Tino in Exile.

[As indicated on another page, TINO’S actual opinion of his Imperial brother-in-law is probably not too amiable; but it has to be disguised in his letters, which are liable to be censored by his wife.]

  Thank you, dear William, I am fairly well. 
    The climate suits me and the simple life—­
  No diplomats to spoil the scenery’s spell,
    And only faintest echoes of the strife;
  The Alps are mirrored in a lake of blue;
    Over my straw-crowned poll the blue skies laugh;
  A waterfall (no charge) completes a view
    Equal to any German oleograph.

  There are no bugle blares to make me jump,
    But just the jodler calling to his kine;
  A few good Teuton toadies, loud and plump,
    More than suffice me in the levee line;
  And, when poor Alexander, there in Greece,
    Writes of your “agents” rounded up and sacked,
  I am content with privacy and peace,
    Having, at worst, retained my head intact.

  Sophie and I have thought of you a lot
    (We have so very few distractions here;
  We chat about the weather, which is hot,
    And then we turn to talk of your career);
  For rumour says this bloody war will last
    Until the Hohenzollerns get the boot;
  And through my brain the bright idea has passed
    That you had better do an early scoot.

  Were it not wise, dear William, ere the day
    When Revolution goes for crowns and things,
  To cut your loss betimes and come this way
    And start a coterie of Exiled Kings? 
  You might (the choice of safe retreats is poor)
    Do worse than join me in this happy land,
  And spend your last phase, careless, if obscure,
    With your devoted Tino hand-in-hand.

O. S.

* * * * *

Monsieur Joseph.

On the day that I left hospital, with a month’s sick leave in hand, I went to dine at my favourite Soho restaurant, the Mazarin, which I always liked because it provided an excellent meal for an extremely modest sum.  But this evening my steps turned towards the old place because I wanted a word with Monsieur Joseph, the head-waiter.

I found him the same genial soul as ever, though a shade stouter perhaps and greyer at the temples, and I flatter myself that it was with a smile of genuine pleasure that he led me to my old table in a corner of the room.

When the crowd of diners had thinned he came to me for a chat.

“It is indeed a pleasure to see M’sieur after so long a time,” said he, “for, alas, there are so many others of our old clients who will not ever return.”

I told him that I too was glad to be sitting in the comparative quiet of the Mazarin, and asked him how he fared.

Joseph smiled.  “I ’ave a surprise for M’sieur,” he said—­“yes, a great surprise.  There are ten, fifteen years that I work in thees place, and in four more weeks le patron will retire and I become the proprietor.  Oh, it is bee-utiful,” he continued, clasping his hands rapturously, “to think that in so leetle time I, who came to London a poor waiter, shall be patron of one of its finest restaurants.”