But the dread roads, the red roads will know us no more;
    Oh, it’s England, chum, England for you and for me! 
  The countryfolk wave us as westward we pour
    Down the jolly white highways that lead to the sea.

  There’s a mist of frail blossom adrift in the trees,
    The Spring song of birds sets the orchards a-thrill;
  And now on our brows blows the salt Channel breeze,
    The busy port hums in the lap of the hill.

  So warp out your transports and bear us away
    From the Yser and Somme, from the Ancre and the Aisne,
  From fire-blackened deserts of shell-pitted clay,
    And give us our Chilterns and Cotswolds again.

  Oh, show us old England all silver and gold,
    With the flame o’ the gorse and the flower o’ the thorn;
  We long for lush meadow-lands where we were foaled
    And boast of great runs with the Belvoir and Quorn.

  The pack-pony dreams of a primrosy combe,
    A leisurely life in a governess-cart,
  Plum-cake and a bottle-nosed gardener-groom;
    The Clyde has a Wensleydale farm in his heart.

  We whinny and frolic, light-headed with bliss,
    Forgetting leg-weariness, terror and scars;
  Ye ladies of England, oh, blow a soft kiss
    To the hairy old horses come home from the wars.

  PATLANDER.

* * * * *

TO-MORROW.

“To-morrow,” said the brave young subaltern, “if my Company Commander curses my men for having long hair, I’ll whip off his own hat and show him to be three weeks overdue at the barber’s.

“To-morrow, if the Adjutant finds fault with my salute, I’ll give him a faithful imitation of his own ridiculous ear-flip.

“To-morrow, if the Major strafes me for my handling of the platoon on the barrack-square, I’ll challenge him to detail ’presenting arms, by numbers.’

“To-morrow, if the Colonel checks my men for being slovenly turned out on parade, I’ll publicly point out to him that the buttons of his own pockets are undone and that the ends of his bootlaces are hanging out.

“To-morrow, if the General curses a man for rubbing his nose while at attention, I’ll openly suggest to him that it is not smart and soldierlike to slouch along with one hand in your pocket while inspecting the ranks.

“To-morrow, if I get the chance, I’ll do all these things.  I have put off doing them far too long.”

So spake the brave young subaltern, knowing full well that he is to be demobbed to-day.

* * * * *

    “A Tooting hen is laying two eggs a day.”—­Evening Paper.

Then it seems to us that she is quite justified in tooting.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  THE LOVING CUP:  A PARTING TOAST.

BRITISH LION (to American Eagle). “HERE’S LUCK TO YOU.  YOU BROUGHT
IT TO ME.”]