“The Crystal Palace,” said Second-Lieut.  St. John, “isn’t in it.”  And then, because his watch had ended, he handed over to another yawning subaltern and went to bed.

Over miles and miles of country wild-eyed gunners were glaring into the night and asking each other blasphemous questions.  What did it mean?

“It must be Huns,” said the British gunners; “they’re coming over.”

“That is without doubt an English signal,” said the enemy.  “We will prepare for an attack.”

Then the Hun gunners suddenly made up their minds to be on the safe side, and they put down a tremendous barrage on to No Man’s Land.

“Told you so; they’re on to our front line,” said we, and put down a tremendous barrage on to No Man’s Land.

A Hun sentry, waking with a start, sounded the gas alarm.  It was taken up all along the German line and overheard by a vigilant British sentry, who promptly set himself to make all possible noise with every possible means.

Old French ladies in villages twenty miles back from the line lay all that night hideous in respirators.  Anxious Staffs rang up other anxious Staffs.  Gunners questioned the infantry.  The infantry desired information from the gunners.  All along the line the private soldier was jolted from that kind of trance which he calls “getting down to it,” and was bidden to stand to till morning.

And our Mr. St. John, who was a new and superfluous officer and liable to be overlooked, slept through it all with a fat smile.
       * * * * *
It was after that that they made him a Town-Major.

* * * * *

OUR PAMPERED “CONCHIES.”

    “There was a long and interesting debate on the imprisonment of
    conscientious objectors in the House of Lords.”—­The Times.

This beats Donington Hall to a frazzle.

* * * * *

    “Teachers will welcome the resolution deploring ’the omission
    from the Bill of any limitation upon the size of
    classics.’”—­Teacher’s World.

Their pupils are believed to hold a diametrically opposite opinion.

* * * * *

After the Guildhall Banquet:—­

    “Some had black leather bags, some had aprons.  Others had nothing
    at all and staggered off with a conglomeration of beef, pie, and
    turtle soup tucked up under their arms.”—­Weekly Dispatch.

The menu said “Clear Soup,” but this must have been a bit thick.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Sandy (on departure of peace-crank, who has been holding forth).  “MAN, HE’S A QUEER CARD, THAT.  THINK YE HE’S A’ THERE, DONALD?”

Donald.  “DOD, SANDY, IF WHAT’S NO THERE IS LIKE WHAT IS THERE, IT’S JUST AS WEEL HE’S NO A’ THERE.”]

* * * * *