Mr. Balfour, as we have seen, abstains from prophecy.  Mr. Dillon, who, with other Nationalists, bitterly resents the decision of the Government to apply the rules of arithmetic to the redistribution of seats in their beloved country, has indulged in a terrifying forecast which ought to be placed on record.  He has threatened the House with the possibility that at the next General Election he and his colleagues might be wiped out of existence.

Tommy is a very great man, but he is not a great linguist, though he always gets what he wants by the aid of signs or telepathy.  Three years and some odd months have not changed his point of view, and now for Thomas to find himself in Italy is only to discover another lot of people who cannot understand or make themselves understood.  “Alliances,” as a correspondent from Italy puts it, “are things as wonderful to see as they are magnificent to read about.  I do, however, regard with something approaching alarm the new language which will be evolved to put the lot of us on complete speaking terms.”

[Illustration:  THE NEED OF MEN

MR. PUNCH (to the Comber-out):  “More power to your elbow, sir.  But when are you going to fill up that silly gap?”

SIR AUCKLAND GEDDES:  “Hush!  Hush!  We’re waiting for the Millennium.”]

[Illustration: 

THE NEW LANGUAGE

TOMMY (to inquisitive French children):  “Nah, then, alley toot sweet, an the tooter the sweeter!”]

Lord Rhondda, who listened from the Peers’ gallery to the recent debate in the Commons on Food Control, has received a quantity of advice intended to help him in minding his p’s and q’s, particularly the latter.  In China, we read in the Daily Express, a chicken can still be purchased for sixpence; intending purchasers should note, however, that at present the return fare to Shanghai brings the total cost to a figure a trifle in excess of the present London prices.  More bread is being eaten than ever, according to the Food Controller:  but it appears that the stuff is now eaten by itself instead of being spread thinly on butter, as in pre-war days.  Bloaters have reached the unprecedented price of sixpence each.  This is no more, as we have seen, than a chicken fetches in China, but it is enough to dispel the hope that bloaters, at any rate over the Christmas season, would remain within the reach of the upper classes.  At a Guildford charity fete the winner of a hurdle race has been awarded a new-laid egg.  If he succeeds in winning it three years in succession it is to become his own property.

Christmas has come round again, and peace still seems a far-off thing.  “What shall he have that killed the deer?” someone asks somebody else in As You Like It.  But there is a better question than that, and it is this:  “What shall they have that preserve the little dears?” And the answer is—­honour and support.  For there can be no doubt that in these critical times, when the life of the best and bravest and strongest is so cheap, no duty is more important than the cherishing of infancy, and the provision of seasonable joys to the youngest generation, gentle and simple.  More than ever Mr. Punch welcomes the coming of Santa Klaus: