A.A.M.

* * * * *

ANOTHER IMPENDING APOLOGY.

    “The book contains a portrait of the author and several other
    quaint illustrations.”—­Daily Paper.

* * * * *

“Miss Leitch played delightful golf up to the hole, but when once she had arrived there the result was almost ludicrous, as she could not hit the ball truly with her puttee.”—­Evening Paper.

Personally we have always found this an ineffective weapon.

* * * * *

ROYAL ACADEMY-SECOND DEPRESSIONS.

[Illustration:  IN THE DAYS OF AULD LANGSIDE.

The Despatch-Bearer. “EXCUSE ME, SIR, BUT THE QUEEN IS HERE.  YOU ARE REQUESTED TO MAKE AS LITTLE NOISE AS POSSIBLE, AND, ABOVE ALL, NO BLOODSHED.”

Bothwell (to Mary, Queen of Scots). “IF YOU WOULD DEIGN TO TURN YOUR HEAD A LITTLE, DEAR MADAM, YOU WILL FIND THAT THE BATTLE IS OVER HERE.”]

[Illustration:  The Cheshire Cat. “I NEVER GET TIRED OF THIS STORY ABOUT DICK WHITTINGTON.”]

[Illustration:  The Profiteer’s Wife (sadly). “POOR WILLIAM HASN’T BEEN HIMSELF SINCE ARMISTICE DAY.”]

[Illustration:  The Man (listening to the lark and quoting the poet). “UP WITH ME, UP WITH ME INTO THE CLOUDS.”

The Lady.  “OH, JOHN, LET US STAY HERE.  I DON’T FEEL IN AN AVIATING MOOD TO-DAY.”]

[Illustration:  The Spoilt Beauty. “WHAT ROTTEN LUCK!  I SIMPLY DAREN’T GO JAZZING WITH THIS BLACK EYE!”]

[Illustration:  “THE SCRAP OF PAPER.” Both (mentally). “WHAT A FINE DRAMATIC SUBJECT THIS WOULD MAKE FOR AN ACADEMY PICTURE!”]

[Illustration:  MISS WINNIE WENDOVER SELECTS HER COSTUMES FOR THE NEW REVUE.  THE CHARMING AND TYPICALLY ENGLISH ACTRESS IN HER DELIGHTFUL TURKISH BUNGALOW NEAR STAINES.]

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Billiard-marker (awed by rank of visitor—­a foreign prince who has joined in a game of pool). “SHOULD I CALL ’IM ’YER ROYAL ’IGHNESS, SIR, OR ’SPOT YALLER’?”]

* * * * *

THE HAIRIES.

  We have carried our lancer’s, hussars and dragoons
    And tugged in the batteries, columns and trains,
  On pave that smoked under white summer noons
    And tracks that washed out under black winter rains.

  We’ve shivered in standings hock-deep in the mud,
    With matted tails turned to the drift of the sleet;
  We’ve seen the bombs flash and been spattered with blood
    Of mates as they rolled, belly-ripped, at our feet.

  We’ve dragged ammunition up shell-smitten tracks,
    Round bottomless craters, through stump-littered woods;
  When the waggons broke down took the load on our backs
    And somehow or other delivered the goods.