But why is the geographical position of this alluring archipelago not given?  Is it for enemy reasons?

* * * * *

[Illustration:  FORCE OF HABIT—­THE SCRUM HALF.]

* * * * *

THE NEED OF OUR TIMES.

    ["The modern world is badly in need of a Pindar.  Alone of the poets,
    Pindar could do justice to the exploits of the day.”—­The Times.]

  “We’re badly in need of a Pindar”
    To fan in these tropical days
  Our stock of emotional tinder
    With gusts of tempestuous praise;
  To foster the flame, not to check it
    Or let it die suddenly down,
  In honour of HAWKER and BECKETT,
    Of ALCOCK and BROWN.

  We do not require a CATULLUS
    (We’ve MASEFIELD and WAUGH and SASSOON)
  Nor pastoral pipers to lull us
    To rest with a sedative tune;
  But the worship of beer and of Bacchus
    In verses familiar and free
  Might win for a latter-day FLACCUS
    A Knighthood (B.E.).

  Bland VIRGIL’S beyond resurrection;
    The voice of the moment is harsh;
  The nightingale’s golden perfection
    Offends the young ravens of MARSH;
  ARISTOPHANES, grossly facetious,
    Is but a “compulsory” god,
  And HOMER as well as LUCRETIUS
    Too frequently nod.

  There’s scope for the truculent passion
    Of JUVENAL’S masculine muse
  To flagellate folly and fashion
    In dress and in manners and views;
  But we’ve plenty of prophets and poets;
    We’ve few who are sober and sane;
  We don’t want another DE BLOWITZ;
    We want a DELANE.

* * * * *

    “BETTER BEER ON THE HORIZON.”

    Daily Express.

A beer in the hand is worth ten on the horizon.

* * * * *

A TUBE NIGHTMARE.

Have you ever dreamed a dream of a terrible tube journey, in which every one of the appalling things which might happen does actually occur?  I dreamed one last night.

The journey began with a disaster.  On reaching the booking-office window I could not find any money, and it was only when the waiting crowd behind me, which had mounted to hundreds, was becoming offensively hostile that I succeeded in producing a five-pound note.

The booking-clerk took her own time to count out the change, and on leaving the window I found four policemen struggling to keep back an infuriated mob of people, all shrieking imprecations and asking for my blood.

There was but one thing for it—­to get to a train before this angry horde could secure its tickets; so I made a wild dash for the moving-staircase, shedding Bradburys en route like a paper-chase.

As I rushed past the ticket-puncher she made a vicious lunge at my out-stretched hand with an enormous pair of pincers, missing the ticket and partially amputating my thumb.