I wrote thus.  First to A.:—­

“MY DEAR MAN,—­I am sorry to hear your bad news.  The times are sufficiently depressing without such a blow as this having to fall on you.  I am certain that you don’t deserve such treatment, and you have all my sympathy.  As for the disgrace—­there is none.  You are simply a victim of the War.  If there is anything I can do to cheer you up, let me know.

    “I am, yours, etc.,—.”

To B. I wrote thus:—­

“DEAR OLD TOP,—­This is the best news I have heard for a long time.  I always knew you would bring it off soon; but I wasn’t prepared for anything quite so sudden.  There is, of course, only one thing to do when a man fulfils his destiny in this way.  The custom is immemorial, and, war or no war, we must crack a bottle.  Tell me where you would like to dine, and when, and I’ll fix it up, and some jolly show afterwards.  Occasions like This must be celebrated.

    “I am, yours, etc.,—.”

So far it is a somewhat feeble narrative, nor has it any point beyond the circumstance that I posted the letters in the wrong envelopes.

* * * * *

WHAT TO DO WITH OUR CRITICS.

    “The Ministry of Munitions has for disposal approximately 75 TONS
    WEEKLY of PRESS MUD.”—­Advt. in “The Engineer."

* * * * *

“In consequence of the epidemic at the Royal Naval College, Osborne, in the spring of this year, it has been decided to reduce the number of cadets at the College from 500 to 300.  This reduction will not affect the numbers to be entered, as a larger number of cadets will be accommodated at Dartmouth Colliery.”—­Scotsman.

Where they will be trained, we suppose, as mine-sweepers.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  THE REDUCED TRAIN SERVICE AT SLOWGRAVE.

“NO NEED TO IDLE YOUR TIME AWAY.  JUST GET A SHEET OF EMERY-PAPER AND TAKE THE RUST OFF O’ THEM RAILS.”]

* * * * *

[Illustration:  TRIALS OF A CAMOUFLAGE OFFICER.

Sergeant-Major.  “BEG PARDON, SIR, I WAS TO ASK YOU IF YOU’D STEP UP TO THE BATTERY, SIR.”

Camouflage Officer.  “WHAT’S THE MATTER?”

Sergeant-Major.  “IT’S THOSE PAINTED GRASS SCREENS, SIR.  THE MULES HAVE EATEN THEM.”]

* * * * *

“GOG.”

(TO THE AUTHOR OF “JONG,” PUNCH, SEPTEMBER 19TH.)

  O singer sublime of Beeyah-byyah-bunniga-nelliga-jong,
    It isn’t envy, the green and yellow,
    That makes me take up my lyre, old fellow,
    And burst with a fierce cacophonous bellow
      Across the path of your song. 
    I want to propose another name,
    Unknown to you and unknown to fame;
    It is like the sound of a hand-sawn log
    Or the hostile hark of a husky dog: 
      Chagogagog-munchogagog-chabun-agungamog!