A SHIP IN A BOTTLE.

Pinching.Teacher."And Ruth walked behind the reapers, picking up the corn that they left. John, what do we call that?"John(very virtuously). "Pinching."

Teacher."And Ruth walked behind the reapers, picking up the corn that they left. John, what do we call that?"

John(very virtuously). "Pinching."

In a sailormen's restaurant Rotherhithe way,Where the din of the docksides is loud all the day,And the breezes come bringing off basin and pondAnd all the piled acres of lumber beyondFrom the Oregon ranges the tang of the pineAnd the breath of the Baltic as bracing as wine,In a fly-spotted window I there did behold,Among the stale odours of hot food and cold,A ship in a bottle some sailor had madeIn watches below, swinging South with the Trade,When the fellows were patching old dungaree suits,Or mending up oilskins and leaky seaboots,Or whittling a model or painting a chest,Or yarning and smoking and watching the rest.In fancy I saw him all weathered and browned,Deep crows'-feet and wrinkles his eyelids around;A pipe in the teeth that seemed little the worseFor Liverpool pantiles and stringy salt-horse;The hairy forearm with its gaudy tattooOf a bold-looking female in scarlet and blue;The fingers all roughened and toughened and scarred,With hauling and hoisting so calloused and hard,So crooked and stiff you would wonder that stillThey could handle with cunning and fashion with skillThe tiny full-rigger predestined to rideTo its cable of thread on its green-painted tideIn its wine-bottle world, while the old world went onAnd the sailor who made it was long ago gone.And still as he worked at the toy on his kneeHe would spin his old yarns of the ships and the sea,Thermopylæ,Lightning,LothairandRed Jacket,With many another such famous old packet,And many a bucko and dare-devil skipperIn Liverpool blood-boat or Colonies' clipper;The sail that they carried aboard theBlack Ball,Their skysails and stunsails and ringtail and all,And storms that they weathered and races they wonAnd records they broke in the days that are done.Or sometimes he'd sing you some droning old song,Some old sailors' ditty both mournful and long,With queer little curlycues, twiddles and quavers,Of smugglers and privateers, pirates and slavers,"The brave female smuggler," the "packet of fameThat sails from New York and theDreadnought's her name,"And "all on the coast of the High Barbaree,"And "the flash girls of London was the downfall of he."In fancy I listened, in fancy could hearThe thrum of the shrouds and the creak of the gear,The patter of reef-points on topsails a-shiver,The song of the jibs when they tauten and quiver,The cry of the frigate-bird following after,The bow-wave that broke with a gurgle like laughter.And I looked on my youth with its pleasure and pain,And the shipmate I loved was beside me again.In a ship in a bottle a-sailing awayIn the flying-fish weather through rainbows of spray,Over oceans of wonder by headlands of gleam,To the harbours of Youth on the wind of a dream.C.F.S.

In a sailormen's restaurant Rotherhithe way,

Where the din of the docksides is loud all the day,

And the breezes come bringing off basin and pond

And all the piled acres of lumber beyond

From the Oregon ranges the tang of the pine

And the breath of the Baltic as bracing as wine,

In a fly-spotted window I there did behold,

Among the stale odours of hot food and cold,

A ship in a bottle some sailor had made

In watches below, swinging South with the Trade,

When the fellows were patching old dungaree suits,

Or mending up oilskins and leaky seaboots,

Or whittling a model or painting a chest,

Or yarning and smoking and watching the rest.

In fancy I saw him all weathered and browned,Deep crows'-feet and wrinkles his eyelids around;A pipe in the teeth that seemed little the worseFor Liverpool pantiles and stringy salt-horse;The hairy forearm with its gaudy tattooOf a bold-looking female in scarlet and blue;The fingers all roughened and toughened and scarred,With hauling and hoisting so calloused and hard,So crooked and stiff you would wonder that stillThey could handle with cunning and fashion with skillThe tiny full-rigger predestined to rideTo its cable of thread on its green-painted tideIn its wine-bottle world, while the old world went onAnd the sailor who made it was long ago gone.

In fancy I saw him all weathered and browned,

Deep crows'-feet and wrinkles his eyelids around;

A pipe in the teeth that seemed little the worse

For Liverpool pantiles and stringy salt-horse;

The hairy forearm with its gaudy tattoo

Of a bold-looking female in scarlet and blue;

The fingers all roughened and toughened and scarred,

With hauling and hoisting so calloused and hard,

So crooked and stiff you would wonder that still

They could handle with cunning and fashion with skill

The tiny full-rigger predestined to ride

To its cable of thread on its green-painted tide

In its wine-bottle world, while the old world went on

And the sailor who made it was long ago gone.

And still as he worked at the toy on his kneeHe would spin his old yarns of the ships and the sea,Thermopylæ,Lightning,LothairandRed Jacket,With many another such famous old packet,And many a bucko and dare-devil skipperIn Liverpool blood-boat or Colonies' clipper;The sail that they carried aboard theBlack Ball,Their skysails and stunsails and ringtail and all,And storms that they weathered and races they wonAnd records they broke in the days that are done.

And still as he worked at the toy on his knee

He would spin his old yarns of the ships and the sea,

Thermopylæ,Lightning,LothairandRed Jacket,

With many another such famous old packet,

And many a bucko and dare-devil skipper

In Liverpool blood-boat or Colonies' clipper;

The sail that they carried aboard theBlack Ball,

Their skysails and stunsails and ringtail and all,

And storms that they weathered and races they won

And records they broke in the days that are done.

Or sometimes he'd sing you some droning old song,Some old sailors' ditty both mournful and long,With queer little curlycues, twiddles and quavers,Of smugglers and privateers, pirates and slavers,"The brave female smuggler," the "packet of fameThat sails from New York and theDreadnought's her name,"And "all on the coast of the High Barbaree,"And "the flash girls of London was the downfall of he."

Or sometimes he'd sing you some droning old song,

Some old sailors' ditty both mournful and long,

With queer little curlycues, twiddles and quavers,

Of smugglers and privateers, pirates and slavers,

"The brave female smuggler," the "packet of fame

That sails from New York and theDreadnought's her name,"

And "all on the coast of the High Barbaree,"

And "the flash girls of London was the downfall of he."

In fancy I listened, in fancy could hearThe thrum of the shrouds and the creak of the gear,The patter of reef-points on topsails a-shiver,The song of the jibs when they tauten and quiver,The cry of the frigate-bird following after,The bow-wave that broke with a gurgle like laughter.And I looked on my youth with its pleasure and pain,And the shipmate I loved was beside me again.In a ship in a bottle a-sailing awayIn the flying-fish weather through rainbows of spray,Over oceans of wonder by headlands of gleam,To the harbours of Youth on the wind of a dream.

In fancy I listened, in fancy could hear

The thrum of the shrouds and the creak of the gear,

The patter of reef-points on topsails a-shiver,

The song of the jibs when they tauten and quiver,

The cry of the frigate-bird following after,

The bow-wave that broke with a gurgle like laughter.

And I looked on my youth with its pleasure and pain,

And the shipmate I loved was beside me again.

In a ship in a bottle a-sailing away

In the flying-fish weather through rainbows of spray,

Over oceans of wonder by headlands of gleam,

To the harbours of Youth on the wind of a dream.

C.F.S.

Jerusalem, August 27.—The High Commissioner visited yesterday afternoon the tomb of Abraham, Sarah, Rebecca, Isaac, Jacob and Leah in the Cave of Makpéla at Hebron."—Egyptian Mail.

No flowers, by request.

Here, hop it, or you'll spoil the whole show.THE GREAT REPUDIATION.Mr. Smillie."HERE, HOP IT, OR YOU'LL SPOIL THE WHOLE SHOW. YOU DON'T COME ON TILL MY NEXT TRICK."

Mr. Smillie."HERE, HOP IT, OR YOU'LL SPOIL THE WHOLE SHOW. YOU DON'T COME ON TILL MY NEXT TRICK."

Why the deuce aren't you with hounds? They're in the next parish by this.M.F.H. "Why the deuce aren't you with hounds? They're in the next parish by this."New Whip(rib-roasting very bad cub-hunter). "'Tain't safe to go near 'em with this 'orse; they might think 'e was for eatin'."

M.F.H. "Why the deuce aren't you with hounds? They're in the next parish by this."

New Whip(rib-roasting very bad cub-hunter). "'Tain't safe to go near 'em with this 'orse; they might think 'e was for eatin'."

Whither in these littered and overcrowded islands should one flee to escape the spectacle of outworn and discarded boots? I should go to a mountain-top and amongst mountain-tops I should choose the highest. I should scale the summit of Ben Nevis.

Yet it is but a few days since I saw on that proud eminence the unmistakable remains of an ordinary walking boot.

It reposed on the perilous edge of a snowdrift that even in summer curves giddily over the lip of the dreadful gulf over which the eastern precipice beetles. There is ever a certain pathos about discarded articles of apparel: a baby's outgrown shoe, a girl's forgotten glove, an abandoned bowler; but the situation of this boot, thus high uplifted towards the eternal stars, gave to it a mystery, a grandeur, a sublimity that held me long in contemplation.

How came it there?

The path that winds up that grey mountain is rough; its harsh stones and remorseless gradients take toll of leather as of flesh. Yet half a sole and a sound upper are better than no boot; and what climber but would postpone till after his descent the discarding of his damaged footgear?

Could it be, I asked myself, the relic and evidence of an inhuman crime? Was it possible that some party of climbers, arriving at the top lunchless and desperately hungry, had sacrificed their plumpest, disposing of his clothes over the cliff, but failing to hole out with this tell-tale boot?

But no, I bethought me of the price of leather. They would have reserved the boots, even at the risk of suspicion. Moreover, no one would ever reach that exacting altitude in a state of succulence.

A glow of sympathy, a thrill of appreciation swept through me as I realised what was at once the worthiest and the likeliest explanation.

Who shall plumb the depths of the affection of a true pedestrian for his boots, the companions and comfort of so many a pilgrimage? Who but the climber, the hill-tramp, knows the pang of regret with which he faces at last the truth that his favourite boots are past repair, the sorrow and self-reproach with which he permits them to be consigned to Erebus?

I saw it all. As the Roman veteran hung upon the temple wall of Mars the arms he might no longer wield, so hither came some lofty-minded climber, bearing in devoted hands his outworn and faithful boot, to leave it sadly and with reverence in this most worthy resting-place, here to repose at the end of all the roads it had trod, on the highest of all the native hills it had climbed.

W.K.H.

"Mr. Roberts, Member of Parliament, has arrived. Mr. Roberts is a tall and well-built gentleman with a posing appearance."Mysore Patriot.

"Mr. Roberts, Member of Parliament, has arrived. Mr. Roberts is a tall and well-built gentleman with a posing appearance."

Mysore Patriot.

"Families supplied in 18, 12 or 6 gallon casks."—Hertford brewer's notice.

Where's yourDiogenesnow?

"The dinner was in the House of Commons, and I sat next to Henry. I was tremendously impressed by his conversation and his clean Cromwellian face."From a famous autobiography.

"The dinner was in the House of Commons, and I sat next to Henry. I was tremendously impressed by his conversation and his clean Cromwellian face."

From a famous autobiography.

It was, we trust, theCromwelltouch rather than the cleanness that was so impressive.

Ancient Gardener (who has just been paid)Ancient Gardener(who has just been paid). "Oi say, Maister, there's summat wrong wi' ma brass."Employer."What's that, John?"A.G."Wha, sithee, tha's gi'en ma one ta mony."Employer."You're very honest, John."A.G."Weel, tha sees I thoat it mid 'a' bin a trap."

Ancient Gardener(who has just been paid). "Oi say, Maister, there's summat wrong wi' ma brass."

Employer."What's that, John?"

A.G."Wha, sithee, tha's gi'en ma one ta mony."

Employer."You're very honest, John."

A.G."Weel, tha sees I thoat it mid 'a' bin a trap."

How odd it is that our PapasKeep taking us to cinemas,But still expect the same old scares,The tiger-cats, the woolly bears,The lions on the nursery stairsTo frighten as of old!Considering everybody knowsA girl can throttle one of thoseWhile choking with the other handThe captain of a robber band,They leave one pretty cold.The lion has no status now;One has one's terrors, I'll allow,The centipede, perhaps the cow,But nothing in the Zoo;The things that wriggle, jump or crawl,The things that climb about the wall,And I know what is worst of all—It is the earwig—ugh!The earwig's face is far from kind;He must have got a spiteful mind;The pincers which he wears behindAre poisonous, of course;And Nanny knew a dreadful oneWhich bit a gentleman for funAnd terrified a horse.He is extremely swift and slim,And if you try to tread on himHe scuttles up the path;He goes and burrows in your spongeAnd takes one wild terrific plungeWhen you are in the bath;Or else—and this is simply foul—He gets into a nice hot towelAnd waits till you are dried,And then, when Nanny does your ears,Hewrrrigglesin and disappears:He stays in there for years and yearsAndcrrrawlsabout inside.At last, if you are still alive,A lot of baby ones arrive;But probably you've died.How inconvenient it must be!There isn't any way, you see,To get him out again;So, when you want to frighten meOr really give me pain,Please don't go on about that bearAnd all those burglars on the stair;I shouldn't turn a tiny hairAt such Victorian stuff;You only have to say instead,"There is an Earwig in Your Bed"And that will be enough.A.P.H.

How odd it is that our Papas

Keep taking us to cinemas,

But still expect the same old scares,

The tiger-cats, the woolly bears,

The lions on the nursery stairs

To frighten as of old!

Considering everybody knows

A girl can throttle one of those

While choking with the other hand

The captain of a robber band,

They leave one pretty cold.

The lion has no status now;

One has one's terrors, I'll allow,

The centipede, perhaps the cow,

But nothing in the Zoo;

The things that wriggle, jump or crawl,

The things that climb about the wall,

And I know what is worst of all—

It is the earwig—ugh!

The earwig's face is far from kind;He must have got a spiteful mind;The pincers which he wears behindAre poisonous, of course;And Nanny knew a dreadful oneWhich bit a gentleman for funAnd terrified a horse.

The earwig's face is far from kind;

He must have got a spiteful mind;

The pincers which he wears behind

Are poisonous, of course;

And Nanny knew a dreadful one

Which bit a gentleman for fun

And terrified a horse.

He is extremely swift and slim,And if you try to tread on himHe scuttles up the path;He goes and burrows in your spongeAnd takes one wild terrific plungeWhen you are in the bath;Or else—and this is simply foul—He gets into a nice hot towelAnd waits till you are dried,And then, when Nanny does your ears,Hewrrrigglesin and disappears:He stays in there for years and yearsAndcrrrawlsabout inside.At last, if you are still alive,A lot of baby ones arrive;But probably you've died.

He is extremely swift and slim,

And if you try to tread on him

He scuttles up the path;

He goes and burrows in your sponge

And takes one wild terrific plunge

When you are in the bath;

Or else—and this is simply foul—

He gets into a nice hot towel

And waits till you are dried,

And then, when Nanny does your ears,

Hewrrrigglesin and disappears:

He stays in there for years and years

Andcrrrawlsabout inside.

At last, if you are still alive,

A lot of baby ones arrive;

But probably you've died.

How inconvenient it must be!There isn't any way, you see,To get him out again;So, when you want to frighten meOr really give me pain,Please don't go on about that bearAnd all those burglars on the stair;I shouldn't turn a tiny hairAt such Victorian stuff;You only have to say instead,"There is an Earwig in Your Bed"And that will be enough.

How inconvenient it must be!

There isn't any way, you see,

To get him out again;

So, when you want to frighten me

Or really give me pain,

Please don't go on about that bear

And all those burglars on the stair;

I shouldn't turn a tiny hair

At such Victorian stuff;

You only have to say instead,

"There is an Earwig in Your Bed"

And that will be enough.

A.P.H.

On glancing the other day through the only human column of my newspaper—that headed "Personal"—I was much intrigued by the advertisement of a gentleman who styled himself a "busy commercial magnate," and who announced his urgent need of a "right-hand man." The duties of the post were not particularised, but their importance was made clear by the statement that "any salary within reason" would be paid to a really suitable person.

No, I did not think of applying for the post myself; a twelve months' adjutancy to a dyspeptic Colonel had long cured me of the desire to bottle-wash for anyone again, however lavish the remuneration. But, I thought to myself, it must evidently be a profitable notion to employ a right-hand man, or why should this magnate person be so airy on the subject of salary? Would it not then pay me to engage somebody in a similar capacity? Increased production, in spite of Trade Union economics, is emphatically a need of the moment. With a right-hand man at my right hand (when he wasn't at my left) I could, I felt sure, increasemy own output enormously; and I began to plan out my daily work under the reconstruction scheme.

I will call him "Snaggs"; that will save me the trouble of having to write "my right-hand man" every time I want to refer to him; but when he enters my service such economy of labour will not, of course, be necessary. Snaggs, then, will arrive punctually at nine every morning—no, on second thoughts he will sleep in, in case an inspiration that needs recording arrives after I have gone to bed. (I shrink from estimating how much wealth I have lost through going to sleep on my nocturnal inspirations, which the most thorough search next morning never avails to recapture; but a speaking-tube, with alarm attachment, running into Snaggs's room will alter all that.)

His first duty of the day will be to wade through all the newspapers and cut out any paragraphs that may serve as pegs for an article or a set of verses. My own difficulty in this respect has always been that I can never manage to get through more than one paper in a working morning, and not all of that; invariably my attention gets caught by some long and instructive but (for my purposes) hopelessly unsuggestive dissertation on Pedigree Pigs or The Co-operative Movement in Lower Papua, and I consequently overlook many of those inspiring little "stories" that inform us, for example, that a distinguished physician advocates the use of tomato-sauce as a hair-restorer.

By the time I have finished breakfast, I reckon, Snaggs will have found me subjects for at least a dozen effusions, neatly arranged with a few skeleton suggestions for the treatment of each. I shall first decide which are to be handled in prose and which in verse, and in the case of the latter shall jot down a few words and phrases that will obviously have to be dragged in as line-endings. Then I shall put Snaggs on to the purely mechanical drudgery of finding all the possible rhymes to these words (e.g., fascinate, assassinate, pro-Krassinate—you know the sort of thing that's called for), and by the time he has catalogued them all I shall have dashed off most of the prose articles, which Snaggs will then proceed to type while I am engaged in the comparatively simple task of piecing together the verse jigsaws. In this way I should easily be able to earn an ordinary week's takings in a morning.

The next task will be the placing of this material, and that is how Snaggs's afternoons will be spent. I have always had an unnecessarily tender feeling for editors, and often, after laboriously giving birth to an article, have concealed it in a drawer rather than run the risk of boring anyone with its perusal. Snaggs, however, will be fashioned of more pachydermatous material and will daily make himself such a nuisance that they'll give him an order, and possibly a long contract, to get rid of him. By a proper system of book-keeping he will also save me from the occasional blunder of sending the same article to the same paper twice.

My wife, to whom I have submitted this brain-wave, says that the first job to employ Snaggs on will be calling on the Bank Manager to arrange about the overdraft which neither of us has so far had the courage to moot. But that, I am afraid, would inspire him with foolish doubts as to the stability of his princely salary. Perhaps it will be best if, before actually engaging Snaggs, I convert myself into a limited company, "for the purpose of acquiring and enlarging the business and goodwill of the private enterprise known as Percival Trumpington-Jones, Esq." A sufficient number of shares will be issued to guarantee Snaggs at least his first year's screw; that done, the proposition should be practically gilt-edged. So who's coming in on the bargain-basement floor?

The Philanthropist.THE PHILANTHROPIST.Customer."Why, you've put your prices up again!"Fishmonger."Well, Mum, I ask yer, 'ow else are we to fight the profiteer at 'is own game?"

Customer."Why, you've put your prices up again!"

Fishmonger."Well, Mum, I ask yer, 'ow else are we to fight the profiteer at 'is own game?"

I imagine that the authors who founded this play on a Hungarian original regarded it as an ambitious piece of work. If so, they were right in the sense that they have attempted something very much beyond their powers. In the view of the gentleman who addressed us at the fall of the curtain (I understand that he was one of the authors) it offered magnificent opportunities (I think "magnificent" was the word) for the brilliant gifts of two of the actors. Certainly it covered a good bit of ground, what with this world and the next; for it started with roundabouts on the Heath, and got as far away as the Judgment Day (Hungarian style?)—and fourteen years after.

I may have a contemptibly weak stomach for this kind of thing, but I confess that I don't care much for a representation of the Judgment Day in a melodrama of low life. Of course low life has just as much right as any other sort of life to be represented in a Judgment Day scene; but it ought to behave itself there and not introduce back-chat.

I should explain that it was a special Suicide Court, and that the object ofThe Magister, as the Presiding Judge was named in the programme, was to inquire into the record of the delinquent and, if his answers were satisfactory, to allow him to revisit the scenes of his earthly life in order to repair any little omissions that he might have made in the hurry of departure. Unfortunately the leading case was a bad example of suicide. It had not been deliberate; he had simply killed himself impromptu in a tight corner to avoid arrest for intended murder.

Worse still, when he returned to earth after a lapse of fourteen years' purgatory (between the sixth and seventh scenes), for his record was a rotten one and he had shown no signs of penitence, therevenantmade very poor use of his hour. Returning to his wife whom he had brutalised, he found that she had taught their girl-child to regard him as a paragon of virtue, and most of his limited time was spent in correcting this beautiful legend. You see, at the time of his death he had had no chance of making the child realise how bad he was, for the excellent reason that she had not yet been born, so he seized this opportunity of making good that omission.

As a practical illustration of the kind of man he really had been, he struck the child violently on the arm. We all saw him do it and we all heard the smack, but the child assured us that she had not felt anything. This I suppose was the author's way, ingenuous enough, of reminding us that it was a case of spirit and not of flesh, whatever our eyes and ears might persuade us to think of it.

Already in a previous scene there had been the same old difficulty. While the man lay dead on his bed his spirit had been summoned by a Higher Power (indicated in a peep-show), and his corpse sat up, displacing the prostrate form of the widow, who had to take up a new position, without however appearing to notice anything. It was still sitting up when the curtain fell, and incidentally was caught in the act of resuming its recumbent position when the curtain rose again for the purpose of allowing the actors to receive our respectful plaudits.

Behind me I heard an American lady suggest that if they could somehow distinguish the spirit from the body it would be better for our illusions. To which her neighbour expressed the opinion that they would eventually manage to do that feat. I await, less hopefully, this development in stage mechanism. MeanwhileMary Rosehas much to answer for.

What made you take a fancy to me?"The Daisy" (Mr.Caine). "What made you take a fancy to me?"Julia(MissMerrall). "I dunno."(Sympathetic appreciation of her ignorance on part of audience.)

"The Daisy" (Mr.Caine). "What made you take a fancy to me?"

Julia(MissMerrall). "I dunno."

(Sympathetic appreciation of her ignorance on part of audience.)

The play began promisingly enough with a scene full of colour and humanity, of humour and pathos. We were among the roundabouts, whose florid and buxom manageress,Mrs. Muscat(admirably played by MissSuzanne Sheldon), was having a quarrel of jealousy with her assistant and late lover, "The Daisy," who had been seen taking notice of Another. The dumb devotion of this child,Julia(MissMary Merrall), who could never find words for her love—she said little beyond "Yuss" and "I dunno"—was a very moving thing; and the patient stillness with which she bore his subsequent brutality held us always under a strange fascination.

For the rest it was an ugly and sordid business, relieved only by the coy confidences of the amorousMaria(played by MissGladys Gordonwith a nice sense of fun). Mr.Henry Caine, as "The Daisy," presented very effectively the rough-and-ready humour and the frank brutality of his type; but he perhaps failed to convey the devastating attractions which he was alleged to have for the frail sex; and his sudden spasms of tragic emotion seemed a little out of the picture.

Apart from the painful crudity of the scene that was loosely described as "The Other Side," the play abounded in amateurisms. For one thing there was too much sermonising. It began with an obtrusive homily on the part of an inspector of police, who went out of his way to admonishJuliaabout the danger of associating with "The Daisy." Another instance was that of the bank-messenger, a person of such self-possession and detachment that he contrived to deliver a moral address while holding one foiled villain at the point of his revolver and gripping the other's wrist as in a vice.

Nothing again could have been more naïve than the innocent home-coming of the domestic carving-knive, freshly sharpened, from the grinder's just in time to be diverted to the objects of a murderous enterprise.

Altogether, it was rather poor stuff, unworthy of the talent of many of its interpreters and of the trouble that MissEdith Craighad spent over its scenic effects. Perhaps the audience had been led to expect too much, for "The Daisy," far from being the "wee, modest" flower ofRobert Burns, had been at some pains to draw preliminary attention to its merits.

O.S.

"That a woman ought to dress quietly and practically in the street is unquestionable.""Times" Fashion article.

"That a woman ought to dress quietly and practically in the street is unquestionable."

"Times" Fashion article.

"As the harvest season this year is late, sport will not be general for at least two weeks hence, when grain crops may be expected to be in stook. For some time to come sheep will be confined to the low hill-sides and pasture lands and turnip fields, and a few good bags were had there yesterday."—Scotch Paper.

We still prefer the old-fashioned sport of partridge-shooting.

War and Science.WAR AND SCIENCE.Greek Officer."Can't you think of something quick? The army is waiting and the enemy approaches."Archimedes."Science is not to be hustled, General. Just get your army to do a little plain fighting while I think out a fancy scheme."

Greek Officer."Can't you think of something quick? The army is waiting and the enemy approaches."

Archimedes."Science is not to be hustled, General. Just get your army to do a little plain fighting while I think out a fancy scheme."

The bells of Cadiz clashed for themWhen they sailed away;The Citadel guns, saluting, crashed for themOver the Bay;With banners of saints aloft unfolding,Their poops a glitter of golden moulding,Tambours throbbing and trumpets neighing,Into the sunset they went swaying.But the port they sought they wandered wide of,And they won't see Spain again this side ofJudgment Day.For they're down, deep down, in Dead Man's Town,Twenty fathoms under the clean green waters.No more hauling sheets in the rolling treasure fleets,No more stinking rations and dread red slaughters;No galley oars shall bow them nor shrill whips cow them,Frost shall not shrivel them nor the hot sun smite,No more watch to keep, nothing now but sleep—Sleep and take it easy in the long twilight.The bells of Cadiz tolled for themMournful and glum;Up in the Citadel requiems rolled for themOn the black drum;Priests had many a mass to handle,Nuestra Señora many a candle,And many a lass grew old in prayingFor a sight of those topsails homeward swaying—But it's late to wait till a girl is bride ofA Jack who won't be back this side ofKingdom Come.But little they care down there, down there,Hid from time and tempest by the jade-green waters;They have loves a-plenty down at fathom twenty,Pearly-skinned silver-finned mer-kings' daughters.At the gilt quarter-ports sit the Dons at their sports,A-dicing and drinking the red wine and white,While the crews forget their wrongs in the sea-maids' songsAnd dance upon the foc'sles in the grey ghost light.Patlander.

The bells of Cadiz clashed for them

When they sailed away;

The Citadel guns, saluting, crashed for them

Over the Bay;

With banners of saints aloft unfolding,

Their poops a glitter of golden moulding,

Tambours throbbing and trumpets neighing,

Into the sunset they went swaying.

But the port they sought they wandered wide of,

And they won't see Spain again this side of

Judgment Day.

For they're down, deep down, in Dead Man's Town,Twenty fathoms under the clean green waters.No more hauling sheets in the rolling treasure fleets,No more stinking rations and dread red slaughters;No galley oars shall bow them nor shrill whips cow them,Frost shall not shrivel them nor the hot sun smite,No more watch to keep, nothing now but sleep—Sleep and take it easy in the long twilight.

For they're down, deep down, in Dead Man's Town,

Twenty fathoms under the clean green waters.

No more hauling sheets in the rolling treasure fleets,

No more stinking rations and dread red slaughters;

No galley oars shall bow them nor shrill whips cow them,

Frost shall not shrivel them nor the hot sun smite,

No more watch to keep, nothing now but sleep—

Sleep and take it easy in the long twilight.

The bells of Cadiz tolled for themMournful and glum;Up in the Citadel requiems rolled for themOn the black drum;Priests had many a mass to handle,Nuestra Señora many a candle,And many a lass grew old in prayingFor a sight of those topsails homeward swaying—But it's late to wait till a girl is bride ofA Jack who won't be back this side ofKingdom Come.

The bells of Cadiz tolled for them

Mournful and glum;

Up in the Citadel requiems rolled for them

On the black drum;

Priests had many a mass to handle,

Nuestra Señora many a candle,

And many a lass grew old in praying

For a sight of those topsails homeward swaying—

But it's late to wait till a girl is bride of

A Jack who won't be back this side of

Kingdom Come.

But little they care down there, down there,Hid from time and tempest by the jade-green waters;They have loves a-plenty down at fathom twenty,Pearly-skinned silver-finned mer-kings' daughters.At the gilt quarter-ports sit the Dons at their sports,A-dicing and drinking the red wine and white,While the crews forget their wrongs in the sea-maids' songsAnd dance upon the foc'sles in the grey ghost light.

But little they care down there, down there,

Hid from time and tempest by the jade-green waters;

They have loves a-plenty down at fathom twenty,

Pearly-skinned silver-finned mer-kings' daughters.

At the gilt quarter-ports sit the Dons at their sports,

A-dicing and drinking the red wine and white,

While the crews forget their wrongs in the sea-maids' songs

And dance upon the foc'sles in the grey ghost light.

Patlander.

"REMARKABLE OVAL SCORING."Evening Paper Contents Bill.

"REMARKABLE OVAL SCORING."

Evening Paper Contents Bill.

We have made some remarkable scores of that shape ourselves in the past, but we never boast about them.

"He believed that the English pronounced in the streets of London in, say, 200 years' time, will be much different, if not unintelligible, to the man of to-day."—Daily Paper.

Just like the English in some of our newspapers.

"The Secretary of State for India is notpersona grataeither to the British House of Commons or to the British public. That is the old-fashioned English of it."—Bangalore Daily Post.

It would be interesting to see the old-fashioned Latin of it.

"Will any Lady Recommend Country Home of the best where 2 precious Poms can be happy and would be looked after for 6 weeks? Surrey preferred."—Morning Paper.

Think of their disgust at finding themselves boarded out in Sussex or Kent.

"Young Hungarian Lady with English and German knolidgement wants sob with English or American Organization."—Pester Lloyd.

Laugh and the world laughs with you;Sob and you sob alone.

Laugh and the world laughs with you;

Sob and you sob alone.

"A penny for your thoughts," I said to Kathleen.

"I like that," said Kathleen indignantly. "A penny was the market value of my thoughts in 1914. Why should butter and cheese and reels of cotton go up more than double and my thoughts stay the same?"

"Twopence," I offered.

"I saidmorethan double," she remarked coldly.

I plunged. "Sixpence," I said.

"Done!"

"I'll put it in the collection bag for you next Sunday," I added hastily.

"Well, I was thinking of Veronica's future. I was wondering what she was going to be."

"When we went to the Crystal Palace," I said gently, "I rather gathered that she wanted to be the proprietor of a merry-go-round. They were dragons with red-plush seats."

"She might go into Parliament," said Kathleen dreamily; "I expect women will be able to do everything by the time she's grown up. She might be a Cabinet Minister. I don't see why she shouldn't be Prime Minister."

"Her hair's just about the right length now," I said. "And perhaps she could give me congenial employment. I wouldn't mind being Minister of Transport. There's quite a good salary attached. But of course she may have ideas of her own on the subject."

Feeling curious, I went in search of Veronica. I found her at a private dance given by the butterflies and hollyhocks at the other end of the lawn. When she saw me she came to meet me and made her excuses very politely.

"We've just been wondering what you're going to be when you've stopped being a little girl," I said.

"Me?" said Veronica calmly. "Oh, I'm going to be a fairy. You don't want me to be anything else, do you?" she added anxiously.

Even the Prime Minister's post seemed suddenly quite flat.

"Oh, no," I said. "I think you've made a very good choice." But she was not quite satisfied.

"I shall hate going away from you," she said. "Couldn't you come too?"

"Where?"

"To Fairyland."

"Ah!" I said, "that takes some thinking about. Could we come back if we didn't like it?"

"N-no, I don't fink so. I've never heard of anyone doing that. But you'll love it," she went on earnestly. "You'll be ever so tiny and you can draw funny frost pictures wiv rainbows and fold up flowers into buds and splash dew-water over everyfing at night and ride on butterflies and help the birds to make nests. Fink whatfunto help a bird to make a nest! You'llloveit!"

"Is that all?" I said sternly. "Are you keeping nothing from me? What about witches and spells and being turned into frogs? I'm sure I remember that in my fairy tales."

"Oh, nothing thatmatters," she said quickly. "You can alwaystella witch, you know, and we'll keep out of their way. An' if a nasty fairy turns you into a frog a nice one will always turn you back quite soon. It's all right. You mustn't worry aboutthat. There won't be any fun if you don't come too, darlin'," she ended shamelessly.

I considered.

"Veronica," I said at last, "is there such a thing as Ireland in Fairyland? Is there an exchange that won't keep steady? Is there any labour trouble?"

She shook her head.

"I've never heard of anyfing that sounded like those," she said; "I'm sure there isn't."

"That decides it," I said. "We'll all come. As soon as you can possibly arrange it."

She heaved a sigh of relief and ran off to tell the glad news to the butterflies and hollyhocks.

So that's settled.

I think we've made a wise decision.

After all, what's a witch or two, or even a temporary existence as a frog, compared with a coal strike?

When that I was a tiny grub,And peevish and inclined to blub,Mother, my Queen,My infant grief you would assuageWith promise of the ripe greengageAnd purple sheenOf luscious plums,"When Autumn comes."The Autumn days are flying fast;Across the bleak skies overcastScurries the wind;Where are those plums of purple hue,Mother? I only wish that youHad disciplinedMy pampered youthTo face the truth.The time for wasps is nearly done,And what is life without the sun,Mother, my Queen?Dull stupor numbs your royal head;Torpid my sisters lie—or dead;Come, let me leanBack on my stingAnd end the thing.

When that I was a tiny grub,And peevish and inclined to blub,Mother, my Queen,My infant grief you would assuageWith promise of the ripe greengageAnd purple sheenOf luscious plums,"When Autumn comes."

When that I was a tiny grub,

And peevish and inclined to blub,

Mother, my Queen,

My infant grief you would assuage

With promise of the ripe greengage

And purple sheen

Of luscious plums,

"When Autumn comes."

The Autumn days are flying fast;Across the bleak skies overcastScurries the wind;Where are those plums of purple hue,Mother? I only wish that youHad disciplinedMy pampered youthTo face the truth.

The Autumn days are flying fast;

Across the bleak skies overcast

Scurries the wind;

Where are those plums of purple hue,

Mother? I only wish that you

Had disciplined

My pampered youth

To face the truth.

The time for wasps is nearly done,And what is life without the sun,Mother, my Queen?Dull stupor numbs your royal head;Torpid my sisters lie—or dead;Come, let me leanBack on my stingAnd end the thing.

The time for wasps is nearly done,

And what is life without the sun,

Mother, my Queen?

Dull stupor numbs your royal head;

Torpid my sisters lie—or dead;

Come, let me lean

Back on my sting

And end the thing.

(For the benefit of the Examiners in the Oxford School of English Literature.)(1) Compare, in respect of pulpit oratory, (a) Dr.Southwith "Woodbine Willie," and (b) Dr.Michael Furse(Bishop of St. Albans) with theJudicious Hooker.(2) Give reasons in support of Mr.Beverley Nicholls' emendation of the lines inThe Ancient Mariner—The wedding guest he beat his breast,For he heard the proudSassoon.(3) Re-write "Tears, idle tears" in the style of (a) Dr.Johnson, (b)Calisthenes, (c) theSitwells.(4) What do you know ofCasanova,Karsavina,Cagliostro,Kennedy Jones, CaptainPeter Wright,Epstein,EcksteinandEinstein? When did SirOliver Lodgesay that he would not leaveein Steinunturned until he had upset the theory of Relativity?(5) Give a complete list of all the poets, major and minor, at present residing on Boar's Hill, and trace their influence on the Baconian controversy.(6) Distinguish by psycho-analysis between (a)Sydney SmithandSidney Lee, (b)George MeredithandGeorge Robey, noting convergences as well as divergences of mentality, physique and sub-conscious uplift.(7) Would Jason, who sailed in theArgo, have laid an embargo onMargotas passenger or supercargo? Estimate the probable results of her introduction to Medea, and its effect on the views and translations of ProfessorGilbert Murray.(8) What eminent Georgian critic said thatTennyson's greatest work was hisIdols of the Queen?(9) Estimate the effect on Reconstruction if Mr.Bottomleywere to devote himself exclusively to theological studies, and Mr.Wellswere to take up his abode permanently in Russia.

(1) Compare, in respect of pulpit oratory, (a) Dr.Southwith "Woodbine Willie," and (b) Dr.Michael Furse(Bishop of St. Albans) with theJudicious Hooker.

(2) Give reasons in support of Mr.Beverley Nicholls' emendation of the lines inThe Ancient Mariner—

The wedding guest he beat his breast,For he heard the proudSassoon.

The wedding guest he beat his breast,

For he heard the proudSassoon.

(3) Re-write "Tears, idle tears" in the style of (a) Dr.Johnson, (b)Calisthenes, (c) theSitwells.

(4) What do you know ofCasanova,Karsavina,Cagliostro,Kennedy Jones, CaptainPeter Wright,Epstein,EcksteinandEinstein? When did SirOliver Lodgesay that he would not leaveein Steinunturned until he had upset the theory of Relativity?

(5) Give a complete list of all the poets, major and minor, at present residing on Boar's Hill, and trace their influence on the Baconian controversy.

(6) Distinguish by psycho-analysis between (a)Sydney SmithandSidney Lee, (b)George MeredithandGeorge Robey, noting convergences as well as divergences of mentality, physique and sub-conscious uplift.

(7) Would Jason, who sailed in theArgo, have laid an embargo onMargotas passenger or supercargo? Estimate the probable results of her introduction to Medea, and its effect on the views and translations of ProfessorGilbert Murray.

(8) What eminent Georgian critic said thatTennyson's greatest work was hisIdols of the Queen?

(9) Estimate the effect on Reconstruction if Mr.Bottomleywere to devote himself exclusively to theological studies, and Mr.Wellswere to take up his abode permanently in Russia.

Daily Paper.

From a Pimlico shop window:—

Apparently not worth a "d."

"Professor ——, the pianist, who is trying to complete 110 hours' continuous playing, completed fifty-five hours on the first day."Cologne Post.

"Professor ——, the pianist, who is trying to complete 110 hours' continuous playing, completed fifty-five hours on the first day."

Cologne Post.

That makes it too easy.

"Mme. Karsavina is taller than Pavlova, but has an equally perfect figure. The Greeks would have bracketted her with Venus and Aphrodite."—Provincial Paper.

The two last have, of course, been constantly bracketed.

One round nearer the grave.Golfer (very much off his game). "One round nearer the grave."

Golfer (very much off his game). "One round nearer the grave."

Not for a long time have I got so great a pleasure from any collection of short sketches as now from MissAnne Douglas Sedgwick'sAutumn Crocuses(Secker). Not only has the whole book a pleasant title, but each of these stories is happily called after some flower that plays a part in its development. I am aware of the primly Victorian sound of such a description applied to art so modern as that of MissSedgwick. You know already (I hope) how wonderfully delicate is her almost passionate sensibility to the finer shades of a situation. It is, I suppose, this quality in her writing that makes me still have reminiscent shivers when I think about that horrible little bogie-tale,The Third Window; and these "Flower Pieces" (as 1860 might have called them) are no whit less subtle. I wish I had space to give you the plots of some of them; "Daffodils," for instance, a quite unexpected and thrilling treatment of perhaps the oldest situation of literature; or "Staking a Larkspur," the only instance in which Miss Sedgwick's gently smiling humour crystallizes definitely into comedy; or "Carnations," the most brilliantly written of all. As this liberty is denied me you must accept a plain record of very rare enjoyment and take steps to share it.

Chief among theSecrets of Crewe House(Hodder and Stoughton), now divulged to the mere public, are the marvellous efficiency and superhuman success achieved by the British Enemy Propaganda Committee, which operated in LordCrewe'sLondon house under the directorate of LordNorthcliffe. "What is propaganda?" the author asks himself on an early page, and the right answer could have been made in four letters:Advt.It is endorsed by the eulogistic manner in which the Committee's work is written up by one of them, SirCampbell Stuart, K.B.E., and illustrated by photographs of LordNorthcliffe(looking positively Napoleonic) and of the sub-supermen. As in all great achievements, the main principle was a simple one. A good article is best advertised by truth; and it was the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth which the Committee, with admirable conciseness and no little ingenuity, so promulgated that it could no longer escape notice even in the Central Empires. Not the least of the Committee's difficulties and achievements was to get the truth of our cause and policy so defined as to be susceptible of unequivocal statement by poster, leaflet, film and gramophone record. SirCampbell Stuartperhaps tends to underrate the rival show, the German propaganda organization, whose work, if it did Germany little good, has done and is still doing colossal harm to us. Also he tends to forget that LordHaigand his little lot in France at any rate helped the Committee to effect the breakdown of the Germanmoralin 1918 and so to win the war.

I feel that MissMargaret Symondshad a purpose in writingA Child of the Alps(Fisher Unwin), but, unless it was to show how mistaken it is, asBasil, the Swiss farmer, puts it, "to think when thou shouldst have been living," it has evaded me. The book begins with a romanticmarriage between an Englishwoman of some breeding and a Swiss peasant who is a doctor, and tells the history of their daughter until she is about to marryBasil, her original sweetheart. I cannot be more definite or tell you how her first marriage—with an English cousin—turned out, becauseLinda'sown account of this is all we get, and that is somewhat vague. A great many descriptions of beautiful scenery, Swiss and Italian, come into the book, and a great many people, some of them very individual and lifelike; but the author's concentration onLindagives them, people and scenery alike, an unreal and irritating effect of having been called into being solely to influence her heroine, and that lessens their fascination. Yet it is a book which makes a distinct impression, and once read will not easily be forgotten. It seems a strange comment to make on a new volume of a "First Novel Library," butA Child of the Alps, as you will realise if you have been reading novels long enough, is almost exactly the sort of book its title would have suggested had it appeared thirty years ago.

Fourteen, and unmarried.Prospective Employer."How old are you?"Applicant for Post."Fourteen—and unmarried."

Prospective Employer."How old are you?"Applicant for Post."Fourteen—and unmarried."

These wrapper-artists should really exercise a little more discretion. To depict on the outside of a book the facsimile of a cheque for ten thousand pounds might well be to excite in some readers a mood of wistfulness only too apt to interfere with their appreciation of the contents. Fortunately,Uncle Simon(Hutchinson) is a story quite cheery enough even to banish reflections on the Profiteer. A middle-aged and ultra-respectable London solicitor, whose thwarted youth periodically awakes in him and insists upon his indulging all those follies that should have been safely finished forty-odd years before—here, you will admit, is a figure simply bursting with every kind of possibility. Fortunately, moreover,MargaretandH. de Vere Stacpoolehave shown themselves not only fully alive to all the humorous chances of their theme, but inspired with an infectious delight in them. It is, for example, a singularly happy touch that the wild oats thatUncle Simontries to retrieve are not of today but from the long-vanished pastures of mid-Victorian London. Of course such a fantasy can't properly be ended. Having extracted (as I gratefully admit) the last ounce of entertainment from him, the authors simply wakeUncle Simonup and go home. As a small literary coincidence I may perhaps add that it was my fortune to read the book in the very garden (of that admirable Shaftesbury inn) which, under a transparent disguise, is the scene ofUncle Simon'srestoration. Naturally this enhanced my enjoyment of a sportive little comedy, which I can most cordially commend.

Mr.St. John G. Ervineis a versatile author who exhibits that unevenness of quality which is generally the besetting sin of versatile authors. When he is good he is very good indeed, and inThe Foolish Lovers(Collins) he is at his best. The Ulsterman is seldom either a lovable or an interesting character. He has certain rude virtues which command respect and other qualities, not in themselves virtues—such as clan conceit and an intensely narrow provincialism—that beget the virtues of industry, honesty and frugality. But to the philosopher and student of character all types are interesting, and Mr.Ervine'sskill lies in his ability not merely to draw his Ballyards hero to the life but to interest us in his unsuccessful efforts to become a successful writer. It is merely clan conceit that drives him forward in the pursuit of this purpose, for circumstances have clearly intended him to carry on the grocery business in which the family have achieved some success and a full measure of local esteem. TheMacDermottsnever failed to accomplish their purpose; he, as aMacDermott, proposed to achieve fame as a novelist. It was quite simple. But it turned out to be not at all simple. The quite provincial youngMacDermottcannot make London accept him at his own valuation and his novels are poor stuff. His wife, loyal to him but still more loyal to theMacDermottclan into which she has married and which now includes a littleMacDermott, is the first to recognise that her husband had best seek romance in the family grocery business. Then theMacDermotthimself, with that shrewdness which may be late in coming to an Ulsterman but never fails him altogether, realises it too and the story is finished.

The main object of the characters inThe Courts of Idleness(Ward,Lock) was to amuse themselves, and as their sprightly conversations were often punctuated by laughter I take it that they succeeded. To give Mr.Dornford Yateshis due he is expert in light banter; but some three hundred pages of such entertainment tend to create a sense of surfeit. The first part of the book is called, "How some passed out of the Courts for ever," and then comes an interlude, in which we are given at least one stirring war-incident. I imagine that Mr.Yatesdesires to show that, although certain people could frivol with the worst, they could also fight and die bravely. The second part, "How others left the Courts only to return," introduces a new set of people but with similar conversational attainments. Mr.Yatescan be strongly recommended to anyone who thinks that the British take themselves too seriously.

"The Germans have singed the Protocol."—China Advertiser.

"At 11.30 last night a black iron safe, 22 inches by 18, was found by the roadside at Leaves Green-road, Keston. When examined it was found that the bottom of the safe had been cut out. A burglary is suspected."—Evening Paper.

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