“That’s a’ vera weel, but bide a bit. 
  Ye work sax hours a day in your pit,
  But I’d hae ye to bear in mind,” said Jean,
  “While ye work sax I work saxteen.”

  Jock scratched his head.  “Ay, lass, that’s sae. 
  Aweel, an’ what would ye hae me dae?”

  “Fair does,” she answered; “it’s only fair
  That ye should be takin’ your ain just share,
  An’ help me in keepin’ the hame for a spell
  In the extry hours that ye’ve got to yoursel’,
  Sae, while I’m scrubbin’ the floor,” she said,
  “Ye micht be pittin’ the bairns tae bed.” 
  Jock laughed.  “I doot there’s somethin’ in it;
  I’ll stairt on my duties this verra minute.”

  A week went by:  Jock learnt to scrub,
  He gave the bairns their Saturday tub,
  He made the beds, he blacked the grates,
  He washed up saucers and cups and plates,
  He cleaned and polished, he boiled and baked
  Till every bone in his body ached.

Around the neighbourhood rumour flew;
Soon every wife in the village knew
That Jock, when his spell in the pit was done,
Was cook, nurse, parlourmaid rolled into one;
And every wife she vowed that her man
Should be trained on the same super-excellent plan.
* * * * *
Behold these lusty miners all
Fettered fast in domestic thrall,
Scrubbing, rubbing, baking bread,
Busy with scissors and needle and thread,
Spreading the brats their bread and jam,
Trundling them out in the morning pram,
Washing their pinafores clean and white
And tucking them up in their cots at night.
* * * * *
Ask me not—­for I cannot tell,
I can only guess—­how the end befell: 
A wifely word, an angry scowl,
A bit of a grumble, a bit of a growl,
A scolding here, a squabbling there,
And here the sound of an ugly swear,
A cry of despair from the sore opprest,
A secret call to the “Miners’ Rest,”
A sudden revolt from the brooms and mats,
And a roar from a thousand throats—­“Down brats!”
* * * * *
“What—­striking again?” you cry, aghast. 
Nay, friend, cheer up, for the worst is past;
A glint of blue may be seen through the grey—­
They are asking again for an eight-hour day.

* * * * *

THE DISCIPLINARIAN.

Saluting is rapidly becoming a thing of the past, even among British-born soldiers.  Dating from the Armistice, it has lapsed more and more, until now it is practically extinct.

Now I regard this as serious.  I have ever been a stickler for discipline, and consequently I dislike it when men pass by—­not, like the Levite, on the other side—­but close to me without so much as a click of the eyeballs.

So I decided that I as a disciplinarian would make a stand against it; I would keep my eyes open for any particularly flagrant case.  When I found it I intended to let myself go.  I promised myself an agreeable ten minutes—­or longer, if I got properly worked up.