* * * * *

“To ascertain to what extent the children under their care have lost weight as a result of the war dietary, the Henley-on-Thames Guardians have decided to have them weighed periodically.  At a certain boarding school all the boys were found to have lost weight—­in some cases to the extent of 111lb—­under the new food régime.”—­Manchester Guardian.

What did these young giants weigh before the War?

* * * * *

    “Dr. A——­ is the gifted author of his old Vicar, the late Dr.
    Bickersteth, who afterwards, became Bishop of Exeter.  He is
    also a son-in-law of the late Bishop.”—­Church Paper.

And apparently (by marriage) his own grandfather.

* * * * *

THE VOTE.

“And now,” I said, “that you’ve got your dear vote, what are you going to do with it?”

“If,” said Francesca, “you’ll promise to treat it as strictly confidential I’ll tell you.”

“There you are,” I said.  “Unless you can make a secret out of it you take no pleasure in it.  You’re just like a lot of girls who—­”

“I’m not.  I’m not even like one girl.  I wish I was.”

“I don’t.  I like your mature intellect.  I can’t do without your balanced judgment.”

“Thanks; it’s pleasant to be appreciated as one deserves.  And now I’ll tell you what I’m going to do with my vote.  When the time comes I shall take it with me into what’s called a polling-booth, and I shall demand a piece of paper, and then—­yes, then I shall destroy the sanctity of the home and neglect my children, and, incidentally, I shall break up the Empire, and do all the other dreadful things that you and the others have been prophesying; and I shall do them simply by making a cross opposite the name of the candidate who’s got the nicest eyes and the prettiest moustache.  That’s what I shall do with my vote.  I shall vote with it by ballot.  What else could I do?”

“Great Heaven!  Francesca, how can you be so frivolous?  Are you aware that politics, in which you are now to play a part however humble, are a serious matter?”

“I know,” she said, “and that is why they’ll be all the better for an occasional touch of lightness.  There’s some Latin quotation about Apollo, isn’t there, my Public School and University man?  Well, I’m all for that.”

“But,” I said, “you don’t know how dangerous it is to be light and humorous at public meetings or in the House of Commons.  A man gets a reputation for that sort of thing, and then he’s expected to keep it up; and, anyhow, it gives him no influence, however funny he may be.  The other men laugh at him, but distrust him profoundly.”

“Pooh!” said Francisca.  “That’s all very well for men—­they have little humour and no wit—­”

“My dear Francesca, how can you venture to fly in the face of all experience—­”