DEAR OLD CHAP,—­You can’t think how glad I am to have your disclaimer.  I disliked having to write to you as I did, after so many years of good fellowship, but you must admit that I had some provocation.  It is a pretty serious thing for a man in my position to be publicly singled out by a man in yours as being without a sense of humour.  However, your explanation puts everything right, and all’s well that ends well.  Yours as ever, FRED.

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    “PEACE CRANKS AND CROOKS.”—­Evening Standard.

The right hon.  Member for Woolwich objects.  He has nothing whatever to do with Ramsayites.

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JIMMY—­KILLED IN ACTION.

  Horses he loved, and laughter, and the sun,
    A song, wide spaces and the open air;
  The trust of all dumb living things he won,
    And never knew the luck too good to share.

  His were the simple heart and open hand,
    And honest faults he never strove to hide;
  Problems of life he could not understand,
    But as a man would wish to die he died.

  Now, though he will not ride with us again,
    His merry spirit seems our comrade yet,
  Freed from the power of weariness or pain,
    Forbidding us to mourn—­or to forget.

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A LITERAL EPOCH.

That there rumpus i’ the village laast Saturday night?  Aye, it were summat o’ a rumpus, begad!  Lor! there aren’t bin nothin’ like it not since the time when they wuz a-gwain’ to burn th’ ould parson’s effigy thirty-fower year ago (but it niver come off, because ‘e up an’ offered to contribute to the expenses ‘isself, an’ that kind o’ took the wind out on’t).

Ye see, Sir, there’s just seven licensed ‘ouses i’ the village.  Disgraceful?  Aye, so ’tis, begad!—­on’y seven licensed ‘ouses—­an’ I do mind when ‘twas pretty nigh one man one pub, as the sayin’ is.  Howsomever, to-day there’s seven, and some goes to one and some goes to totherun.

Well, laast Friday night me an’ Tom Figgures an’ Bertie Mayo an’ Peter Ledbetter an’ a lot more on us what goes to Reuben Izod’s at The Bell, we come in to ’ave our drink.  And, mind you, pretty nigh all on us ’ad a-bin mouldin’-up taters all day, so’s to get them finished afore the hay; so us could do wi’ a drop.  Aye, aye!

Well, fust thing us knowed—­no more’n a hour or two after—­Mrs. Izod was a-sayin’ to old Peter Ledbetter, as ’er set down a fresh pint for ‘n, “That’s the laast drop o’ beer i’ the ’ouse,” ’er says.

“Whaat!” says Peter, though there warn’t no call for ’im to voice the gen’ral sentiments, ’coz you see, Sir, ’e’d a-got the laast pint an’ us ’adn’t.

“There’s a nice drop o’ cider, though,” says Mrs. Izod.  “Leastways, when I says a nice drop, there’s a matter o’ fifteen gallons, I dessay,” ’er says.