* * * * *

Quotation from an article in the Frankfurter Zeitung in praise of sandals:—­

    “When people saunter through the town without hats—­who still
    wears a hat?—­why should they not go without stockings?”

    Times.

Well, the explanation may be that while the German head is hot the German feet are cold.

* * * * *

MR. PUNCH’S “SPORPOT.”

Two Summers ago Mr. Punch gave an account of the Sporpot (or Spaerpot, meaning a savings-box), a familiar institution which our little guests from Belgium brought over with them to England.  The idea was taken up by certain schools in South Africa, and a competition was started to see which of them could fill the biggest Sporpot to make a fund for helping to restore the homes of Belgian exiles.  This year the Eunice High School for Girls at Bloemfontein comes out first, and the second honours fall to the St. Andrew’s Preparatory School for Boys at Grahamstown.  The total sum of thirty-two pounds collected by the competing schools has been forwarded to and received by the author of the Punch article and will be used by him for the purpose desired.

Mr. Punch begs to offer his congratulations to the winners and his best thanks to all who have contributed so generously from their personal savings to the needs of the children of our Ally.

* * * * *

A Tough Proposition.

    “Ducks (15) For Sale, 7 years old; 4s. each.”—­Staffordshire
    Sentinel.

* * * * *

WHISPER, AND I SHALL HEAR.

There’s nothing like a newspaper for spreading disease.  You wake up in the morning, feeling fit to do a day’s digging on your allotment; you come down to your breakfast singing a Rhonddalay and eat more than your allowance.  Then you open the newspaper, glance at the latest accession to the ranks of the Allied Powers, and suddenly, “Plop!” you find there is a new disease raging, and before you know where you are you discover that you have got it badly.

That is how I discovered that I was the possessor of a heart murmur.  By putting my hand on the spot under which I had been taught, and still believed, my heart to be, I felt rather than heard a distinct burbling.

I went to the telephone and fixed up an appointment with a specialist.

“It’s only a murmur now,” I said when I reached the consulting-room, “only a mere whisper, but——­”

The doctor tapped me vigorously.  Being very absent-minded I said, “Come in,” the first time.

“You were rejected for this, I suppose?” he said.

“No, cow-hocked or spavined, I forget which,” I said.  “This hadn’t started then.”

The rite was quite a lengthy one, and at the conclusion the heartsmith said, “M—­yes, there is a slight murmuring, certainly.”