In vain he pleads for stall-room in the stable;
    The cellars are engaged; ’tis idle talk
  To ask for bedding on the billiard-table—­
    Two families are there, each side of baulk.

  Next morn he fain would wash in ocean’s spray (there’s
    Balm in the waves that helps you to forget),
  And lo! the deep is simply stiff with bathers;
    He has no chance of even getting wet.

  He starves as never in the age of rations;
    The fishy produce of the boundless sea
  Fails to appease the hungry trippers’ passions
    Who barely pouch one shrimp apiece for tea.

  “I came,” he says, “to swallow priceless ozone
    Under Britannia’s elemental spell;
  She rules the waves, as all her conquered foes own;
    I wish she ruled her seasides half as well.

  “I don’t know what the beaten Bosch may suffer
    Compared with us who won the late dispute,
  But if it equals this (it can’t be tougher),
    Why, then I feel some pity for the brute.”

  So by the London train upon the morrow
    From holiday delights he gets release,
  Conspuing, more in anger than in sorrow,
    The pestilent amenities of Peace.

O.S.

* * * * *

Great beard mystery.

Where do men go when, they want to grow beards?  This is a question as yet unanswered, and the whole subject is shrouded in impenetrable mystery.

One sees thousands of men with beards, but one never sees anyone growing a beard.  I cannot recall, in a life of varied travel, having ever encountered a man actually engaged in the process of beard-cultivation.  The secret is well kept, doubtless by a kind of freemasonry amongst bearded men, but there can be little doubt that somewhere there are nurseries where a bona-fide beard-grower who is in the secret can retire until he is presentable.

I have frequently been annoyed by the way in which these men flaunt their beards at one; their whole manner seems to convey an air of superiority; they seem to say, “Look at my beard.  You can’t grow a beard because you haven’t the moral courage to appear in public while it’s growing.  Wouldn’t you like to know the secret?  Well, I won’t tell you.”

Determined to suffer these contemptuous glances no longer, I set out on a voyage of discovery to unravel the mystery of England’s beard-nurseries.

I asked bearded men if they knew of anywhere in the country where one could slip away in order to grow a beard, but they always gave me evasive replies, such as:  “Why not have an illness and stay in bed for three months?” But when I went on to ask where they had grown theirs, they either made an excuse to leave me or said evasively, “Oh, I’ve always had mine.”

I once went to the enormous expense of making a bearded Scotch acquaintance intoxicated in order to drag the secret from him, but the question as to where he grew his beard instantly sobered him, and nothing would induce him to touch another drop.