As I walked forth in Baker Street
    As sober as a Quaker,
  Whom did I have the luck to meet? 
    I met a jolly Baker. 
  His voice was gay, his eye was bright,
    His step was light and airy,
  His face and arms were powdered white—­
    I think he was a fairy;
  He danced beneath the April moon,
    And as he danced he trolled
  Wild snatches of an ancient rune,
  Yet all the burden of his tune
    Was “New—­Bread—­for Old!”

  Quoth I:  “Whence got you, lad, a heart
    So glad that you must show it?”
  Quoth he:  “The Baker hath his art
    No less, Sir, than the Poet;
  I tell ye, I’m so blithe to-night
    I’d paint the old Moon’s orb red! 
  Oh, think ye that I took delight
    For years in baking war-bread? 
  One shape, one colour and one size,
    By Government controlled? 
  But now all this to limbo flies;
  What wonder that to-night I cries
    ‘New—­Bread—­for Old?’

  “Good Sir, the Baker hath a soul
    And loves to make bread pleasant—­
  The Twist, the long Vienna Roll,
    The Horseshoe and the Crescent,
  The Milk, the Tin, the lovely loaf
    Where currants one discovers,
  The Wholemeal for the country oaf,
    The Knot for all true lovers. 
  So, till upon the glowing East
    The sun in red and gold
  Comes forth to bake the daily feast,
  I’ll cry with heart as light as yeast,
    ‘New—­Bread—­for Old!’”

* * * * *

THE MODERN ICARUS.

    “After an hour’s flight over the frozen Conception Bay and
    the town of St. John’s, Mr. Hawker made a perfect landing.  He
    appeared more than over confident of success.”—­Daily Paper.

    “General admiration and sympathy is extended to Mr. Tawker
    due to his frankness regarding his progress towards making
    the trans-ocean flight.”—­Sunday Paper.

We trust our contemporaries are not in a conspiracy to represent the gallant aviator as a hot-air man.

* * * * *

    “Presently, when aviation becomes a commonplace, the fares
    will come down.”—­Daily Dispatch.

That’s just what makes us so nervous.

* * * * *

PEACE TERMS.

BEING SOME LETTERS OF MRS. PARTINGTON TO HER SISTER.

    [Conferences between mistresses and servants are being held in
    various parts of the country to discuss terms of peace in the
    domestic world.]

Puddleford.

DEAR MOIRA,—­We haven’t got a servant yet, but we are clutching at a new hope.  There is to be a conference here between mistresses and maids, to discuss and readjust the servants’ rights and the mistresses’ wrongs—­or is it the other way about?  Anyhow, I shall attend that conference.  I shall bribe, plead, consent to any arrangement if I can but net a cook-general.  Ten months of doing my own washing-up has brought me to my knees, while Harry says the performance of menial duties has crushed his spirit.