Yours faithfully,

BASIL VYNE-PETHERINGTON,

Secretary.

* * * * *

WHITE MAGIC.

  Blind folk see the fairies,
    Oh, better far than we,
  Who miss the shining of their wings
  Because our eyes are filled with things
    We do not wish to see. 
  They need not seek enchantment
    From solemn printed books,
  For all about them as they go
  The fairies flutter to and fro
    With smiling, friendly looks.

  Deaf folk hear the fairies
    However soft their song;
  ’Tis we who lose the honey sound
  Amid the clamour all around
    That beats the whole day long. 
  But they with gentle faces
    Sit quietly apart;
  What room have they for sorrowing
  While fairy minstrels sit and sing
    Close to their listening heart?

R.F.

* * * * *

Extract from a French account of the tanks in action in the battle for Cambrai:—­

    “Les chars d’assaut curent aussi leur cri de guerre.  Peu avant
    l’attaque, le long de leur ligne courut un message repetant, en
    le modifiant legerement, celui de Nelson a Trafalgar: 

    “’L’Angleterre compte que chaque tank fera aujourd’hui son devoir
    sacre.’”—­Havas.

We had often wondered what the French was for “Do your damnedest!” Now we know.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  GETTING AWAY FROM IT.

CAPTAIN BROWN, HOME ON LEAVE AND VERY WAR-WEARY, DECIDES THAT AT ALL
COSTS HE WILL SPEND AN EVENING WHERE KHAKI IS NOT.

HE HAS PLEASANT RECOLLECTIONS OF A VISIT, IN TIMES OF PEACE, TO A
DELIGHTFUL BOHEMIAN CLUB OF WHICH ROBINSON WAS A MEMBER.

SO HE RINGS UP ROBINSON, WHO WILL BE DELIGHTED TO SEE HIM.

BROWN EXPERIENCES A DISTINCT SHOCK ON MEETING ROBINSON,

AND A STILL GREATER SHOCK ON ENTERING THE CLUB.]

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Head Waiter.  “SORRY, SAIR—­CAN’T HELP IT.  FULL UP!  NO ROOM FOR A LONG TIME.  AFTER ALL, DERE IS A WAR ON.”]

* * * * *

TO MY BUTCHER.

  O butcher, butcher of the bulbous eye,
  That in hoarse accents bidst me “buy, buy, buy!”
  Waving large hands suffused with brutish gore,
  Have I not found thee evil to the core? 
  The greedy grocer grinds the face of me,
  The baker trades on my necessity,
  And from the milkman have I no surcease,
  But thou art Plunder’s perfect masterpiece. 
  These others are not always lost to shame;
  My grocer, now—­last week he let me claim
  A pound of syrup—­’twas a kindly deed
  To help a fellow-townsman in his need,
  Though harsh the price, and I was feign to crawl
  About his feet ere I might buy at all. 
  But thou—­although a myriad