Daddy had changed ...

1918.

Major A. Brown, D.S.O., M.C. (on permanent Home Service) was awaiting the next case.  There was a rattle as of castanets.  It was produced by the teeth of No. 45012 Private Smith (of Smith, Smith and Smith, Solicitors), called up in his group and late for parade.

Adolphus was famous for severity ...

1919.

Mr. (late Major) Adolphus Brown stood outside the door of Mr. (late No. 45012) Smith (of Smith, Smith and Smith, Solicitors).  There was a rattle as of castanets ...

On which side of the door?

Both.

* * * * *

    “Mr. Ian Macpherson, the new Chief Secretary for Ireland, posed
    specially yesterday for the Sunday Pictorial.  He has a difficult
    task to face.”—­Sunday Pictorial.

Let us hope they will keep the portrait from him as long a possible.

* * * * *

“Three new telephone lines have been laid between London and Paris, and it is now possible to pick up a telephone in Downing Street and speak directly to Mr. Lloyd George at any time.”—­Daily Chronicle.

Immediately on the appearance of the above a long queue formed in Downing Street.  Further telephones are to be installed to meet the rush.  Some of the messages to the PREMIER, we understand, have been couched in very direct language.

* * * * *

A TRAGEDY OF OVER-EDUCATION.

It must not be thought that I underestimate the value of education as a general principle; indeed I earnestly beg of Mr. FISHER, should these lines chance to meet his eye, not to be in any way discouraged by them; but I have been driven to the conclusion that there is such a thing as over-education, and that it has dangers.  When you have read this story I think you will agree with me.  It is rather a sad story, but it is very short.

The population of my poultry-yard was composed of five hens and Umslumpogaas.  The five hens were creatures of mediocrity, deserving no special mention—­all very well for laying eggs and similar domestic duties, but from an intellectual point of view simply napoo, as the polyglot stylists have it.  Far otherwise was it with Umslumpogaas.  He was a pure bred, massive Black Orpington cockerel, a scion of the finest strain in the land.  Indeed the dealer from whom I purchased him informed me that there was royal blood in his veins, and I have no reason to doubt it.  One had only to watch him running in pursuit of a moth or other winged insect to be struck by the essentially aristocratic swing of his wattles and the symmetrical curves of his graceful lobes; and the proud pomposity of his tail feathers irresistibly called to mind the old nobility and the Court of LOUIS QUATORZE.  Pimple, our tabby kitten, looked indescribably bourgeois beside him.