taken for testing methods which have been so disastrously absent hitherto from our public school system? I would urge those in authority to put away the old formulæ, and to ensure the introduction of a right spirit in the school by the appointment of young masters endowed with vision and enthusiasm.

"I hope that the worship of sport will not be encouraged. I was never one who believed that our battles have been won on the playing-fields of Westminster. I am confident that I am not alone in the hope that the old games at Westminster will be abandoned.

"It is most important that there should be no suppression of the emotional nature. Rob politics of emotion and the newspapers are not worth reading; and it must not be forgotten that what Westminster does to-day is read of by the British Empire to-morrow. No effort should be spared to awaken the artistic sense of the pupils. If the pictures and sculptures in and about the corridors of the Houses of Parliament are not enough, let others be prepared. No expense should be spared. For my part I see no reason why a little music should not be introduced occasionally.

"Freedom of opinion should also be encouraged. One fault of our educational system has been its tendency to produce mass-thinking. This will never do among our Unionist Members of Parliament. Yes, I would even advocate that some of the seniors should be allowed to readThe Heraldif they wished to do so, and I question whetherThe Nationwould do any of them any harm."

Notice in a watchmaker's window:—

"No repairs except to watches recently purchased."

Advertisement in Provincial Paper:—

"WALK IN,But you will be happier when you go out."

"WALK IN,

But you will be happier when you go out."

"An extraordinary plague of rats prevails on the Sheffield Corporation rubbish tips at Killamarsh. The rodents have constructed beaten tracks eight inches wide, extending to corn stacks on a local farm, where they have wrought munch havoc."—Local Paper.

Quite the right epithet, we feel sure.

"We make a speciality of gorillas and chimpanzees. They are wonderfully intelligent and can be trained right up to the human standard in all except speech. One of our directors, Mr. ——, and his wife are both able to only be tamed to live in captivity."—Irish Paper.

A perusal of the above paragraph is said to have stimulated Mr. ——'s gift of speech in a startling degree.

IF THE POETS STRUCK WOULD THE MILITARY BE CALLED IN TO DO THEIR WORK?IF THE POETS STRUCK WOULD THE MILITARY BE CALLED IN TO DO THEIR WORK?

One day last week, it might be Wed-nesday, or even Friday,A day not yet entirely dead,A shortly-doomed-to-die day,The Naiad who lay stretched in dreamAwoke and gave a shiver—The Naiad who has charge of streamAnd rivulet and river.

One day last week, it might be Wed-

nesday, or even Friday,

A day not yet entirely dead,

A shortly-doomed-to-die day,

The Naiad who lay stretched in dream

Awoke and gave a shiver—

The Naiad who has charge of stream

And rivulet and river.

I had intended to write the whole of this article in verse, of which the above is a shocking sample, but, on the whole, I think I will go on in prose. When you have committed yourself to double rhymes, prose is the easier medium. In verse it is more difficult to stick to your subject, and as the subject in this case is a very important one and deserves to be stuck to, I shall do the rest in prose.

Anyhow, the fact is that I have read a paragraph in one of the papers about a proposed revival of rowing. Rowing, like other sports, has, it seems, lain dormant for the past four years and a half. From the moment in 1914 when war was declared it suffered a land-change; shorts and zephyr and blazer and sweater were abandoned at once, and, for the oarsman as for everybody else, khaki became the only wear. Already trained by long discipline to obey, our oarsmen trooped to the colours, and wherever hard fighting was to be done their shining names are to be found on the muster-roll of fame. Some will return to us, but for others there waited theeternum exitium cymbæ—a very different craft from those to which they were accustomed, but they accepted it with pride and without a murmur.

Bearing these things in mind, I went to Henley last week to interview Father Thames. I found the veteran totally unchanged in his quarters on the Temple Island, and immediately began the interview.

"Dull?" he said. "I believe you, my boy. But they tell me there's talk of reviving the regatta. You tell them with my compliments not to be in too great a hurry about it. Think of what Henley meant to the lads who rowed. They hadn't learnt their skill in a day—no, nor in as many days as go to a year."

"Do you then," I said, "consider the regatta only from the oarsman's point of view?"

"Really," said the old gentleman, "there's no other. Not but what," he added with a chuckle, "it gave them more pleasure to row their races with lots of pretty faces to look on. Lor' bless you, I don't object to 'em. It's the prettiest scene in the world when the sun shines as it sometimes does. And that's enough talking for one afternoon." With that he plunged, and nothing I did could bring him to the surface again.

Bound South from Japan to the port of Hong KongWe fell in with a little junk blowing along;We met her all bright at the breaking of day,And we gave her good-morning and passed on our way.She had stretched her red sails like the wings of a bat,And light, like a gull, on the water she sat;She had two big bright eyes for to keep a look-out;On her stern there were dragons cavorting about.And Mrs. Ah Fit by the kitchen did sitPreparing some breakfast for Mr. Ah Fit,The gentleman who, as we saw when we neared her,By waggling the tickle-stick skilfully, steered her.The little Fit men and the little Fit maidsWere playing at tig round the brass carronades,And with all the delight of a juvenile BritonThe littlest Ah Fitlet was plucking the kitten.With a "How do you do, Sir?" and "Hip, hip, hooray!"'Twas so they blew by at the breaking of day.

Bound South from Japan to the port of Hong Kong

We fell in with a little junk blowing along;

We met her all bright at the breaking of day,

And we gave her good-morning and passed on our way.

She had stretched her red sails like the wings of a bat,

And light, like a gull, on the water she sat;

She had two big bright eyes for to keep a look-out;

On her stern there were dragons cavorting about.

And Mrs. Ah Fit by the kitchen did sit

Preparing some breakfast for Mr. Ah Fit,

The gentleman who, as we saw when we neared her,

By waggling the tickle-stick skilfully, steered her.

The little Fit men and the little Fit maids

Were playing at tig round the brass carronades,

And with all the delight of a juvenile Briton

The littlest Ah Fitlet was plucking the kitten.

With a "How do you do, Sir?" and "Hip, hip, hooray!"

'Twas so they blew by at the breaking of day.

Comedian.Comedian(who has been instructed to modify his humour to suit the taste of a select audience at a charity performance at the local theatre). "THERE YOU ARE! NOT A LAUGH! THIS IS WOT COMES OF YOUR 'FUNNY WITHOUT BEIN' VULGAR'!"

"Not a bad possie," said George, looking round the village. "Let's rustle a bivvie before the crowd comes along."

All George's performances in the art of rustling bivvies rank as star. He permits no coarse and obvious gathering of an expectant horde about the opening door; no slacking of straps and bootlaces until the final "I will" is said on either side. He debouches in extended order on the doomed house; gets his range and has the barrage well in hand (the quantity and quality of Madame's gesticulations furnish the key to this) before Colin drifts off the horizon and shows a peaked face with haunting eyes over George's shoulder. Colin does not speak. That is not hismétier. He is the star shell illuminating the position; and usually in about six minutes' time it is safe for John to put in an appearance with the kit.

This is the recognised procedure, and it has served us indifferently well up and down three years of war and a good deal of France and Flanders. Therefore John was not to blame when, after waiting the scheduled six minutes, he arrived to find the other two still in the thick of it. Either Colin was not haunting up to form (which was likely, as he had been over-fed lately) or George's French (which was never made in the place where they make marriages) had scandalised Madame.

She stood in the door like some historical personage, probably the Sphinx, and repeated a guttural kind of incantation while George stretched his ears until they stood out more than usual in a struggle to understand.

"Rotten patois some of these people speak," he said. "I believe she has a room, though something's biting her. Likely enough Fritz went off with all her furniture; but I've already explained twenty times that that doesn't matter.Écoutez, Madame.We only want a room.Chambre-à-coucher.We can furnish it. We have three beds.Trois lits.Troisstretcher-beds sent over fromAngleterre.À la gare.We've just seen them.Trois lits nous avons.Three beds."

"Beds!" Madame pounced on the word. "C'est cela!No beds,Monsieur.Je n'en ai pas."

"Ah, now we know where we are." George looked round triumphantly. "Écoutez, Madame.We don't want beds.Nous les desirons jamais.We have them.Trois lits.We don't want them. We have beds.Comprenez?"

"No beds," explained Madame firmly.

"But I've just told you—" George plunged again into the maelstrom, and a pretty girl appeared from the firelit room behind to stir him to his highest flights of eloquence. A smell of savoury cooking came also, and out in the street night shut down dark and chill and sinister, as it does in all the best novels. John let part of the kit down on the door-sill. It was his way of explaining that at the present moment there was a deeper, more intimate call than the Call of the Wild. Colin moved up a step and turned the haunting-stop full on. George redoubled his efforts, making them very clear indeed. We could understand almost every word he said.

Then Madame answered, and we could understand that too.

"No beds," she said.

The pretty girl smiled in a troubled way and murmured something in a soft voice.

"She says they haven't got any beds in the rooms. Fritz took them all," interpreted George. "Écoutez, Mademoiselle. We have beds.Trois lits. Nous les avons. Tous les trois. Oui. À la gare. Absolument."

Mademoiselle looked at Madame with a kink of her pretty brows. Madame rose like a balloon to the need.

"No beds," she said very distinctly, with a rounding of eyes and mouth. "No beds, Messieurs. No-o-o—beds."

Before George could recover John interfered. He makes a hobby of cutting Gordian knots.

"Oh, what's the earthly use of telling 'em we have beds when they can see for themselves that we haven't? They just think we can't understand. Let's go up and take the rooms if they're decent. Then we'll get the stretchers and put 'em up. That's the only sort of argument we can handle."

Manfully George went to work again. And reluctant, and yet obviously fascinated by his French, like a bird by a snake, Mademoiselle led up the narrow stairs and into a sizeable room, clean as a pin and as naked. On the threshold Madame washed her hands of hope.

"Regardez!No beds.C'est affreux!"

George began again. He had courage. Whatever else Nature and luck denied him there was no question of that. For a little it looked as though he were in sight of the goal. Then Mademoiselle explained. They weredésolées, but thesales Bocheshad stolen all the beds, and Madame would not let the bare rooms toMessieurs les Anglais. It would not beconvenablewhen they had no beds.

"No beds!" Madame appealed to the skylight as witness, and we looked at each other. It was getting late and the others would have rustled all the best bivvies by now. John had another brain-wave.

"Let's pantomime it. They always understand pantomime. There's no usesayingwe've got beds—not when George has to say it. We'll show them."

Earnestly we pantomimed stretcher beds—our own stretcher beds—and reposeful slumber thereon. "Mon Dieu!" cried Mademoiselle, retreating in haste. "No beds," repeated Madame, unconvinced and unafraid.

"She means that she doesn't want to have us," said John in cold despair.

"She'd be a fool if she did now," answered Colin grimly. "Let's get out of this."

And then John had a third brain-wave. He ordered George on guard, and descended with Colin in search of the concrete proof of our sanity. And Madame's voice, faint yet pursuing, followed us down.

"No beds," it said.

In ten minutes we were back triumphant with the three stretchers. It was a full six months since we had written to England for them, and they had come at last. Visions of rest went upstairs with us, and under the big eyes of Madame and Mademoiselle and several more Madames who had collected as unobtrusively as a silk hat collects dust we slashed at the coverings, ripped them off and disclosed—three deck-chairs.

We did not attempt to meet the situation. We left it to the devil—or Madame. And she, with the lofty serenity of one who through long and grievous misunderstanding has won home at last, was completely adequate.

"No beds," she said.

Grieved Wife.Grieved Wife. "OH, SIMON, ALL OVER YOUR NOO CONTROLLED TROUSERS."

"ADOPTION.—Fine healthy boy, 3½ years; entire surrender to good home. reception. 5 bedrooms; £1,100."—Provincial Paper.

What an exacting young rascal!

"Liebknecht was the son of a father who opposed tyranny in earlier days, who sounded the toxin for liberty."—Express and Star(Wolverhampton).

But, to do old LIEBKNECHT justice, it was the son, not the father, who spelt it that way.

I expected, of course, when I declared the resolution, "Dogs not Doormats," open for general discussion that there would be some pretty plain barking, but nothing calling for the intervention of the Chair. Britain's dogs are sound at heart, even if they do talk a bit wildly about the Tyranny of Man and Rabbitism and Abolishing the Biscuiteer. I don't agree with a lot of it myself—we Airedales have always been conservatively inclined; but I am bound to say that three years in the Army open one's eyes to a lot of things.

Nothing of a really seditious character was said until the Borzoi commenced to address the meeting. I had always disliked the fellow and half suspected him of being an Anarchist or the president of some brotherhood or other. (It's funny how these rascals, whose one idea is to get something which belongs to somebody else without working for it, always call themselves a brotherhood.) But those Russian dogs have such a shifty slinking way with them that you can't always tell what they are driving at. This Borzoi chap had tried once or twice to interest me in what he called the Community of Bones doctrine, but I soon found out that his master was a conscientious objector and a vegetarian and that the doctrine really meant that he would do the communing and I would provide the bones.

The rogue began with some fulsome ingratiating remarks about how pleased he was to see so many fine representatives of the canine race prepared to maintain intact their sovereign doghood whatever the sacrifice might entail. This brought loud applause from the young hotheads; but I noticed traces of disgust along the backs of the older dogs. The time had passed, he continued, for speeches and resolutions and votes of censure. Dogs must act if Man, the enemy, was to be finally crushed. I intervened at this point and told the Borzoi he must moderate his language, upon which he began to bluster, shouting that he would not be put down by an arrogant hireling of effete Militarism. One learns to practise self-control in the trenches, so I was able to repress an inclination toassert my authority then and there. It was no use striking at man himself, he went on, for he had guns and whips and stones at his command. We must strike at him through his children.

Cries of dissent greeted this statement, and I really think the matter would have ended then and there only it so happened that none of those present were personally interested in children, except old Betty the bulldog, who belongs to four little girls who treat her sovereign doghood in a most disrespectful way. But old Betty had gone to sleep, and, anyway, she is rather deaf and has no teeth, so it's likely she would have confined herself to a formal snuffle of protest. "Yes," shouted the Borzoi, now thoroughly worked up, "let every dog take a solemn oath to bite every child on every possible occasion—at least when no one is looking—and Man, the oppressor, will soon come begging for mercy and make peace with us on our own terms. No false loyalty or ridiculous sense of chivalry must withhold us," he continued. "The baby in the pram to-day is the man with the whip of to-morrow and must be bitten with all the righteous fury of outraged doghood." Cries of "Shame!" greeted this remark. I decided that it was time to interpose. With all the severity at my command I bade the wretch be silent.

"Fellow dogs," I said, "it is clear that we must choose here and now, once and for all, between Britishism and Bolshevism. Tails up those who wish to remain British!" And of course every tail went up. "Tails up, the Bolshevists!" But the Borzoi's was down beyond recall and shivering between his legs. "That being your decision, ladies and gentlemen," I continued, "the meeting will constitute itself a Committee of Safety. Remarks have been passed about your Chairman and the canine forces of His Majesty that cannot be allowed to go unchallenged. All I ask is plenty of room and no favour."

All this time the Borzoi had been edging towards the door, and I really think he would have tried to make a dash for it, only at the last minute he caught the eye of the Irish wolfhound. It's no good running away from a dog like that, so Bolshy decided to stay and face the music. Well, as I said before, we war dogs are supposed to be as modest as we are brave, so I will confine myself to saying that down our way Bolshevism hasn't a leg to stand on. Of course Master, when he saw my ear, pretended to be angry, but he knows a war dog doesn't fight except for his country, and when the Borzoi's owner came round next day to complain Master told him he was a miserable Pacifist and had nolocus standi. I told Master afterwards that the Borzoi had noloci standieither, because I'd jolly well nearly chewed them off; and he laughed and gave me a whole cutlet with a lot of delicious meat on it, saying he wasn't hungry himself.

Of course we dogs met again and adopted the rest of our platform; and I don't mind saying I kept a pretty tight grip on the proceedings. In fact, several resolutions, such as those dealing with "Municipal Dog's-meat," "Rabbits in Regent's Park," "The Prosecution of Untruthful Parlourmaids," "Shorter Fur and Longer Legs," were carried without discussion. Naturally the meetings concluded with a vote of thanks to the Chair, to which I replied (they tell me) felicitously.

That is how the War Dogs' Party came into being; and to-morrow I shall tell that little terrier fellow from No. 10, Downing Street, that as long as his master remains faithful to the Dog-in-the-Street the War Dogs' Party will remain faithful to him.

ALGOL.

'OO LUMME! THAT MUST BE THE BLOKE WOT WON THE WAR!'"OO LUMME! THAT MUST BE THE BLOKE WOT WON THE WAR!"

"'The little lass, and what worlds away,' one says to oneself on coming out of Mr. Rosing's recital."—"Times'" Musical Critic.

It's the worst of music that it makes one so love-sick and sentimental.

"As," says one of Mr. Punch's many and very welcome correspondents, "you will probably be writing for the benefit of your readers a short handbook on how to be demobilised, I enclose for your guidance my solicitor's bill. He was engaged from November 12th until I returned home on leave on December 30th and took a hand in the game myself. The chief work was tracing the various Government Departments to their hidden lairs in which they indulge in the pleasing habit of exchanging minutes.

"Some day perhaps demobilisation will reach me. The sooner the better, for I can never settle this account on my Army pay."

So much for the preamble. Here, with the alteration only of certain names, is the document itself. Mr. Jones, it should be mentioned, is a member of the firm to which the Officer in question (whom we will call Mr. Lute) wishes to return:—

Let meaner souls make merryO'er cups of ruby wine,With claret, port or sherryTheir tunes incarnadine;Let little boys emphaticBecome o'er ginger b.Myself I grow ecstaticAbout a drink called "Tea."Tea elevates one's pecker,Rejuvenates the mind,Enriches the exchequer,Yet never makes men "blind";When footsore and effete I'mFrom every ache set free,And not alone at tea-timeI thank the Lord for "Tea."It tells of balmy breezesThat blow "o'er Ceylon's isle"(While HEBER mostly pleasesHis accent here is vile)—Of some far-flung plantationWhere Hindus bend the knee;And would my occupationWere prefixed (ah!) by "Tea"!'Tis told in classic fableThe nectar served to ZeusAt his Olympic tableWas just a vinous juice;That such is purely fictionI heartily agree,Having the sound conviction'Twas nothing less than "Tea."

Let meaner souls make merryO'er cups of ruby wine,With claret, port or sherryTheir tunes incarnadine;Let little boys emphaticBecome o'er ginger b.Myself I grow ecstaticAbout a drink called "Tea."

Let meaner souls make merry

O'er cups of ruby wine,

With claret, port or sherry

Their tunes incarnadine;

Let little boys emphatic

Become o'er ginger b.

Myself I grow ecstatic

About a drink called "Tea."

Tea elevates one's pecker,Rejuvenates the mind,Enriches the exchequer,Yet never makes men "blind";When footsore and effete I'mFrom every ache set free,And not alone at tea-timeI thank the Lord for "Tea."

Tea elevates one's pecker,

Rejuvenates the mind,

Enriches the exchequer,

Yet never makes men "blind";

When footsore and effete I'm

From every ache set free,

And not alone at tea-time

I thank the Lord for "Tea."

It tells of balmy breezesThat blow "o'er Ceylon's isle"(While HEBER mostly pleasesHis accent here is vile)—Of some far-flung plantationWhere Hindus bend the knee;And would my occupationWere prefixed (ah!) by "Tea"!

It tells of balmy breezes

That blow "o'er Ceylon's isle"

(While HEBER mostly pleases

His accent here is vile)—

Of some far-flung plantation

Where Hindus bend the knee;

And would my occupation

Were prefixed (ah!) by "Tea"!

'Tis told in classic fableThe nectar served to ZeusAt his Olympic tableWas just a vinous juice;That such is purely fictionI heartily agree,Having the sound conviction'Twas nothing less than "Tea."

'Tis told in classic fable

The nectar served to Zeus

At his Olympic table

Was just a vinous juice;

That such is purely fiction

I heartily agree,

Having the sound conviction

'Twas nothing less than "Tea."

The Conference will be held in the imposing Salle de la Grande Horloge. The 'hall of the great clock' is about 30in. long by 15in. wide."—Liverpool Echo.

"Imposing," indeed.

"Manchester's £6,000,000 scheme for obtaining water supplies from Haweswater was approved last night at a meeting of ratepayers in the Town Hall. The annual increased consumption of water had been a little over a million gallons per head per day."—Daily Dispatch.

The new slogan of the temperance enthusiasts—What Manchester drinks to-day England will drink to-morrow.

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