CINDERELLA.

Strong son of France, whose words were ever litBy lightning flashes of ironic wit;More fond of power than of pelf or place,Eternal foeman of the mean and base,And always ready in a righteous causeTo suffer odium and contemn applause—Men call you still the "tiger," but the nameHas long outworn the faintest hint of blame,Since in your country's direst hour of needYou have revealed your true heroic breed;A tiger—yes, to enemies and Huns,But trusted, idolised, by France's sons.So when of late a traitor's felon blowWas like to lay you, old and ailing, low,And France was sorely stricken in her Chief,The wide world shared her anguish—and relief;For the assassin, resolute to kill,Was foiled by your indomitable will.Immortal France! she cannot spare you yet,Till you have paid in full your filial debt,And by the great Redemption and ReleaseStamped Victory with the final seal of Peace.

Strong son of France, whose words were ever lit

By lightning flashes of ironic wit;

More fond of power than of pelf or place,

Eternal foeman of the mean and base,

And always ready in a righteous cause

To suffer odium and contemn applause—

Men call you still the "tiger," but the name

Has long outworn the faintest hint of blame,

Since in your country's direst hour of need

You have revealed your true heroic breed;

A tiger—yes, to enemies and Huns,

But trusted, idolised, by France's sons.

So when of late a traitor's felon blow

Was like to lay you, old and ailing, low,

And France was sorely stricken in her Chief,

The wide world shared her anguish—and relief;

For the assassin, resolute to kill,

Was foiled by your indomitable will.

Immortal France! she cannot spare you yet,

Till you have paid in full your filial debt,

And by the great Redemption and Release

Stamped Victory with the final seal of Peace.

CINDERELLA.[No representative of the General Public seems to have been invited to sit on the Coal Industry Commission.]

Monday, February 24th.—The mantle of the lamented Mr. JOSEPH KING, whose taste inprotégéswas so remarkable, seems to have descended upon Colonel WEDGWOOD. His request for the return to this country of LAJPAT RAI, "the Indian patriot," aroused a storm of objection from other hon. Members, who considered the description inapplicable to a person deported for sedition. But it was quickly quelled by the SPEAKER with the unanswerable assertion that "everybody calls himself a patriot in these days."

Mr. RAPER sought an assurance that no "wrack"—which appears to be a term of art in the timber trade—should be used in the houses to be erected under the Government's new housing scheme. If these were not to be "the unsubstantial fabric of a vision," he implied, the official builders had better leave the wrack behind.

Something is at last to be done to reduce the growing plague of Questions. Hitherto each Member has been entitled to put down eight Questions for oral reply on any one day. But in future no one is to be permitted to "star" more than four Questionsper diem. Even that is regarded by some Members as an extravagant allowance. Major HENNESSY, I understand, thinks "three stars" enough for any man.

"The Government is not a trustee for one class, but for all," was the leading theme of the PRIME MINISTER'S firm and tactful speech in introducing the Coal Industry Commission Bill. He was studiously conciliatory to the miners, but made it plain that they could not be allowed to put a pistol at the head of the general community.

The miners appear, however, to be in the mood of the little girl who said, "I don't want to go to bed; I want to beinbed." The gist of eloquent speeches delivered on their behalf by Mr. HARTSHORN and Mr. RICHARDS was that the Government already possessed all the relevant facts, and should give the desired relief at once. But they mustered only 43 in the Division Lobby against 257 for the Second Reading.

Tuesday, February 25th.—Their Lordships resumed their debate on Industrial Unrest. Lord RUSSELL attributed it mainly to ignorance—on the part of the capitalists and the newspapers, who, with few exceptions, never gave fair play to Labour. He was supported to some extent by His Grace of YORK, who declared that, after a perusal of the Labour Press and the non-Labour Press, he could hardly believe they were dealing with the same subject.

Up to almost the eleventh hour the Committee stage of the Coal Commission Bill in the Commons was not encouraging. The Labour representatives moved amendment after amendment, designed either to wreck the measure or to make the Commission a mere registration-office to approve their own cut-and-dried plans.

PERSUASIVE PURRING.MR. BRACE.

Mr. RICHARDS moved to omit wages and hours from its purview, but the House, brought up in the belief thatHamletwithout thePrince of Denmarkis but a poor play, voted him down by 270 to 40.

Then came another question-begging amendment from Mr. ADAMSON, suggesting that the Commission's inquiries into the possibilities of reorganising the mines should be limited to the single question of "nationalization"—the "blessed word" of Labour just now. This was supported in a capital maiden speech by Mr. SPOOR, an ex-pitman, whose father and son are both in the mines, and by Mr. CLYNES, who rather unreasonably complained that the HOME SECRETARY made SHORTT speeches; but it shared the same fate.

Not till the Bill was nearly through Committee was there any sign ofrapprochement. Then, in response to the persuasive purring of Mr. BRACE, who had urged that the Commission should issue an interim report on wages and hours by March 12th, the PRIME MINISTER declared that, after consultation with Mr. Justice SANKEY, he was prepared to promise that the report should be ready on March 20th. A smile, extending almost to the extreme limits of his moustache, spread over Mr. BRACE'S benevolent countenance. Thenceforward all was peace, and the Third Reading was carried without a division.

Wednesday, February 26th.—The Lords passed the Coal Industry Commission Bill through all its stages without a pause. Then Lord DEVONPORT expatiated on the mistakes of the Food Controllers with such a wealth of illustration that the LORD CHANCELLOR, who is fond of Classical "tags," was heard to murmur,"Omnium consensu capax imperil nisi imperasset."

A Second Reading was given to the Re-election of Ministers Bill, on the plea of the LORD CHANCELLOR that until it is passed several of his Ministerial colleagues will benantes in gurgite vasto—or, in other words, all at sea.

Rumours that a new Department of Public Information was to be set up excited much curiosity in the Commons, but only negative replies were received. The Department, if, and when, it comes into existence, is not to advertise the virtues of the Coalition, nor is it to publish a newspaper of its own; though, to judge by the leaflets, circulars andcommuniquésissued by the existing Ministries in the course of the week, such an organ would certainly not perish for lack of copy.

MR. JOYNSON HICKS'S FAIR WARNING TO SIR ERIC GEDDES.

The so-called Ten Minutes' Rule was originally intended for the introduction of comparatively unimportant Bills. This after-noon Mr. SHORTT employed it for the purpose of explaining the provisions of one of the most revolutionary and comprehensive measuresever brought forward in any country. Briefly it is to put under the control of a single Minister of Ways and Communications our railways, our canals, our roads, and also our supply of electricity, hitherto in the hands of hundreds of public companies and local authorities. Only on one point did the Bill meet with opposition. I do not know whether Mr. JOYNSON HICKS claims any connection with Hicks's Hall, which stands in the old road-books as the starting-point of the great highway to the North, but he became almost lyrical in his denunciation of the proposal to put all the roads in the country in charge of a railwayman like Sir ERIC GEDDES. They ought, in his opinion, to be under the care of someone "born on roads" and "trained on roads"—a sort of super-tramp, I suppose.

Thursday, February 27th.—To an appeal for an increase in the pensions of Crimea and Mutiny veterans, to meet the rise in the cost of living, response was made that such an increase would be granted in the case of those not over seventy years of age. It is not thought that the concession will cause a heavy drain on the national resources, few of the veterans having joined up before entering their 'teens.

As a retort, "Yah! German!" is, I am told, already consideredvieux jeuby the wits of the pavement. But Ulstermen and Nationalists still think it effective to twit one another with having been supplied with rifles from the arsenals of the Bosch. They bandied charges and contradictions so vigorously this afternoon that the SPEAKER had to intervene to put an end to these "nonsensical bickerings."

The SECRETARY OP THE TREASURY scouted the suggestion that County cricket-matches should be exempted from the entertainment tax. It is believed that his answer was based solely upon financial considerations, and that he must not be held to have expressed the opinion that first-class cricket, as played by certain counties,is, in point of fact, entertaining.

"German residents in South-west Africa have forwarded the Administrator a petition for transmission to President Wilson, claiming permission to erect a republic union with the Republic of Germany. The petitioners claim that they not only represent a majority of the white inhabitants, but interpret the views of the wishes of the majority of the majority of the ahmbahmbahmbah natives."New Zealand Paper.

New Zealand Paper.

We should like to know more of this remarkable tribe, which,inter alia, seems to have evolved a new method of proportional representation.

"Did I iver tell ye," asked ex-Sergeant O'Reilly, filling his pipe from my tobacco-jar, "about the red wine?"

"I remember a story about sparkling Burgundy," I said.

"Och, that wouldn't be it at all. 'Twas another time altogither."

"Well," I said, "tell me about the red wine."

"'Twas this way." O'Reilly leant back in his chair, covered his maimed hand with a pocket-handkerchief—a curious way he had—and looked at me with that expression of openness and simplicity which demands confidence. "We was 'way back o' the line at the time, at a place where ye'd expect to get a taste o' rest; but what wid fancy attacks an' 'special coorses' (thim 's the divil an' all!) there wasn't enough rest for an honest man to get into mischief. Well, there was to be a grand inshpection by a tremenjus brass-hat, one o' thim soort all over ribbons that rides wid a shtiff back. 'Twas the mornin' before the great day whin the O.C. comes to me all of a flutter, an' says he, 'Sergint, ye've a chanct now to do me a good turn.'

"'I'll do it, Sorr,' says I, 'if it costs me my shtripes.'

"'The fact is,' says he, 'we've run out o' claret, an' there's no dacent shtuff to be had for twinty miles round; annyway, that's what I'm tould. Now the Gin'ral has a great fancy for red wine.'

"''Tis a sad business,' says I.

"'I've heard it whispered,' says the poor man, an' he wid the D.S.O. an' all, 'that where there's a good dhrop o' dhrink you're the man to find it. An',' says he, 'there's no discredit to ye in that, O'Reilly.'

"'Indeed no, Sorr,' says I; ''tis a gift.'

"'Well,' says he, 'would ye use that same gift of yours for the honour o' the Rig'mint?'"

O'Reilly felt in his pocket for a tobacco-stopper, attended carefully to his pipe and again fixed me with his candid gaze.

"'There's a bit of a place 'way back,' says I, 'where I've a fancy I might find somethin'.'

"Wid that he shtuck a bunch o' notes in me hand. 'Don't shpare the cost,' says he, 'but get it. 'Tis up to you, Sergint, to save a disp'rit situation.'"

"It was a terrible responsibility," I said.

"Ye may say that. Whin I was alone wid thim notes bulgin' in me tunic, I'd a notion I might let down the Rig'mint afther all, an' that would have bruk me heart. But off I wint to see Achille. 'Twas four miles to the village, an' I wint on my blessed feet, an' by the time I got to the place I was as nervous as a mouse in a thrap. Achille's shop wasn't a café or an estaminet or a buvette or anny o' thim places. He had a bit of a brass plate on his door wid 'Marchand de Vins' on it. I knew him by raison of a fancy that took me wan day for a dhrop o' brandy. So I wint in through Achille's door wid thim notes as hot in me pocket as Patsy Donelly's pipe.

"Achille hopped out o' the little room at the hack same's a bird out of a cage. 'Ah,' says he, 'that was good cognac, eh? You shall have more, me son.'

"'Achille,' says I, ''tis a shtrange thing, but there's niver a thought o' cognac in me mind at all. 'Tis red wine, the best, that I'm afther.'

"'Red wine!' says he. 'I haven't a litre o' red wine in the cellars.'

"'Holy Powers!' says I, 'an' you wid "Marchand de Vins" on yer door.' The shock of it took the breath out o' me entirely. So I sat up on the counter to think.

"''Tis a matther,' says I, 'that concerns the Rig'mint, a rig'mint that was niver bate yet.' An' I explained about the Gin'ral an' what the O.C. tould me. An' thin I tuk the notes from me pocket an' put thim on the counther undher his eyes.

"'Ach,' says he, ''tisn't money I want from ye, but to hilp a frind.' Then he folded his arms an' his forehead wint up into a puzzle o' wrinkles.

"'An' why wouldn't white wine do?' says he.

"'Is it offer white wine to a Gin'ral an' him wid a taste for red?' says I. 'It might rouse him terrible. Now, Achille,' says I, 'would there be no way of makin' the white red?'"

O'Reilly put a persuasiveness into the last words that revealed Achille to me as an honest merchant confronted with the most subtle of temptations.

"O'Reilly," I said, "was that fair?"

"Maybe not, but I'd the Gin'ral an' the honour o' the Rig'mint fixed in me mind. 'That's a good joke, very good,' says Achille; but thore was niver a smile on his face.

"'I 'd no intintion to make anny joke,' says I. 'Come, Achille, you're a knowin' man. Would there be no way at all?'

"Now it happened that he'd lift the door o' the little room open, an' I could see a bit o' a garden through the window. 'What's the shtuff growin' out there,' says I, 'wid the dark red leaves to it, or maybe ye'd call thim purple?'

"'That's beet,' says he with a kind of a groan.

"'Beet,' says I. 'An' isn't beet a red kind of a thing an' mighty full o' juice?'

"'It is that,' says he, wid the eyes of him almost out o' his head.

"'Then how would it be,' says I, 'to touch up the white wine wid some o' that same juice?'

"'The thought was in me mind, God help me,' says he, an' wid that he sat up on the counther forninst me, an' we shtared into the garden like two men in a play.

"'Would it make the wine cloudy?' says I.

"'I could filter it so's it'd come as clear as sunshine,' says he.

"'An' how would it be for taste?' says I.

"Achille put a hand on me arm an' I could feel him shakin' like a man wid the ague.

"'Heaven forgive me,' says he, 'but ye might say it was the wine o' the counthry, an' that taste was the mark of it.' 'Tis my belief he was near cryin', for he was an honest man, an' 'twas for me he was lowerin' himself to deceit."

"You were a nice pair," I said.

"'Twas a beautiful schame," O'Reilly went on. "I was niver concerned in a betther."

"Did it come off?" I asked.

"To a turn," said O'Reilly. "We was docthorin' that blissed wine for the best part o' the day, an' I tuk back a dozen bottles to camp. The O.C. was hangin' round, as anxious as a dog for his master.

"'Have ye the wine, O'Reilly?' says he.

"'I have, sorr,' says I; 'but I'd be glad if ye'd ask me no questions about it.'

"'Not for the world,' says he, givin' me a queer look, an' was off like a mountain hare."

"Did the General recover?" I asked.

"That wine made a new man of him. He praised the Rig'mint up to the heighths. We was the pink o' the Army, bedad! The throuble was he wanted to know where he'd get more o' that same wine.

"'There's no more to be had,' says I to the O.C., for I was done wid the job.

"'He says it has a powerful bouquet,' says the O.C.

"'That may be,' says I, 'but he'll niver taste the like of it agin. 'Twas an ould wine o' the counthry, an' there's niver been the match of it before or since.'

"'Couldn't it be managed annyhow?' says the O.C.

"'Not for all the Gin'rals in the British army,' says I. 'Twas for the love o' the Rig'mint I got that wine, an' I 'm done wid the job.'"

"Is that the end?" I asked.

"Barrin' this," said O'Reilly. And he produced from his pocket a silver cigarette case, inside which was engraved, "To Sergeant Dennis O'Reilly, who saved the situation, October 15th, 1917."

BACK TO THE LAND.Ex-Air-Mechanic (in difficulties)."SEEMS TO BE A RARE OLD BUS FOR NOSE-DIVING."

"No, thank you; I hate publicity.—Lord Jellicoe, in reply to a request for a farewell massage."—Provincial Paper.

We agree with the gallant Admiral that such operations are better conducted in private.

"It was stated that the cow took ill, and died on 23rd June last, and the purser now claimed the value of the animal, namely, £5O, and also a further sum of £5, being the loss which he sustained through the want of milk, butter, and cheese, supplied by said cow from the date of her death to the date of the raising of the action."—Scots Paper.

"Faithful unto death"—and a bit over.

If I had a son one of the first things I should teach him would be the art of leaving. I would have him swift in all ways, but swiftest when the time came to go. And when he went he should go absolutely. For although the people who leave slowly are bad enough, they are as nothing compared with the people who make false exits and return with afterthoughts.

The other day the necessity came for me to visit a house agent. Life has these chequered moments. There is something of despatch and order wanting about most house-agents, possibly the result of their very odd and difficult business, which is for the greater part carried on with people who don't know their own minds and apparently are least likely to take an eligible residence when they most profess satisfaction with it. Be that as it may, house agents' offices in general have a want of definiteness unknown to, say, banks or pawnbrokers'. There is no exact spot for you to stand or sit; you are unaware as to which of the clerks is going to attend to you, and the odds are heavy that the one you approach will transfer you to another. There is also a certain air of familiarity or friendliness: not, of course, approaching the camaraderie of the dealer in motor cars, who leans against the wall with his hands in his pockets and talks to customers through a cigarette; but something much more human than the attitude of a female clerk in a post-office.

Being pressed for time and having only the very briefest transaction to perform, it follows that I was kept waiting for my turn with "our Mr. Plausible," in whose optimistic hands my affairs at the moment repose.

Occupying his far too tolerant ear was another client, whose need was a country house surrounded by enough grass-land for a small stud farm.

This is what happened (he had, by the way, the only chair at that desk):—

Our Mr. Plausible (for the fortieth time).I understand perfectly. A nice house, out-buildings and about twenty acres of meadow.

Client. Twenty to thirty.

Our Mr. P. Yes, or thirty.

C. You see, what I want is to breed stock—cattle and horses too.

Our Mr. P. Exactly. Well, the three places I have given you are all well-adapted.

C. When a man gets to my age and has put a little money by he may just as well take it quietly as not. I don't want a real farm; I want just a smallish place where I can play at raising pedigree animals.

Our Mr. P. That's just the kind of place I've given you. The one near Newbury is probably the most suitable. I should see that first, and then the one near Alton.

C. You understand, I don't want a big farm. Anybody else can have the arable. Just a comfortable house and some meadows; about twenty acres or even thirty.

Our Mr. P. The biggest one I've given you is thirty. The place near Newbury is twenty-three.

C. Well, I'11 go and see them as soon as I can.[Gets up.

Our Mr. P. The sooner the better, I should advise. There's a great demand for country-houses just now.

C.(sitting solidly down again).Ah, yes, but this is different. What I want is not so much a country-house in the ordinary meaning of the term as a farm-house, but without possessing a farm. Just enough buildings and meadow-land to breed a few shorthorns and a yearling or two. The house must be comfortable, you know, roomy, but not anything pretentious.[Gets up again.

Our Mr.P.I quite understand. That's just what I've given you.

C. (again seating himself).The whole scheme may be foolishness. My wife says it is. But(here I believe I groaned audibly; at any rate all the other clerks looked up)there it is. When a man has enough to retire on and pay the piper he's entitled to call the tune; isn't he?

[At this point I resist the temptationto take him by the shoulders and push him out.

Our Mr. P. Quite, quite. Well, Sir, if you take my advice you'11 go to Newbury as quickly as you can. It's a first-rate place—most highly recommended.

[Here the client very deliberately puts the three "orders to view" in his inside pocket and slowly buttons his coat. I flutter on tiptoe, eager for his chair.

C. If these won't do you'11 find me some more?

Our Mr. P. With pleasure.

C. Very well; good morning.

[Moves away. I have just begun to speak when he returns.

C. Don't forget what I want it for. And not too far from London or my wife will dislike it.

Our Mr. P. Yes, you told me that. I've got a note of it here.

C. And you won't forget about the acreage?

Our Mr. P. No."

C.(addressing me).I'm afraid I've kept you waiting.

I (like the craven liar I am).It's all right.

[Client ultimately withdraws, but still with reluctance, and after two or three hesitations and half-turns back.

And the tragic part of it is that his name is Legion.

That is why if I had a boy I should teach him the art of leaving. Almost nothing else matters.

DR. ADDISON has stated that for some time past it has been the practice riot to use the word "pauper" in official documents when it was possible to use another expression; and no well-conditioned person will cavil at the spirit which has prompted the use of a less invidious substitute. But surely the process might be carried a good deal further. The practice of giving a dog a bad name is not only condemned by the proverbial philosophy of the ancients but by the most emancipated of the orthopsychical educationists of to-day.

If you keep on calling a man a "criminal," you will end by making him one. How much wiser it would be to refer to the impulses which occasionally bring him into conflict with the custodians of law and order as emanating from a dynamic individualism! In that way you may very possibly convert him into a static individualist and sterilize his potential malignance by a subliminalserum..

The amount of harm done by disparaging nomenclature is incalculable. Take the word "thief," for example. Its meaning can be expressed with infinitely greater precision and delicacy in the phrase, "one who is unable to discriminate betweenmeumandtuum." Here you have in place of one mean little word a well-cadenced phrase of ten. Euphony as well as humanity prompts the variation.

Classical writers may have objected to the use of sesquipedalian words, but we know better, and Mr. WINSTON CHURCHILL'S famous synonym for "lie" is permanently enshrined in the annals of circumlocution. One of the most offensive words in the language is "idiot"; yet it can be shorn of nearly all its sting when replaced by the definition, "a person of infra-normal mentality."

Demolilisation Officer. "WHAT IS THE NUMBER OF YOUR GROUP?"Private. "I DON'T KNOW, SIR. I WAS A TURF ACCOUNTANT."Demobilisation Officer. "AH! AGRICULTURE—GROUP 1."

Demolilisation Officer. "WHAT IS THE NUMBER OF YOUR GROUP?"

Private. "I DON'T KNOW, SIR. I WAS A TURF ACCOUNTANT."

Demobilisation Officer. "AH! AGRICULTURE—GROUP 1."

"London, Dec. 16.—At a meeting of the County Cricket Advisory Committee it was decided to run the County Championship during 1919, the matches to be limited to two days. There will be no change in the number of balls in the over.—Reuter's.The Soviets are preparing the sharpest counter-measure.—Reuter's."—Canton Times.

The Soviets are preparing the sharpest counter-measure.—Reuter's."—Canton Times.

But we are confident that whatever the Soviets' little game is it will not be cricket.

[An Equality Theatre is being-run in Munich, where the public pays a fixed price and is allotted by chance a seat in the stalls or the gallery.]

The Equality plan we will run if we canSo that never a man or a woman need grumble—If theatres, should the idea not includeBooks, clothing and food for the great and the humble?You will pay a fixed sum and accept what may come,Be it loser or plum; and, to shun all that vexes,We'll even eliminate what modern women hate,And will not discriminate as to the sexes.The question of dress may at first, I confess,Make a sort of a mess of our smart Small-and-Earlies,Where the First Footman John wears the garb of a don,And Lord CURZON comes on from the House in his pearlies;But when our char kneels on the steps and revealsThe last word in "Lucilles," will she not put her heart moreAnd more in her duties while great social beautiesSlink by in "pampooties" and arrows from Dartmoor?Our tastes and our breeding no more will be leadingThe paths of our reading; we'll read what we've got to(And itwillbe a sell for Mamma if her NellGets the last ETHEL DELL, when Mamma told hernotto);It may be a worry to poor GILBERT MURRAYTo read Hints on Curry and Blouses and BatterInHome Chat, it's true; but still more of a stewThe Occult Reviewmay appear to his hatter.In the matter of meals, since the rations one feelsHedonistic ideals have so soundly been shakenThat even the swankiest Duke might say, "Thankee!"For Hodge's red hanky of bread and cold bacon;But if in the sequel all chances are equalYou'll have to see me quell a volume of cursesWhen our "jobs" they allot, and Istillhave to swot,If I like it or not, writing topical verses.

The Equality plan we will run if we can

So that never a man or a woman need grumble—

If theatres, should the idea not include

Books, clothing and food for the great and the humble?

You will pay a fixed sum and accept what may come,

Be it loser or plum; and, to shun all that vexes,

We'll even eliminate what modern women hate,

And will not discriminate as to the sexes.

The question of dress may at first, I confess,Make a sort of a mess of our smart Small-and-Earlies,Where the First Footman John wears the garb of a don,And Lord CURZON comes on from the House in his pearlies;But when our char kneels on the steps and revealsThe last word in "Lucilles," will she not put her heart moreAnd more in her duties while great social beautiesSlink by in "pampooties" and arrows from Dartmoor?

The question of dress may at first, I confess,

Make a sort of a mess of our smart Small-and-Earlies,

Where the First Footman John wears the garb of a don,

And Lord CURZON comes on from the House in his pearlies;

But when our char kneels on the steps and reveals

The last word in "Lucilles," will she not put her heart more

And more in her duties while great social beauties

Slink by in "pampooties" and arrows from Dartmoor?

Our tastes and our breeding no more will be leadingThe paths of our reading; we'll read what we've got to(And itwillbe a sell for Mamma if her NellGets the last ETHEL DELL, when Mamma told hernotto);It may be a worry to poor GILBERT MURRAYTo read Hints on Curry and Blouses and BatterInHome Chat, it's true; but still more of a stewThe Occult Reviewmay appear to his hatter.

Our tastes and our breeding no more will be leading

The paths of our reading; we'll read what we've got to

(And itwillbe a sell for Mamma if her Nell

Gets the last ETHEL DELL, when Mamma told hernotto);

It may be a worry to poor GILBERT MURRAY

To read Hints on Curry and Blouses and Batter

InHome Chat, it's true; but still more of a stew

The Occult Reviewmay appear to his hatter.

In the matter of meals, since the rations one feelsHedonistic ideals have so soundly been shakenThat even the swankiest Duke might say, "Thankee!"For Hodge's red hanky of bread and cold bacon;But if in the sequel all chances are equalYou'll have to see me quell a volume of cursesWhen our "jobs" they allot, and Istillhave to swot,If I like it or not, writing topical verses.

In the matter of meals, since the rations one feels

Hedonistic ideals have so soundly been shaken

That even the swankiest Duke might say, "Thankee!"

For Hodge's red hanky of bread and cold bacon;

But if in the sequel all chances are equal

You'll have to see me quell a volume of curses

When our "jobs" they allot, and Istillhave to swot,

If I like it or not, writing topical verses.

The butler, John Binns, who is an old and faithful retainer to this household, is now suffering from his annual cough. It is a terrific cough, capable of disputing supremacy with all other coughs of which the world has heard. The special points about this cough are (1) its loudness; (2) its combination of the noises made by all other coughs; (3) its depth; (4) its shriek of despair as it trembles and reverberates through the house; (5) its capacity to repel and annihilate sympathy. It is true that I have interviewed Binns with regard to his cough—it is an annual interview and is expected of me. I have urged him as he values our friendship not to neglect his cough, and he has assured me in return that the doctor has prepared for him a draught which possesses the supreme quality of being absolutely unable to effect the purpose for which it was devised.

"I shall drink 'is stuff," says Binns, "but I 'aven't any 'opes of its doing me any good. It doesn't seem to get mebe'indthe eough. If once I could really get be'ind it I should soon finish it. But yon can't expect to do anything with a cough unless you're be'ind it."

"Have you tried chloraline?" I venture to suggest, mentioning not by that name, but by another, a much-advertised specific.

"I've been living on chloraline—that is when I wasn't taking camphor lozenges. But my symptoms are too strong for that kind o' stuff. Besides, I find that it's no use to fill yerself up with remedies, because they only weigh down the cough unnaturally, and then when it does bust out it's fit to tear yer throat in pieces. But none of them get be'ind it—no, not once."

It will be observed that Binns has almost a superstition in regard to "getting be'ind." If he got rid of his cough with everything still in front, he would take no satisfaction whatever in his malady; but as it is he feels a legitimate pride in it. He has been a member of this household for forty years, and punctually on the Kalends of March in every year his cough turns up. It never reduces his efficiency, but, while it alienates affection, it makes him more valuable to himself as being one who has symptoms capable of being related at full length to Mrs. Hankinson, the cook, or to any of the maids who have not yet experienced it and must be made aware that they belong to an establishment which has the high merit of accommodating John Binns's annual cough.

It is something to have a butler who has coughed his irresistible way through two-and-a-half generations. It is a perfectly harmless affliction, but it gets on nerves in the same way as it did when first it huicked and honked and strangled and choked in the seventies of last century. I can see no decrease in its vigour or its variety. It deserves the chance of immortality that I hereby offer it, thus giving it a place beside the cough thatJohnsoncoughed atDr. Blimber'sfamous establishment. It will be remembered that, when theDoctorbegan an excursus on the Romans,Johnson, "who happened to be drinking and who caught the Doctor's eye glaring at him through the side of his tumbler, left off so hastily that he was convulsed for some moments and in the sequel ruined Dr. Blimber's point." He struggled gallantly, but had in the end to give way to an overwhelming paroxysm of coughing. It was a good cough, but an isolated one, and was perhaps, after all, not equal to Binns's.

Captain Reginald JonesandCaptain James Smith,demobilised, meet accidentally in the waiting-room of a Government office. Their acquaintanceship had originated in a shell-hole near Plum-Tree Farm in 1916.

Reggie. Cheerio, old egg.

Jimmy. Same to you. Doing anything?

Reggie. Lord, yes! I've been pushed on to the directorate of the pater's firm.

Jimmy. Congrats!

Reggie. Stow it, old man; I'm simply worried to death. The whole cabush is on strike.

Jimmy. The blighters! What bunch are they?

Reggie. Stone-breakers.

Jimmy. Not the stone-breakers, surely?

Reggie. Yes, the stone-breakers, perish them!

Jimmy. And are you here about it?

Reggie. Sure. The junior director gets all the dirty work to do.

Jimmy. What a coincidence! I'm on the same stunt, old thing.

Reggie. Board of Trade?

Jimmy. Rats! Organising secretary of the Stone-breakers' Union.

Reggie (after, gasp of surprise).Lucky devil.

Jimmy. Rot! I'd chuck it if I could afford to. Don't you wish sometimes you were back at Plum-Tree Farm?

Reggie. Crumbs, Jimmy; but weren't those the glorious days?

"EX-CROWN PRINCE'S HORSE TO RUN."—Heading in "The Times."

Like master like horse.

FOR ENTERPRISING DISPERSAL STATIONS. SPEED UP YOUR OUTPUT BY INSTALLING THE MOVING-STAIRCASE SYSTEM. NO TIME LOST. GOVERNMENT SUITS "ASSEMBLED" BY SKILLED WORKMEN IN RECORD TIME.

I SHALL begin by saying straight out that Miss CICELY HAMILTON'S new book,William—an Englishman(SKEFFINGTON), is one of the finest war-stories that anyone has yet given us. You know already what qualities the author brings to her writing; you may believe me that she has done nothing more real, more nobly conceived, and by consequence more moving than this short tale. It opens, in a style of half-humorous irony, with an account of the youth, early life and courtship ofWilliam, who, with the girl whom he married, belonged to the vehement circles of the Labour-Suffragist group, spending a cheerfully ignorant life in a round of meetings, in hunger-striking and whole-hearted support of the pacifism that "seeks peace and ensues it by insisting firmly, and even to blood, that it is the other side's duty to give way." One small concession you must make to Miss HAMILTON'S plot. It is improbable that, when such a couple asWilliamandGriseldaleft England in July 1914 to take their honeymoon in a remote valley of the Belgian Ardennes, their friends, knowing them to be without news and ignorant of all speech save English, should have made no effort to warn them. But, this granted, the tragedy that follows becomes inevitable. It is so finely told and so horrible (the more so for the deliberate restraint of the telling) that I will say nothing to weaken its effect. From one scene, however, I cannot withhold my tribute of admiration—that in whichWilliam, alone, brokenhearted, and almost crazed with the ruin of everything that made up his life, creeps home to find his old associates still glibly echoing the platitudes in which he once believed. A hint here of insincerity or conscious arrangement would have ruined all; as it is, the scene holds and haunts one with an impression of absolute truth, For the end, marked like all by an almost grim avoidance of sentimentality, I shall only refer you to the book itself. After reading it you will, I hope, not think me guilty of exaggeration when I call it, slight though it is, one for which its author has deserved well of the State.

The dominant impression left upon me by Miss MERIEL BUCHANAN'SPetrograd the City of Trouble(COLLINS) is that its author is a sportswoman of the first order. You see her pressing to the windows to observe the shooting in the streets, going out to shop, to dine, to dance, during the stormy months of the various phases of the various Russian Revolutions. And I hasten to add, for fear of misunderstanding, that there is no suggestion of pose as the heroic Englishwoman. It was not till the end of 1918 that Sir GEORGE BUCHANAN withdrew from a country in which ambassadorial functions had obviously no reasonable scope. But he and his family, including our chronicler, his spirited daughter, remained long after there was any plausible reason to hope for the restoration of order and very long after considerations of personal safety might well have dictated and justified retreat. Mr. HUGH WALPOLE in his preface points out that Miss BUCHANAN is the first English writer to give a sense of the atmosphere of Russia during the New Terror. It is curious, but the impression she conveys is of something far less formidable than we have imagined. That may well be due to her high courage which minimised the ever-present dangers. Another odd impression is that her accounts of current events,e.g.of the death of RASPUTIN, seem to be as unplausible as those which have been patched from various reports and guesses by writers far from the actual scene. It is perhaps the very nearness of the author to the source of the host of wild rumours and speculations concerning this strange tragedy that conveys this sense of the impossible. Have I thereby suggested that the book lacks interest? On the contrary, it hasn't a dull or insincere page.

Little Houses(METHUEN) is not, as you might excusably suppose, a treatise upon the problem of the hour, but a novel. I confess that, when I read in the puff preliminary that it was "minutely observed" and "drab" in setting, my heart sank. But Mr. WODEN'S book is not made after that sufficiently-exploited fashion. He has a definite scheme, and (but for the fault of creating more characters than he can conveniently manage) tells his simple tale with a mature ease remarkable in a first novel. The plan of it is the life-story of a group of persons in a provincial factory town in those Victorian days when trade-unions were first starting, when the caricaturists lived upon Mr. GLADSTONE'S collars and the Irish Question was very much in the same state as it is to-day. We watch the hero,John Allday, developing from a Sunday-school urchin to flourishing owner of his own business and prospective alderman. Of course I admit that this synopsis does not sound peculiarly thrilling; also that as a tale it is by now considerably more than twice told. But I can only repeat that, for those with a taste for such stories, here is one excellent of its kind. Whether Mr. WODEN has been drawing upon personal memories for it, writing in fact that one novel of which every man is said to be capable, time and the publishing lists will show. I shall certainly be interested to see. Meanwhile the fact that despite his name GEORGE—always an object of the gravest suspicion—I accept his masculinity without question is my tribute both to the balance of his style and to the admirable drawing of his hero.

That gallant and heroic gentleman, the late Mr. CECIL CHESTERTON, proved his quality by his service and death in the ranks of our army. In such scanty leisure as he could command be wrote, quite casually as it were,A History of the United Slates(CHATTO AND WINDUS). He seemed to say asWemmickmight have said, "Hullo! Here's a nation! Let's write its history," which he at once proceeded to do with immense gusto and considerable accuracy. Americans will not universally agree with all the views he puts forward. I myself am of opinion (probably quite wrongly) that I could make a better argumentative case for the North in the Civil War on the question of slavery. And in his account of the War of 1812-1814 Mr. CHESTERTON spends a great deal of indignation over the burning by the British of some public buildings in Washington, omitting to mention that this was done in reprisal for the burning by the Americans in the previous year of the public buildings of Toronto. But in the main this history brilliantly justifies Mr. CHESTERTON'S courage in undertaking it, and it is written in a style that carries the reader with it from first to last. The book is introduced by a moving tribute from Mr. G.K. CHESTERTON to his dead brother.

We doubt whether Mr. BOOTH TARKINGTON'S many admirers on this side of the Atlantic will readThe Magnificent Ambersons(HODDER AND STOUGHTON) with any great sense of satisfaction.George Minaferis a spoilt and egotistical cad, and as we pursue his unpleasant personality from infancy onward our impatience with the adoring relatives who allow the impossible little bounder to turn their lives to tragedy becomes more and more pronounced. In England his "come uppance" would have commenced at an early age and in the time-honoured place thereunto provided. But in the case of young American nabobs these corrective agencies are too often wanting, and though it is hard to believe that a sophisticated uncle, a soldier grandfather and various other relatives would have allowed a conceited and overbearing young boor to wreck his mother's life by separating her from a former sweetheart, it cannot be said that such cases have not existed or that the picture is altogether overdrawn. But we do not likeGeorge Minafer, and his final reconciliation with his own sweetheart and her father—the man whom ho has prevented his mother from marrying—leaves us cold. But if the characters are unpleasing the craftsmanship ofThe Magnificent Ambersonsis of Mr. BOOTH TARKINGTON'S best, and his description "of the decline and fall of a locally supreme dynasty of plutocrats before the hosts of the Goths and Huns of spawning industrialism is almost a contribution to American social history.

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