But I would paint The Golden Tun
    And others to my mind,
  And mellow them in rain and sun,
    And hang them on the wind;
  And I would say, “My handcraft creaking
    On this autumnal gale
  Unto all wayfarers is speaking
    In praise of rest and ale.”

  Then bless the man who puts a sign
    Above his wide door’s beam,
  And bless the hop-root, fruit and vine,
    For still I dream my dream,
  Where, as the flushing East turns pinker
    And tardy day begins,
  I take the road like any tinker
    And paint the signs of inns.

* * * * *

    “INSTANT DEMAND FOR WARNINGS.

    “MAYORS OF LONDON MOVING.”

    Evening News.

They ought to set a better example.

* * * * *

“Certain people seem to have misread the statement last week that flour would be reduced 1s. 11/2d. that flour would be reduced to 1s. 11/2d. but that that that flour would be reduced to 1s. 111/2d. but that amount or somewhere about it would be taken off the former price.”—­Rossendale Free Press.

There ought to be no misunderstanding after this.

* * * * *

“At such close quarters were attackers and attacked that to have used grenades would manifestly have been equally dangerous to both.  So, after a brief pause to collect the means, our men began to pelt the Huns with bottles filled with water.  Apparently the enemy thought this was some new form of ‘frightfulness,’ for they speedily threw down their arms and tossed up their hands.”—­Daily Telegraph.

Our contemporary, while rightly applauding the resourcefulness of our bombers, might have given the Germans credit for their remarkable feat of acrobacy.

* * * * *

FOR SERVICES RENDERED.

If ever, in a railing mood, I have unjustly aspersed the Army; if, by reason of deferred pay, over-diluted stew, or leave adjourned, I have accused the Powers That Be of a step-motherly indifference to my welfare, I hereby withdraw unreservedly all such aspersions and accusations.  For since my discharge tokens of kindly interest and affection have reached me in such rapid succession that I am kept wondering what the next will be.  With a quarter of a million men in his care (as I suppose, since my number was 256801), my fatherly Record Officer has yet time for frequent correspondence with “crocks” like me.  He registers all his letters; he makes his instructions so plain that a very suckling might understand them; he takes every precaution lest, in the press of business, I should be overlooked.