One morning the French bandmaster called on the Commandant of the English school.

“Some Americans have arrived,” said he.  “They are naturally as welcome as the sunshine, but” (he sighed) “it means yet another national anthem.”

The Commandant sighed and said he supposed so.

“By the way,” said the chef d’orchestre, “what is the American national anthem?”

“‘Yankee Doodle,’” replied the Commandant.

The Chief Instructor said he’d always understood it was “Hail, Columbia.”

The Adjutant was of the opinion that “The Star-Spangled Banner” filled the bill, while the Quartermaster cast his vote for “My country, ’tis of thee.”

The chef d’orchestre thrashed his bosom and rent his coiffure. “Dieu!” he wailed, “I can’t play all of them—­figurez-vous!”

Without stopping to do any figuring they heartily agreed that he couldn’t.  “Tell you what,” said the Commandant at length, “write to your music-merchant in Paris and leave it to him.”

The chef d’orchestre said he would, and did so.

Next Sunday evening, as the concert drew to a close, the band flung into the Marseillaise, and the subalterns of all nations kept to attention.  They stood to attention through “God Save the King,” through the national anthems of Russia, Italy, Portugal, Rumania, Serbia, Belgium, Montenegro and Monte Carlo, all our brave Allies.  Then the chef d’orchestre suddenly sprang upon a stool and waved above his head the stripes and stars of our newest brave Ally, while the band crashed into the opening strains of “When de midnight choo-choo starts for Alabam.”  It speaks volumes for the discipline of the allied armies that their young subalterns stood to attention even through that.

PATLANDER.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Sailor (rebuking pessimist).  “O’ COURSE SOME O’ THEM U-BOATS GETS AWAY.  WOT D’YER THINK WE ’UNT ’EM WITH?  FILTERS?”]

* * * * *

THE GENTLEST ART.

Private Elijah Tiddy looked at his watch.  There was still half-an-hour to the great moment for which the battalion had waited so long.  Most of the men had decided to fill up the time by eating, drinking or sleeping, but Private Tiddy had two other passions in life—­one was his wife, and the other the gentle art of letter-writing.  At all possible and impossible moments Private Tiddy wrote letters home.  To some men this would have been an impossible moment—­not so to Tiddy, who, if he hadn’t been first a plumber and then a soldier, would have made an inimitable journalist.

So he sat down as best he could with all that he carried, and extracted a letter-case from an inside pocket.  It was a recent gift from the minister of his parish, who knew and shared Tiddy’s weakness for the pen, and it filled his soul with joy.  He fingered the thin sheets of writing-paper lovingly, as a musician touches the strings, and thoughtfully sucked the indelible pencil which Mrs. Tiddy had bought for him as a parting present when she said good-bye to him at the bookstall.