A paying Game.

  When Belgium lay beneath your heel
    To prove the law that Might is Right,
  And Innocence, without appeal,
    Must serve your scheme of Schrecklichkeit,
  “Justice,” we said, “abides her day
    And she shall set her balance true;
  Methods like yours can never pay.” 
    “Can’t they?” you cried; “they can—­and do!”

  And now full circle comes the wheel,
    And, prone across the knees of Fate,
  You are to hear, without appeal,
    The final terms that we dictate;
  And, when you whine (the German way)
    On presentation of the bill: 
  “Ach, Himmel! we can never pay,”
    “Can’t you?” we’ll cry; “you can—­and will!”

  O.S.

* * * * *

The Brighter side of peace.

I’m not out of the Army yet, but lately I was home on leave.  At a time like that you don’t really care about being demobilised just yet.  After all, to earn—­or let us say to be paid—­several pounds for a fortnight’s luxurious idleness is a far, far better thing than to receive about the same number of shillings for a like period of unremitting toil.  There you have an indication of the financial prospects of my civvy career.  None the less, to me in Blighty the future looked as rosy as a robin’s breast, and life was immensely satisfactory.  I deemed that I was capable of saying “Ha, ha” among the captains (though myself only boasting two pips).  Then one day, in the lane that leads to the downs, I met Woggles.

I’ve known Woggles for years and years.  Some time ago she became a V.A.D. and began to drive an ambulance about France; since when I had lost sight of her.  I greeted her therefore with jubilation.

“Oh, Woggles,” I cried, “this is a great occasion.  How shall we celebrate it?”

“Well, if you like I’ll go back again on to the top with you and show you the Weald.  But I’d much rather you came home to tea.  I could make some ’Dog’s Delight’—­s’posing you haven’t outgrown such simple tastes.”

“Oh, if you put it like that,” I said cheerfully.

Well, it was a bitter sort of afternoon and growing late.  The annoyance of Bogie (an enthusiastic puppy) at missing his walk might appropriately be solaced with portions of “Dog’s Delight.”  It’s a large home-made bun thing which used to delight me as well as Bogie’s mother in days gone by.

“I ought to warn you,” said Woggles as we walked across the fields, “that Mother and Dad are out to-day.  I expect your dog’ll have to take acting rank as chaperon.”

“By the way,” I said, “you don’t know each other, do you?” I called Bogie, who was giving a vivid imitation of a cavalry screen protecting our advance, and made him sit up and pretend to be begging.  “Now fix your eyes on the kind lady,” I commanded.  “Woggles—­Bogie:  Bogie—­Woggles.  Two very nice people.”  Bogie barked, put out his tongue and let the wind blow his left ear inside out.  Woggles laughed in that excellent way she has.