“ED. WYNN, pikeman of the dashing 22nd King’s Ryol ridgemet of
    lanciers.  Sept. 1815”;

and freshly scratched above the inscription:—­

  “Better at piking than at speling.
      22nd K.R.  Lancers.  JAS. BARNET.  Sept. 1917.”

The old carp seems to be right, and one war is very like another.  There is no radical change in the orthography of the 22nd King’s Royal Lancers, and some-one else’s wall is still the medium for self-expression.

Old Cyclops must be throwing his mind back a hundred years or so.  There is a rain of bread and biscuits into the moat and a ring of red grinning faces above the coping.  Yesterday I threw a disused safety-razor blade over the old scoundrel’s nose.  And “Bless my soul!” he said, as he lazily bolted it, “there hasn’t been such a year for minnows since 1815.”

But Armageddon 1917 holds surprises even for those who live at the bottom of a moat.  For very early this morning a bauble fell into the moat that Cyclops himself couldn’t digest.  The old cynic was found floating, scarred belly upwards, on the surface of the water.

The mess-waiter took charge of the post-mortem.  Like the Duke of Plaza Toro, he “likes an interment” and rarely misses a last rite.  A keen fisherman, he had little difficulty in extracting an exhibit for the Court’s inspection, which he unhesitatingly pronounced to be a diamond ring in an advanced state of decomposition.

The mess-cook, on the other hand, identified the relic as the stopping, recently mislaid, from one of his back teeth.

In any case there seems little room for doubt that a Hun airman has avenged the long-dead lady.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  ENIGMA.

POLICEMAN (on duty at St. Stephen’s).  “STAND ASIDE, PLEASE.”

MR. PUNCH.  “WHAT’S HAPPENING?”

POLICEMAN.  “PARLIAMENT REASSEMBLING.”

MR. PUNCH.  “WHY?”]

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Ex-Bus-driver (in difficulties in the roadless zone). “’ERE’S OLE PICCADILLY UP AGIN—­FAIR IN THE ’IGHTH OF THE SEASON.”]

* * * * *

THE MUD LARKS.

All the world has marvelled at “the irrepressible good humour” of old Atkins.  Every distinguished tripper who comes Cook’s-touring to the Front for a couple of days devotes at least a chapter of his resultant book to it.  “How in thunder does Thomas do it?” they ask.  “What the mischief does he find to laugh at?” Listen.