* * * * *

CRICKET.

There is no truth in the rumour that spectacular cricket is to be resumed.  It is perfectly true that a section of the public who are devoted to watching the game and cannot understand why, because the nations happen to be at war, this favourite summer recreation should be denied them, have been agitating for the Government to arrange with the War Office to release all first-class cricketers now in the Forces, so that they may be free to play matches at home.  It is also true that the Government, having refused to do this, subsequently, in view of the arguments urged by a deputation of cricket enthusiasts, agreed to do so, since it has always set its face against any pedantic rigidity of purpose.  But none the less no such matches will be played, for the simple reason that the cricketers themselves refuse to come back until their job is finished.

* * * * *

    “Boots.—­Save nearly 50% buying Factory direct.”—­News of the
    World.

On second thoughts we think we shall continue buying one pair at a time.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Little Girl (as distinguished admiral enters). “BE QUIET, FIDO, YOU SILLY DOG—­THAT’S NOT THE POSTMAN.”]

* * * * *

THE BALLAD OF JONES’S BLIGHTY.

  There are some men who dwell for years
    Within the battle’s hem,
  Almost impervious, it appears,
    To shot or stratagem;
  Some well-intentioned sprite contrives
  By hook or crook to save their lives
  (It also keeps them from their wives),
    And Jones was one of them.

  The hugest bolts of Messrs. KRUPP
    Hissed harmless through his hair;
  The Bosch might blow his billet up,
    But he would be elsewhere;
  And if with soul-destroying thud
  A monstrous Minnie hit the mud,
  The thing was sure to be a dud
    If only Jones was there.

  Men envied him his scatheless skin,
    But he deplored the fact,
  And day by day, from sheer chagrin,
    He did some dangerous act;
  He slew innumerable Huns,
  He captured towns, he captured guns;
  His friends went home with Blighty ones,
    But he remained intact.

  We had a horse of antique shape,
    Mild and of mellowed age,
  And, after some unique escape,
    Which made him mad with rage,
  On this grave steed Jones rode away... 
  They bore him back at break of day,
  And Jones is now with Mrs. J.—­
    The convalescent stage.

  The world observed the chance was droll
    That sent so mild a hack
  To smite the invulnerable soul
    Whom WILLIAM could not whack;
  But spiteful folk remarked, of course,
  He must have used terrific force
  Before he got that wretched horse
    To throw him off its back.