Turkey, it appears, has sent an urgent appeal to Berlin for funds.  The disaster to the Goeben can be endured, since the Sultan can now declare a foreshore claim, and do a little salvage profiteering; but Palestine is another matter.  Since General Allenby’s advance “running” expenses have swallowed up a formidable total.  The War is teaching us many things, including geography.  We are taking a lively interest in the Ukraine, and the newspapers daily add to our stock of interesting knowledge.  Apropos of General Allenby’s entry into Jerusalem, we learn that “the predominance of the tar brush in the streets added to the brightness of the scene,” and in connection with his return to Cairo, that “the MacCabean Boy Scouts” took part in the reception—­presumably the Cadet Corps of the Jordan Highlanders.  But the most reassuring news comes from the enemy Press.  “It is simply a miracle,” says the Cologne Gazette, “that the Germans have so loyally stood by their leaders,” and for once we are wholly in agreement with our German contemporary.

If Mr. Punch may exert his privilege of turning abruptly to grave from gay, the claim may be allowed on behalf of the youngest generation, already remembered in the chronicle of last month.

CHILDREN OF CONSOLATION

  By the red road of storm and stress
    Their fathers’ footsteps trod,
  They come, a cloud of witnesses,
    The messengers of God.

  Cradled upon some radiant gleam,
    Like living hopes they lie,
  The rainbow beauty of a dream
    Against a stormy sky.

  Before the tears of love were dried,
    Or anguish comfort knew,
  The gates of home were opened wide
    To let the pilgrims through.

  Pledges of faith, divinely fair,
    From peaceful worlds above
  Against the onslaught of despair
    They hold the fort of love.

[Illustration: 

THE CIVILIAN AND THE WAR OFFICE

I am bidden to the War Office.

I depart for it.

I approach it.

I enter.

I am not observed.

I am still not observed.

I am observed.

I am spoken to (and still live).

I continue to be spoken to.

I am spoken to quite nicely.

I am shaken hands with.

I take my leave.]

February, 1918.

“Watchman, what of the night?” The hours pass amid the clash of rumours and discordant voices—­optimist, pessimist, pacificist.  Only in the answer of the fighting man, who knows and says little, but is ready for anything, do we find the best remedy for impatience and misgiving: 

  “Soldier, what of the night?”
    “Vainly ye question of me;
  I know not, I hear not nor see;
    The voice of the prophet is dumb
  Here in the heart of the fight. 
    I count the hours on their way;
  I know not when morning shall come;
    Enough that I work for the day.”