WAR ITEMS.

When the housebreaking business is slackAnd cracksmen are finding it slow—For all the seasiders are backAnd a great many more didn't go—Here's excellent news from the frontAnd joy in Bill Sikes's brigade;Things are looking up sinceThe GermanCrown PrinceHas been giving a fillip to trade.His methods are quite up to date,Displaying adroitness and dash;What he wants he collects in a crate,What he doesn't he's careful to smash.An historical château in FranceWith Imperial ardour he loots,Annexing the bestAnd erasing the restWith the heels of his soldierly boots.Sikes reads the report with applause;It's quite an inspiring affair;But a sudden idea gives him pause—The Germans must stop over there!So he flutters a Union JackTo help to keep Englishmen steady,Remarking, "His nibsMustn't crackEnglishcribs,The profession is crowded already."

When the housebreaking business is slack

And cracksmen are finding it slow—

For all the seasiders are back

And a great many more didn't go—

Here's excellent news from the front

And joy in Bill Sikes's brigade;

Things are looking up since

The GermanCrown Prince

Has been giving a fillip to trade.

His methods are quite up to date,Displaying adroitness and dash;What he wants he collects in a crate,What he doesn't he's careful to smash.An historical château in FranceWith Imperial ardour he loots,Annexing the bestAnd erasing the restWith the heels of his soldierly boots.

His methods are quite up to date,

Displaying adroitness and dash;

What he wants he collects in a crate,

What he doesn't he's careful to smash.

An historical château in France

With Imperial ardour he loots,

Annexing the best

And erasing the rest

With the heels of his soldierly boots.

Sikes reads the report with applause;It's quite an inspiring affair;But a sudden idea gives him pause—The Germans must stop over there!So he flutters a Union JackTo help to keep Englishmen steady,Remarking, "His nibsMustn't crackEnglishcribs,The profession is crowded already."

Sikes reads the report with applause;

It's quite an inspiring affair;

But a sudden idea gives him pause—

The Germans must stop over there!

So he flutters a Union Jack

To help to keep Englishmen steady,

Remarking, "His nibs

Mustn't crackEnglishcribs,

The profession is crowded already."

UNCONQUERABLEUNCONQUERABLE.The Kaiser, "SO, YOU SEE—YOU'VE LOST EVERYTHING."The King of the Belgians, "NOT MY SOUL."

The Kaiser, "SO, YOU SEE—YOU'VE LOST EVERYTHING."

The King of the Belgians, "NOT MY SOUL."

MORE HORRORS OF WAR.MORE HORRORS OF WAR.Lady Midas(to friend). "Yes, do come to dinner on Friday. Only I must caution you that it will be an absolute picnic, for my fourth and sixth footmen have just enlisted."

Lady Midas(to friend). "Yes, do come to dinner on Friday. Only I must caution you that it will be an absolute picnic, for my fourth and sixth footmen have just enlisted."

The reiterated accusations made by Germany of the use of dum-dum bullets by the Allies, although they are not believed by anyone else, appear to be accepted without question by the German General Staff. New measures of retaliation are being taken, which, while not strictly forbidden by International Law, may at any rate be said to contravene the etiquette of civilised warfare. We learn from Sir JOHN FRENCH'S Eye-witness that numbers of gramophones have made their appearance in the German trenches north of the Aisne River.

Papers captured in the pocket of a member of the German Army Service Corps contain bitter complaints of the enormous strain thrown upon the already over-taxed railway system in Germany by theKaiser'srepeated journeys to and fro between the Eastern and the Western Theatres of War. He is referred to (rather flippantly) as "The Imperial Pendulum" (Perpendikel). The writer, while recognising the eager devotion with which theKaiseris pursuing his search for a victory in the face of repeated disappointment, congratulates himself that the Imperial journeys, though they are not likely to be discontinued, will at least grow shorter and shorter as time goes on. Indeed, it is hoped that before long a brief spin in the Imperial automobile-de-luxe will cover the ground between the Eastern and Western Theatres.

In some respects, apparently, the enemy has been less affected by the War than we have. While in England the book-trade has been slightly depressed, in Germany it seems to be flourishing. We give samples from the latest catalogues:—

Poetry.

The most interesting volume announced isA Hunning We Will Go, and Other Verses, byWilliam Hohenzollern, whoseBleeding Heartattracted so much attention.

History.

Kaiser's Gallic War Books, I. & II., a new edition, very much revised since August by Generalvon Kluckand other accomplished scholars, are certain to be of great use for educational purposes.

Natural History.

In this department a work likely to be enquired for isThe Dogs of St. Bernhardi, by Generalvon Moltke.

Fiction.

The demand for fiction in Germany is said to be without parallel and the supply appears to be not inadequate. Among forthcoming volumes there should be a demand forDer Tag; or, It Never Can Happen Again.

General.

Proverbial Philosophycontains the favourite proverbs of various persons of eminence. From the ImperialFinance Ministercomes: "It's never too late to lend." From GeneralManteuffel(the destroyer of Louvain library): "Too many books spoil the Goth." TheCrown Princecontributes: "Beware the rift within the loot."

Roosevelt Unmasked.

It is sad to relate, but persistent efforts to maintain the disinterested claim on American friendship which we Germans have always (when in need of it) advanced, continue to be misrepresented in that stronghold of atheistical materialism and Byzantine voluptuousness, New York. To the gifted Professor von Schwank's challenge, that he could not fill a single "scrap of paper" with the record of acts of war on our part which were incompatible with Divine guidance and the promulgation of the higher culture, the effete and already discreditedRoosevelthas merely replied, "Could fill Rheims." This is very poor stuff and worthy only of a creature who combines with the intellectual development of a gorilla the pachymenia of the rhinoceros and the dental physiognomy of the wart-hog.Roosevelt, once our friend, is plainly the enemy and must be watched. Should he decide, however, even at the eleventh hour, to fall in line with civilisation, he can rely on finding in Germany, in return for any little acts of useful neutrality which he may be able to perform, a generous ally, a faithful upholder of treaty obligations, and a tenacious friend. There must surely be something that America covets—something belonging to one of our enemies. Between men of honour we need say no more.

Base Calumny Exposed.

Let us speak plainly with regard to the Rheims affair. We have successively maintained that this over-rated monument of Arimaspian decadence (1) was not injured in any way; (2) was only blown to pieces in conformity with the rules of civilised warfare; (3) was mutilated and fired by our unscrupulous and barbaric opponents themselves; (4) was deliberately pushed into our line of fire on the night of the 19th September; (5) never existed at all, being indeed an elaborate but puerile fiction basely invented by a baffled enemy with the object of discrediting our enlightened army in the eyes of neutral Powers. Any of these was good enough, but what now appears is better. Exact measurements have since demonstrated beyond all question of cavil that Rheims Cathedral had been built with mathematical accuracy to shield our contemptible enemy's trenches around Chalons from our best gun positions outside Laon. This act of treachery proves that, instead of Germany being the aggressor, France has been cunningly preparing ever since 1212A.D.for the war which at last even our chivalrous diplomacy has been powerless to avert.

Generous Offer to Monaco.

It is time for Monaco to reconsider its position. Should it maintain its present short-sighted and untenable neutrality what has it to gain from England, France, or Russia? Nothing that it has not already got. Monaco very naturally wants something more. Let us be frank. We of Germany speak very differently. It is not desirable to be specific, but short of that we may say that whatever Monaco asks for it will be promised. England, we would then repeat, is the enemy. Has Monaco forgotten the sinister malignity of an article in an English paper disclosing "How to Break the Bank at Monte Carlo." It is unnecessary to labour the point, to which we will return in our next issue. Monaco, in short, like Turkey, Bolivia, China, the United States, Hayti and Oman, is the natural ally of Germany.

Pfutsch! Dey vas just a few tings"Pfutsch! Dey vas just a few tings vat I use to frighden der cats from mein garten!"

"Pfutsch! Dey vas just a few tings vat I use to frighden der cats from mein garten!"

"After exhaustive research a Scotch scientist has decided that no trees are species is struck as often as another."

Vancouver Daily Province.

He must have a rest and then try some more research.

"Praise is due to criminals," remarked Mr.Robert Wallace, K.C., at the London Sessions, "for the self-control they are exercising during this period of stress and anxiety."

It is to be feared that Mr.Wallace'sviews are not entirely shared by the legal profession. As the junior partner in Mowlem & Mowlem confided to our representative: "That's all very fine, but what's to become ofus? Not a burglar on our books for the last six weeks. Not a confidence man; not a coiner; not a note expert. And they had the opportunity of their lives with theJohn Bradburynotes! We shall have to shut up our office, and then what's to become of our clerk? What's to become of our charwoman? I ask you, what's to become of our charwoman's poor old husband dependent on her? No, let's have patriotism in itsrightplace!"

An old-established firm of scientific implement merchants showed even more indignation. "We had taken our place in the firing-line in the War on Germany's Trade," they declared. "We had made arrangements for home manufacture to supplant the alien jemmy. No British burglar would need to be equipped with anything but all-British implements, turned out in British factories and giving employment to British workmen only. And now what do we find? The market has gone to pot. Yes, Sir, to pot. And that's the reward for our patriotic efforts!"

Opinions of other representative men in the criminological world have reached us in response to telegrams (reply paid):—

SirArthur Conan Doyle: "Ruin stares me in the face."

Mr.Gerald du Maurier: "Have decided to suppressRafflesfor the period of the War."

Mr.Raffles: "Have decided to suppressGerald du Maurierfor the period of the war."

Mr.G. K. Chesterton: "Have always maintained that patriotism is the curse of the criminal classes. Will contribute ten guineas to National Fund for Indigent Burglars Whose Front Name Is Not William."

Crown PrinceWilhelm: "Have nothing to give away to the Press."

Mr.George Bernard Shaw: "My first telegram for three months. To be a criminal needs brains. There are no English criminals."

Goodness me! What 'ave you been doingNurse."Goodness me! What 'ave you been doing to your dolls?"Joan."Charlie's killed them! He said they were made in Germany, and how were we to know they weren't spies?"

Nurse."Goodness me! What 'ave you been doing to your dolls?"

Joan."Charlie's killed them! He said they were made in Germany, and how were we to know they weren't spies?"

The long line of red earth twisted away until it was lost in the fringe of a small copse on the left and had dipped behind a hillock on the right. Flat open country stretched ahead, grass lands and fields of stubble, lifeless and deserted.

There was no enemy to be seen and not even a puff of smoke to suggest his whereabouts. But the air was full of the booming of heavy guns and the rising eerie shriek of the shrapnel.

Behind the line of red earth lay the British, each man with his rifle cuddled lovingly to his shoulder, a useless weapon that yet conveyed a sense of comfort. The shells were bursting with hideous accuracy—sharp flashes of white light, a loud report and then a murderous rain of shrapnel.

"Crikey!" said a little man in filthy rain-sodden khaki, as a handful of earth rose up and hit him on the shoulder; "crikey! that was a narsty shave for your uncle!"

The big man beside him grunted and shifted half an inch of dead cigarette from one corner of his mouth to the other. "You can 'old my 'and," said he with a grin.

Four or five places up the trench a man stumbled to his knee, coughed with a rush of blood and toppled over dead.

"Dahn and aht," said the big man gruffly. "Gawd! If we could get at 'em!"

The wail of a distant shell rose to a shriek and the explosion was instantaneous. The little man suddenly went limp and his rifle rolled down the bank of the trench.

His friend looked at him with unspeakable anguish. "Got it—in the perishing neck this time, Bill," gasped the little man.

Bill leaned over and propped his pal's head on his shoulder. A large dark stain was saturating the wounded man's tunic and he lay very still.

"Bill," very faintly; then, with surprise, "Blimey! 'E's blubbing! Poor old Bill!"

The big man was shaking with strangled sobs. For some moments he held his friend close, and it was the dying man who spoke first.

"Are we dahn-'earted?" he said. The whisper went along the line and swelled into a roar.

The big man choked back his sobs. "No, old pal, no!" he answered, and "No-o-o-o!" roared the line in unison.

The little man lay back with a contented sigh. "No," he repeated, and closed his eyes for ever.

The Grey Men of the SouthThey look to glim of seas,This gentle day of drouthAnd sleepy Autumn bees,Pale skies and wheeling hawkAnd scent of trodden thyme,Brown butterflies and chalkAnd the sheep-bells' chime.The Grey Men they are old,Ah, very old they be;They've stood upside the woldSince all eternity;They standed in a ringAnd the elk-bull roared to themWhenSolomonwas kingIn famed Jerusalem.King Solomonwas wise;He wasKing David'sson;He lifted up his eyesTo see his hill-tops run;And his old heart found cheer,As yours and mine may doOn these grey days, my dear,Nor'-East of Piddinghooe.

The Grey Men of the South

They look to glim of seas,

This gentle day of drouth

And sleepy Autumn bees,

Pale skies and wheeling hawk

And scent of trodden thyme,

Brown butterflies and chalk

And the sheep-bells' chime.

The Grey Men they are old,Ah, very old they be;They've stood upside the woldSince all eternity;They standed in a ringAnd the elk-bull roared to themWhenSolomonwas kingIn famed Jerusalem.

The Grey Men they are old,

Ah, very old they be;

They've stood upside the wold

Since all eternity;

They standed in a ring

And the elk-bull roared to them

WhenSolomonwas king

In famed Jerusalem.

King Solomonwas wise;He wasKing David'sson;He lifted up his eyesTo see his hill-tops run;And his old heart found cheer,As yours and mine may doOn these grey days, my dear,Nor'-East of Piddinghooe.

King Solomonwas wise;

He wasKing David'sson;

He lifted up his eyes

To see his hill-tops run;

And his old heart found cheer,

As yours and mine may do

On these grey days, my dear,

Nor'-East of Piddinghooe.

"THE COST."

Mr. Samuel Woodhouse, of the middle classes, being anxious to distract his sonJohnduring the critical moments ofMrs. John'sconfinement, relates how, in similar circumstances more directly affecting himself, he had been playing tennis, and the strain of the crisis had quite put him off his game. The little jest is, of course, adapted from the familiar lines:—

"I was playing golf the dayWhen the Germans landed ..."

It is of material interest not so much because it is borrowed (for it is not the only joke that Mr.Thurstonhas conveyed) as because it serves as a brief epitome of the play. For the thing started with the War, and we were getting on quite well with it when an element of obstetrics was introduced and became inextricably interwoven with the original design. Indeed it went further and affected the destinies of the country at large. For England had to wait till the baby was born before it could secure its father's services as the most unlikely recruit in the kingdom.

But you must hear more about thisJohn. He was an intellectual who threatened to achieve the apex of literary renown with a work in two volumes (a third was to follow) on the Philosophy of Moral Courage. At the outbreak of the present war he was at once torn asunder between his duty to his country and his duty to himself. The latter seemed to have the greater claim upon him, and this view was encouraged by an officer who found himself billeted upon the Woodhouseménage. The dilemma had already worriedJohn(and us) a good deal even before the extension of the age limit made him roughly eligible for the army. Indeed I never quite gathered what it was that ultimately decided him to enlist. Anyhow, six months later he received a bullet in the head, and the wound, though I am glad to say that he survived it, left him incapable of any further intellectual strain.

That was "the cost" of the war to him. Its cost to us (in the play) was almost as heavy. ForJohn'shead still retained such a command of brain power that he contrived to be very fluent over his theories of war in general, theories not likely to be of any vital service at a time when our men of fighting age are wanted to act and not think.

I give little for Mr.Thurston'sgeneralities (his talk of "hysteria," which was never a British foible, showed his lack of elementary observation), but the character ofJohnintrigued me as a fair example of the type of egoist, very common among quite good fellows, who is more concerned to satisfy his own sense of the proper thing to do than to consider in what way, less romantic perhaps, he can best devote to the service of his country the gifts with which nature has endowed him.

The play went very well for the first two Acts. The various members of theWoodhousefamily were excellently differentiated. The father (played with admirable humour by Mr.Frederick Ross) bore bravely the shock to his trade, and took a manly but quite ineffectual part in household duties for which he had no calling. His lachrymose wife (MissMary Rorke) was a sound example of the worst possible mother of soldiers.Johnwe know, and Mr.Owen Naresknew him too, and very thoroughly.John'swife (I can't think how she came to marry him) had the makings of an Amazon and would gladly have spared her husband forKitchener'sArmy at the earliest moment. Her part was played very sincerely and charmingly by MissBarbara Everest.John'seldest sister regretted the war because she had some nice friends in Germany, but she caught the spirit of menial service from her sisters, of whom the younger was a stage-flapper of the loudest. Finally the second son (Mr.Jack Hobbs) was a nut who began with his heart in his socks but shifted it later into the enemy's trench.

Perhaps the best performance of all—though it had little to do with the war and nothing to do with child-birth—was that of MissHannah JonesasMrs. Pinhouse, a perfect peach of a cook. There were also two characters played off. One was a maid-servant who declined to come to family prayers on the ground of other distractions. I admired her courage. The other wasMichael, the precious infant whose entry into the world had occupied so much of our evening. Everybody on the stage had to have a look at him. I felt no such desire. He bored me.

For a play that made pretence to a serious purpose there was far too much time thrown away on mere trivialities. At first the exigencies of the stage demanded compression. The news of the ultimatum to Germany, the mobilisation, the rush to enlist, the attack on Germany's commerce, were all stuffed into the space of a few minutes. But the whole of the Third Act (laid in the kitchen) was wantonly wasted over the thinnest of domestic humour.

There is a light side, thank Heaven, even to war; but Mr.Thurstonhad a great chance of doing serious good and he has only half used it. I am certain (though he may call me a prig for saying it) that if he had set himself to serve his country's cause through the great influence which the theatre commands, he could have done better work than this; and he ought to have done it.

O. S.

The Ambassadors' Theatre is producing a triple bill which includes a "miniature revue" entitledOdds and Ends. The cost of the production may be gathered from the following note in the preliminary announcement:—

"N.B.—Mr.C. B. Cochranhas spared no economy in mounting this Revue."

Among the more notable novels announced for immediate publication isThe Man in the Platinum Maskby Samson Wolf (Black and Crosswell). By a curious and wholly undesigned coincidence the name of the hero isAttila, while a further touch of actuality is lent to the romance by the fact that the author's aunt's first husband fought in the Italian War of Independence.

Another story strangely opportune in its title, which was however chosen many months ago, isWith Nelson in the Northby Hector Boffin (Arrow and Long-i'-th'-bow). Its appeal to the patriotic reader will be further enhanced by the interesting news that the author's wife's maiden name was Collingwood, while he himself is a great admirer ofHardy.

The same publishers also announce a Life ofAttilaby Principal McTavish, which was completed last March before the name of the redoubtable Hun had come so prominently before the public—- another instance of the intelligent anticipation which is the characteristic of the best and most sellinglittérateurs.

Few writers of romance appeal to the generous youth more effectively than the Countess Corezeru, from whose exhilarating pen we are promised a tale of the Napoleonic era under the engaging title ofThe Green Dandelion(Merry and Bright). The pleasurable expectations of her myriad readers will be heightened when they learn the interesting fact that the Countess recently visited Constantinople, where such thrilling happenings have lately been in progress.

"The Petrograd correspondent of the 'Mesaggero' telegraphs that the Austro-German Army was yesterday completely defeated in the neighbourhood of Warsaw, and suffered unanimous losses."

—Liverpool Echo.

Carried, in fact,nem. con.

'Av yer seen any Germans about 'ere?Boy Scout."'Xcuse me, mum. 'Av yer seen any Germans about 'ere?"

Boy Scout."'Xcuse me, mum. 'Av yer seen any Germans about 'ere?"

No. V.

(FromAlbert, King of the Belgians.)

Sir,—This comes to you from France. Hospitably received and nobly treated by the great and chivalrous French nation I must yet remember that I am an exile on a foreign soil, that my country has been laid waste and that my people, so laborious, so frugal and so harmless, have seen their homes destroyed and have themselves been driven ruthlessly forth to cold and hunger and despair.

Yes, your designs on Belgium have been accomplished—for the time. A people of sixty-five millions has prevailed against a people of seven millions; a great army has overwhelmed a little army; careful schemes long since prepared have outmatched a trustfulness which you and your Ministers fostered in order that in the dark you might be able to strike a felon's blow with safety to yourself. No considerations of honour hindered you. Indeed, I do not know how I can bring myself to mention that word to one who has acted as you have acted. If I do so it is in order that I may tell you that for an Emperor (or any other man) to be honourable it is not enough that he should have great possessions, glittering silver armour, and armies obedient to their War Lord's commands. It is not enough that he should make resounding speeches and call God to witness that he is His friend. It is not even enough that he should succeed in carrying through his plans, and earn the applause of those flatterers who, agreeing with you, believe that an Emperor crowned with success and capable of bestowing favours can do no wrong. No, there must be something more than this. What that something is I will not discuss with you. To do so would be useless, for, since you will never possess it, you can never satisfy yourself that I am right.

And even in regard to this "Success" with which you comfort yourself are you so perfectly sure of it? How do you feel when you callvon Moltketo you and question him about the progress of the war?

"How goes it," you say to him, "in the East?" "We hope," he replies, "to hold the Russians in check, but they are very numerous and very brave." "Presumptuous villains! And in the West?" "In the West the French and English," he says, "still bear up against us. They have thrust us back day after day." "May they perish! But, at any rate, there is Belgium. Yes, we have crushed Belgium and taught the Belgians what it means to defy our Majesty." Andvon Moltke, no doubt, will murmur something that may pass for approval and will withdraw from the conference.

I believe you admireShakspeare. Do you remember whatMacbethsays?

"If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere wellIt were done quickly: if th' assassinationCould trammel up the consequence, and catchWith his surcease, success; that but this blowMight be the be-all and the end-all here."

But that it cannot be. Blows have their consequences, immediate and remote. You first, and then your memory, will be stained to all generations by this deed of treachery and blood. How have you excused it? "With necessity, the tyrant's plea." You had to hack your way through, you said, and it was on my people that your battle-axe fell. So when Louvain was burnt and its inhabitants were shot down you assured thePresident of the United Statesthat your heart bled for what "necessity" had forced you to do. PresidentWilsonis a man of high principles and deep feelings. I wonder how he looked and how he felt when he read your whimpering appeal.

You have destroyed Belgium, but Belgium will rise again; and, even if fate should ordain that Belgium is to be for ever wiped away, so long as one Belgian is left alive there will be a heart to execrate you and a voice to denounce your deeds.

Albert R.

A Sequel to "The Choice."

Mr. Julius Bannockburn hung up his hat with a bang and stepped angrily into the drawing-room.

Mrs. Bannockburn was comfortably seated in an arm-chair, with the tea-table at her side and a fire blazing.

"That's right," she said placidly, ignoring her husband's very obvious mental disarray,—"just in time for a cup of tea."

"No tea for me," he said darkly.

"Oh, yes. It'll do you good," she replied, and poured some out.

"By the way, how much do you give for this tea?" Mr. Bannockburn sharply inquired.

"Two-and-eight," she replied.

He grunted. "I get excellent tea in the City which retails at two shillings a pound," he said. "Better than this."

"Well, dear," said Mrs. Bannockburn, "you don't often have this. This is my tea. You prefer Indian."

"And why so many different kinds of cake?" Mr. Bannockburn went on.

"You wouldn't grudge me those?" she answered. "Surely, even with the war, little things like that might go on?"

Mr. Bannockburn sent his eyes round the room on a tour of critical exploration.

"Yes," he continued, "and how can you do with a fire—at any rate such a fire—on a day like this? The room is like an oven." He scowled murderously at the innocent flames and opened the window.

"I felt distinctly chilly," said Mrs. Bannockburn. "Besides, a fire is so much more cheerful."

"Cheerful!" said Mr. Bannockburn with a snarl. "I'm glad something is cheerful."

"My dear," said his wife soothingly, "you're over-worried. You've had a hard day at the office. But I've got something to show you that will make you happy again." She smiled gaily.

"Happy!" Mr. Bannockburn echoed with abysmal bitterness. "Happy!" He groaned.

"Yes, happy," said his wife. "Now drink your tea," she added, "and then light a cigar and tell me all about it."

"Cigars!" said. Mr. Bannockburn; "I've done with cigars. At any rate with Havanas. We're on the brink of ruin, I tell you."

"Not any longer," said his wife with a little confident laugh. "That's all right now. Taking the new name was to settle that, you know."

Mr. Bannockburn was attempting to eat a cake, but at these words he gave it up. He struck a match angrily and lit a cigar—a Havana. "Well, what is it you want to show me?" he asked.

"The cards," she said. "They look splendid. Here," and she handed a visiting-card across the table and drew his attention to the delicate copper-plate in which their new name had been inscribed: "Mrs. Julius Bannockburn."

Mr. Bannockburn scowled afresh. "How many of these have you ordered?" he asked anxiously.

"Five hundred for each of us," she replied. "And they're done. They all came this morning."

Mr. Bannockburn groaned again. "What ridiculous haste!" he said. "Where was all the hurry?"

Mrs. Bannockburn laughed. "Well, I must say!" she exclaimed. "You to complain of things being done quickly! I've done all you told me," she continued. "Everything. I sent a notice to the Post Office about the telephone directory, telling them to alter the name. I sent toKelly'sabout the London Directory. I told all the tradespeople. I got the cards. I even went further and ordered a few silver labels for your walking-sticks and umbrellas. I thought you would like that."

Mr. Bannockburn puffed at his cigar and said nothing.

"Aren't I a good head clerk?" she went on. "But, after all, when one does change one's name it is wise to go right through with it, isn't it?"

"Yes," said her husband ominously, "when one does change one's name."

"What do you mean?" Mrs. Bannockburn asked sharply. "Has anything gone wrong?"

"Everything," he said. "I've had a notice forbidding changes of name altogether. Everyone has had it."

"When did you get it?" his wife inquired with a flutter.

"To-day."

"Then it's all right," she said excitedly. "We made the change several days ago."

"Yes," replied her husband, "but the notice goes on to say that everyone who has changed since the war began must revert to the name he had before the war commenced. You can't get away from that."

"But we paid for it," Mrs. Bannockburn exclaimed. "We paid for it. Why did they take our money?"

"They didn't know then," said her lord. "It's only just decided by this infernal Government."

Mrs. Bannockburn turned white. "This is terrible," she said. "And how unfair! How grossly unfair! It's not as if we were Germans. I'm not a German at all, and you are merely a German's son, and British to the core. Of course they'll give the money back?"

"It says nothing about that," replied the Briton.

"How very unlike England!" she said.

"Yes," he agreed; "but the point is, apart from the horrible expense of it all, that here we are, saddled with a name which is bound to keep customers away and which we thought we had got rid of for ever. It's horrible. It's wrong. It's a shame." He paced the room furiously.

Mrs. Bannockburn—or, as we now should say, Mrs. Blumenbach—looked in the fire for a few moments in silence. "Well," she said at last, "we must make the best of it, I suppose; we're not paupers anyway, and things are never so bad as one fears. After all, we haven't been to so very much expense. A few cards and so forth. You, dear, can hardly have spent a penny over it."

"Eh," said Mr. Blumenbach sharply—"what?"

"I said that the cost to which we have gone since we changed our name is very trifling," his wife repeated. "You yourself have been put to no expense at all, except perhaps office paper."

Mr. Blumenbach looked suspiciously at her and resumed his walk. "No, no," he said; "that's fortunate certainly."

At this moment a servant entered bringing the post, which included a long roll of paper addressed to "Mrs. Julius Bannockburn."

"I wonder what this can be," she remarked as she reached for a paper-knife.

Her husband snatched it and held it behind him. "Oh, I know all about that," he said; "it's a mistake. It's meant for me, not you."

"But it's addressed to me," said his wife. "Please let me have it."

Mr. Blumenbach for a moment flashed lightning. "Oh, all right," he said, "take it. I might as well confess to my folly, and, after all, I did it as a pleasant surprise for you, even though it's a failure. But I heard about some heraldic fellow, and I got him to draw me up a Bannockburn pedigree. A Scotch one, you know. I was going to have it framed in the hall. Burn the thing without looking at it."

"Was it—was it—very expensive?" his wife asked tremblingly.

"Fifty pounds," he said, half in pride at his own recklessness and half as though having a tooth out.

"Fifty pounds!" Mrs. Blumenbach moaned, and burst into tears.

Lady, diligent reader of spy articlesLady (diligent reader of spy articles and exposures of Anglo-German businesses) to alien window-cleaner."Look here: you needn't come any more."Window Cleaner."Endirely Bridisch Gombany, Lady."Lady."Yes, I daresay. But for all I know you might be part of the flower of the German Army."

Lady (diligent reader of spy articles and exposures of Anglo-German businesses) to alien window-cleaner."Look here: you needn't come any more."

Window Cleaner."Endirely Bridisch Gombany, Lady."

Lady."Yes, I daresay. But for all I know you might be part of the flower of the German Army."

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

I can imagine the feelings of a romantic maiden who, prone to choose her novels by title, has set down on her library listThe Price of Love(Methuen), and finds herself landed with one of Mr.Arnold Bennett'sintimate little guides to "Bursley" and the four other drab towns. And yet if she will set her teeth and read the first fifty pages without skipping she will discover that she is being let into real secrets of real human hearts; that handsomeRachel(penniless companion to a benign old lady), and her debonairLouis(who somehow never can run straight where money is concerned), are becoming known to her as she knows few, if any, of her friends; and that, because known, they are extraordinarily interesting. She will seeRacheldrawn out of the haven of her staunch and critical common sense by her infatuation forLouis; threatened by the shipwreck of despair when she realises his weakness and her irrevocable mistake, and again putting into a new harbour of determination to pay the price of her love and make the best of things. And I should not be altogether surprised if even our romantic library-subscriber finds the next live-happily-ever-after story a little flat by comparison. For there is no doubt that Mr.Bennetthas some uncanny power of realising the conflict of human souls, and that there is an astonishingly adroit method in his mania for unimportant and unromantic detail. I refuse altogether to accept as adequate (or appropriate) his explanations of the adventures of the banknotes on the night of their disappearance, but I am grateful for every word and incident of this enchanting chronicle and for the portrait ofRachelin particular.

Modern Pig-Sticking(Macmillan) is a book that, appearing at this particular moment, has an air of detachment not without its own charm. Chiefly, of course, it appeals to a special and limited public—a public, moreover, that is at present too busy to give it the attention that it would otherwise command. Certainly MajorA. E. Wardrop'sspirited pages deserve to rank with the best that has been written about this sport. As one frankly ignorant, I was myself astonished to find how considerable a body is this literature. As for the gallant Major's own contribution, it is sufficiently well-written to make tales of sporting feats and adventures interesting to the outsider. Which is saying a lot. At the same time his sense of humour is sufficiently strong to save enthusiasm from becoming oppressive. Certainly he loves his theme, as I suppose a good pig-sticker should. "To see hog and hunter charge each other bald-headed with a simultaneous squeal of rage is," he says youthfully, "always delightful." It is all, in these more strenuous times, most refreshing and even a little wistful in itsnaïveté. The honest and brave gentlemen whose exploits it records are about another kind of pig-sticking now. One hopes that practice with the Indian variety may help them in their chase of the Uhlan road-hog. Here's power to their spears!

For all his good humour, Mr.Pett Ridgecan say a hard thing now and then about humanity in general and point it with a touch of startling sarcasm. Possibly it is this combination which makes him the favourite author he is. While we get tired of the harsh satirist who is always up against us, and pay little attention to his teaching, we not only profit by the occasional home truths of the genial humourist, but thoroughly enjoy hearing them. Certainly it is not Mr.Ridge'splots which so attract everybody, including myself.The Happy Recruit(Methuen) might as well (or even better) have been plotless. There is the central figure,Carl Siemens, who comes to England from abroad in his youth and has an unremarkable career, and there is a mysterious and rather tiresome trunk which is mentioned from time to time and finally opened; but apart from these the book is but a collection of little episodes more or less about the same people, theMaynardfamily in particular. It is not the story that lends the charm but the people who come into it, that upper-lower section of Londoners whose little peculiarities of thought, word and deed Mr. Ridge so perfectly understands. Through their mouths he utters his truest sayings, and they make his books always worth reading. It should be added that this one has nothing to do with present warfare; it is antedated by a reign and a half. In this the title is misleading, for there are so many recruits about nowadays and all of them are happy.

After reading Messrs.Hutchinson'sannouncement that the critics describe Mr.F. Bancroftas the most remarkable South African novelist now at work, I searched for a talent that was too successfully hidden for my finding. I was on the track of it two or three times, and once at least the scent was so hot that I thought the quarry was mine; but it got away. WithDalliance and Strifethe author completes a trilogy upon the Boer War, but here we are given too much flirtation and too little fighting. His liberality in the matter of heroines compensates me not at all for his niggard accounts of the war. That he himself should apparently take more interest in dalliance than in strife seems to indicate sheer perversity, for, when once he has ceased to toy with tennis-teas and trivialities, it is possible to respect the opinions of those admiring critics even if it is impossible to agree with them. The little fighting and the few whiffs of the veldt that we are given come as welcome reliefs to the rather stuffy atmosphere that Mr.Bancrofthas been at such pains to create. The British officer in his hours of dalliance is in his hands merely a figure of fun, but the militant Boer in field and camp is a faithful picture, so faithful, indeed, when contrasted with the other, that it leaves me astounded at such a combination of skill and futility.

Germaine Damienwas a little girl with considerable force of character. Having been told by a Socialist shoemaker that Squires were a mistake, she endeavoured to correct this error by driving a large knife into the first specimen of the race whom she met. This wasMiles Burnside, a decent young man enough, and one obviously qualifying to be the hero of the story. So that when, quite early in its course,Germainecaught him asleep and apparently left him dead with a dagger in his heart, I was for a little time considerably puzzled as to how Mrs.Baillie Reynoldswas going to get on with her tale. However, I need not have worried. Of courseMileswas not dead; indeed the last six words of the book tell you that "His smile was good to see." And naturally he wouldn't have been smiling like that if he had not been enfolding the heroine in his strong arms. But before this happy moment we had a lot to get through.Mileson recovery had told the properly apologeticGermainethat she must never, never let anybody else know about the dagger business, and she said she wouldn't. Personally, if I had beenGermaine, I should have done the same. Later in life, reflecting upon this injunction, and discovering that her grandfather had also killed a man,Germainegot it into her head that the habit was inherited, and the idea worried her quite dreadfully. This, I suppose, is why her story is calledThe Cost of A Promise(Hodder and Stoughton). Eventually, however, when the thing had gone on long enough and the revelation of her secret had scared away a superfluous rival,Milesinformed her that her grandfather's record was (forgive me!) not germane to the matter, and that she was as sane as anybody in the story. M'yes. But Mrs.Reynoldshas done better.

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