At home, khaki weddings are becoming common form.  By an inversion of the old order the bride is now eclipsed by the bridegroom: 

  ’Tis well:  the lack of fine array
    Best fits a sacrificial altar;
  Her man to-morrow joins the fray,
    And yet she does not falter;
  Simple her gown, but still we see
  The bride in all her bravery.

Society is losing much of its snap through the political truce.  It is all very well to talk of the lion lying down with the lamb, but of course it makes life a distinctly duller business both for the lion and the lamb when each has lost his or her dearest enemy.  For the rest, there is a brisk trade in anti-gas respirators, “lonely soldiers” are becoming victimised by fair correspondents, and a new day has been added to the week—­flag day.

Proverb for the month, suggested by the activities of the Imperial infanticide:  “The hand that wrecks the cradle rules the world.”

July, 1915.

The last month of the first year of the war brings no promise of a speedy end; it is not a month of great battles on land or sea, but rather of omens and foreshadowings, good and evil.  To the omens of victory belongs the sinking of the Pommern, named after the great maritime province, so long coveted by the Brandenburgers, the makers of Prussia and the true begetters of Prussianism.  Of good omen, too, has been the “clean sweep” made by General Botha in German South-West Africa, where the enemy surrendered unconditionally on July 9.  And though the menace of the U-boat grows daily, there may be limits to America’s seemingly inexhaustible forbearance.  There are happily none to the fortitude of our bluejackets and trawlers.

Pundits in the Press, fortified by warnings from generals in various Home Commands, display an increasing preoccupation with the likelihood of invasion by sea.  Mr. Punch naturally inclines to a sceptical attitude, swayed by long adherence to the views of the Blue Water School and the incredulousness of correspondents engaged in guarding likely spots on the East Coast.  With runaway raids by sea we are already acquainted, and their growing frequency from the air is responsible for various suggested precautions, official and otherwise—­pails of sand and masks and anti-asphyxiation mixtures—­which are not viewed with much sympathy in the trenches. There the men meet the most disconcerting situations—­as, for example, the problem of spending a night in a flooded meadow occupied by a thunderstorm—­with irrelevant songs or fantasias on the mouth-organ.

[Illustration:  FIRST TRAWLER SKIPPER (to friend who is due to sail by next tide):  “Are ye takin’ any precautions against these submarines, Jock?”

SECOND SKIPPER:  “Ay!  Although I’ve been in the habit o’ carryin’ my bits of bawbees wi’ me, I went an’ bankit them this mornin’, an’ I’m no taking ma best oilskins or ma new seaboots.”