“But that’s a fault,” the tongs would reply, “that you find with every one.”

To return to the night of which I want particularly to speak, no sooner had the clock made his monosyllabic utterance than “I am probably unique,” the Vimy Ridge inkstand said.

“How?” the cigarette-lighter sharply inquired, uniqueness being one of his own chief claims to distinction.

“Strange,” said the inkstand, “the blacksmith who made me was not blown to pieces.  The usual thing is for the shell to be a live one, and no sooner does the blacksmith handle it than he and the soldiers who brought it and several onlookers go to glory.  The papers are full of such incidents.  But in my case—­no.  I remember,” the inkstand was continuing—­

“Oh, give us a rest,” said the shell door-stop.  “If you knew how tired I was of hearing about the War, when there’s nothing to do for ever but stop in this stuffy room.  And to me it’s particularly galling, because I never exploded at all.  I failed.  For all the good we are any more, we—­we warriors—­we might as well be mouldy old fossils like the home-grown things in this room, who know of war or excitement absolutely nothing.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” said a quiet voice.

“Who’s speaking?” the shell asked.

“I am,” said the door.  “You’re quite right about yourselves—­you War souvenirs.  You’ve done.  You can still brag a bit, but that’s all.  You’re out of it.  Whereas I—­I’m in it still.  I can make people run for their lives.”

“How?” asked the inkstand.

“Because whenever I bang,” said the door, “they think I’m an air-raid.”

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Butler (the family having come down to the kitchen during an air-raid). “’YSTERIA—­WITHIN REASON—­I DON’T OBJECT TO.  BUT WHAT I CAN’T STAND IS BRAVADO.”]

* * * * *

CUSS-CONTROL.

  I found myself, some time ago,
  Growing too fond of cuss-words, so
  I made a vow to curb my passions
  And put my angry tongue on rations.

  As no Controller yet exists
  To frame these necessary lists,
  I had myself to pick and choose
  The words that I could safely use.

Four verbs found favour in my sight, Viz., “drat” and “dash” and “blow” and “blight”; While “blithering” and “blinkin’” were My only adjectival pair.

  I freely own that “dash” and “drat”
  At times sound lamentably flat;
  And “blight” and “blow” don’t somehow seem
  Quite adequate to every theme.

  When you are wishful to be withering
  ’Tis hard to be confined to “blithering,”
  And to express explosive thinkin’
  One longs for some relief from “blinkin’.”

  Still Mr. BALFOUR, so I hear,
  Seldom goes further than “O dear!”
  While moments of annoyance draw
  “Bother” at worst from BONAR LAW.