For the peopling and maintenance of the Home a novel and very pretty device has been invented.  Everyone has heard of the marraines of France during the War—­those ladies who made themselves responsible each for the comfort of a poilu, sending him gifts of food and cigarettes, writing him letters and so forth.  It is the marraine—­or godmother—­system which is being adopted and adapted for “Botches.”  The house can accommodate fifty children, and as many godmothers or godfathers are needed, each of whom will be responsible for one child for a year, at a minimum cost of fifty pounds.  The Duchess of MARLBOROUGH, who has just been elected a Southwark County Councillor, was the first to accept this honourable privilege, and other ladies and gentlemen have already joined her; but there are still many vacancies.  Mr. Punch, who has very great pleasure in giving publicity to Mrs. KIMMINS’S most admirable scheme, would be proud indeed if the other godparents were found among his readers.  All communications on the subject should be addressed to the Hon. Treasurer, Miss A.C.  RENNIE, the Heritage Craft Schools, Chailey, Sussex.

“Botches,” it should be added, is not to be the Home’s final name.  The final name—­something descriptive of the work before it and its ideal of restoration—­has yet to be found.  Perhaps some of Mr. Punch’s readers have suggestions.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Lady of the billet (to officer returned from Rugger match on Flanders ground).  “LA, LA!  VOUS ETES TOMBE, M’SIEUR?”]

* * * * *

    “NAVAL SQUADRON IN ROME.

    ROME, Sunday.

    The special Brazilian naval squadron, comprising the cruiser
    Bahia and four destroyers, under the command of Admiral
    Defrontin, arrived to-day.”—­Evening Paper.

Like the British Army, it looks as if the Brazilian Navy can “go anywhere.”

* * * * *

A WASTED TALENT.

  Fresh knowledge of a varied kind
    While in the army I acquired,
  Some useful, which I didn’t mind,
    And much that made me tired;
  But one result was undesigned;
    It cost me neither toil nor care: 
  Swiftly and surely, with the ease
  Of drinking beer or shelling peas,
    War taught me how to swear.

  Widely my power was recognised;
    The hardiest soldier shook like froth,
  And even mules were paralysed
    To hear me voice my wrath;
  Unhappy he and ill-advised
    Who dared withstand when I reviled;
  Have I not seen a whole platoon
  Wilt and grow pale and almost swoon
    When I was really wild?

  But now those happy days are past;
    A mild civilian once again,
  I dare not even whisper “——!”
    If something gives me pain;
  Barred are those curses, surging fast,
    That swift and stinging repartee;
  Instead of words that peal and crash
  I breathe a soft innocuous “Dash!”
    Or murmur, “Dearie me!”