The soldiers sing about their beer;
    The wretched road goes on and on;
  There ought to be a turning here,
    But if there was the thing has gone;
    Like some depressed automaton
      I ask at each estaminet;
    They say, “Tout droit,” and I say “Bon,”
      But I believe I’ve lost the way.

  I dare not tell the trustful men;
    They think me wonderful and wise;
  But where will be the legend when
    They get a shock of such a size? 
    And what about our brave Allies? 
      They wanted us to fight to-day;
    We were to be a big surprise—­
      And I believe I’ve lost the way.

* * * * *

The Dawn of Peace?

    “The Commissioners of H.M.  Works, &c., are prepared to
    receive tenders for the supply of: 

    (a) Floor polish during a period of six or 12 months from
    1st August, 1917.

    (b) Arm chairs.”—­Daily Telegraph.

* * * * *

From an interview with an eminent playwright regarding a new farce:—­

    “Has my face a war object?  Certainly it has, a very
    definite though an indirect one.”—­Liverpool Echo.

If it hadn’t been so old a joke, we should have guessed that the author has a strong cast in his eye.

* * * * *

“A Chaplain Wanted, for private chapel in the Highlands.  There is plenty of stalking for a good shot, also there is fishing, shooting, and golf.  A chaplain is wanted who can drive a motor-car.  Terms £1, travelling expenses are paid, and there are rooms provided.”—­Daily Telegraph.

Yet there are still people who write to the newspapers demanding “Liberty for the Church.”

* * * * *

[Illustration:  LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT:  ITS DISTURBING INFLUENCE.]

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Mother.  “OH, MARY, WHY DO YOU WIPE YOUR MOUTH WITH THE BACK OF YOUR HAND?”

Mary. “’COS IT’S SO MUCH CLEANER THAN THE FRONT.”]

* * * * *

“SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT.”

    I, who before these lines appear (or don’t)
      Must face the Board reviewing my diseases,
    Am fluttered, as the sentient soul is wont,
      Thinking how rum the case of me and these is;
      We’ll come together—­just because it pleases
    Some higher Pow’r—­and then for ever part. 
    Not having learnt each other’s views on Art,
  Nor in our only chat got really heart to heart.

    They’ll sound my heart, it’s true, but in a way ... 
      Perhaps they’ll ask me if I’ve had enteric;
    But can I tell them that I’ve writ a play
      And have a nephew who is atmospheric? 
      Or that my people meant me for a cleric
    (But Satan didn’t)? or even that I shan’t
    Be left much money by my maiden aunt?—­
  These are the human links that bind us, but I can’t.