[Illustration:  THE CELESTIAL DUD.

KAISER:  “Ha!  A new and brilliant star added to my constellation of the
Eagle!”

GENERAL FOCH:  “On the wane, I think.”

(It is anticipated in astronomical circles that the new star, Nova
Aquilae, will shortly disappear.)]

The long struggle between von Kuehlmann and the generals has ended in the fall of the Minister; but not before he had indicated to the Reichstag the possibility of another Thirty Years’ War, and asserted that no intelligent man ever entertained the wish that Germany should attain world-domination.  There was a time when this frank reflection on the Hohenzollern intelligence would have constituted lese-majeste. Coming from a Minister it amounts to a portent.  Now he has gone, but the growing belief that military operations cannot end the war has not been scotched by his fall, and Herr Erzberger vigorously carries on the campaign against Chancellor Hertling and the generals.  Austria has been at last goaded into resuming the offensive on the Italian Front and met with a resounding defeat.  It remains to be seen how Turkey and Bulgaria will respond to the urgent appeals of their exacting master.

The ordeal of our men on the Western Front is terrible, but they have at least one grand and heartening stand-by in the knowledge that they have plenty of guns and no lack of shells behind them.  This is the burden of the “Song of Plenty” from an old soldier to a young one: 

  The shelling’s cruel bad, my son,
    But don’t you look too black,
  For every blessed German one
    He gets a dozen back—­
  But I remember the days
    When shells were terrible few
  And never the guns could bark and blaze
    The same as they do for you.

But they sat in the swamp behind, my boy, and prayed for a tiny shell,
While Fritz, if he had the mind, my boy, could give us a first-class
hell;
And I know that a 5.9 looks bad to a bit of a London kid,
But I tell you you were a lucky lad to come out when you did.

         * * * * *
  Up in the line again, my son,
    And dirty work, no doubt,
  But when the dirty work is done
    They’ll take the Regiment out—­
  But I remember a day
    When men were terrible few
  And we hadn’t reserves a mile away
    The same as there are for you,

But fourteen days at a stretch, my boy, and nothing about relief; Fight and carry and fetch, my boy, with rests exceeding brief; And rotten as all things sometimes are, they’re not as they used to be, And you ought to thank your lucky star you didn’t come out with me.

* * * * *

Our mercurial Premier lays himself open to a good deal of legitimate criticism, but for this immense relief, unstinted thanks are due to his energy and the devoted labours of the munition workers, women as well as men.