“Mr. H. A. Barker, the bonesetter, performed a bloodless and
    successful operation yesterday upon Mr. Will Thorne’s knee,
    which he fractured six years ago.”—­Sunday Paper.

If the case is correctly reported—­which we doubt—­it was very confiding of Mr. Thorne to go to him again.

* * * * *

More sorrows of the Sultan.

  Beersheba gone, and Gaza too! 
    And lo! the British lion,
  After a pause to comb his mane,
  Is grimly padding off again,
    Tail up, en route for Zion.

  Yes, things are looking rather blue,
    Just as in Mesopotamy;
  My life-blood trickles in the sand;
  My veins run dry; I cannot stand
    Much more of this phlebotomy.

  In vain for WILLIAM’S help I cry,
    Sick as a mule with glanders;
  Too busy—­selfish swine—­is he
  With winning ground in Italy
    And losing it in Flanders.

  His missives urge me not to fly
    But use the utmost fury
  To hold these Christian dogs at bay
  And for his sake to block the way
    To his beloved Jewry.

  “My feet,” he wired, “have trod those scenes;
    Within the walls of Salem
  My sacred presence deigned to dwell,
  And I should hate these hounds of hell
    To be allowed to scale ’em.

  “So do your best to give them beans
    (You have some ammunition?),
  And at a less congested date
  I will arrive and consecrate
    Another German mission.”

  That’s how he wires, alternate days,
    But sends no troops to trammel
  The foe that follows as I bump
  Across Judaea on the hump
    Of my indifferent camel.

  Well, I have tried all means and ways,
    But seldom fail to foozle ’em;
  And now if William makes no sign
  (This is his funeral more than mine)
    The giaours can have Jerusalem.

  O.S.

* * * * *

The sugar fiend.

“I will have a cup of tea,” I said to the waitress, “China if possible; and please don’t forget the sugar.”

“Yes, and what will you eat with I it?” she asked.

“What you please,” I replied; “it is all horrible.”

I do not take kindly to war-time teas.  My idea of a tea is several cups of the best China, with three large lumps of sugar in each, and half-a-dozen fancy-cakes with icing sugar all over them and cream in the middle, and just a few cucumber sandwiches for the finish. (This does sound humorous, no doubt, but I seek no credit for it.  Humour used to depend upon a sense of proportion.  It now depends upon memory.  The funniest man in England at the present moment is the man who has the most accurate memory for the things he was doing in the early summer of 1914).