* * * * *

ANOTHER IMPENDING APOLOGY.

“GRIZZLY BEARS AT THE ZOO.

Lieutenant-General Sir W.R.  Robertson, Chief of the Imperial General Staff, was unanimously elected an hon. member of the Zoological Society of London at the December general meeting.”—­The Times.

* * * * *

“By a Ministerial decree, chickens can be raised in the
courtyards of houses in Rome.”—­Daily Express.

And we are now confidently expecting some “Lays of Modern Rome.”

* * * * *

“£5 REWARD,—­Lost, on November 28th, in Kensington, BLACK ABERDEEN TERRIER, name ‘Cinders’ on collar, also Lt.-Col. ——­ and badge of S.W.B.  Regiment.—­Kindly return to Mrs. ——.”—­The Times.

Let us hope the Colonel at least has found his way home.

* * * * *

ULTIMUS.

  His shape was domed and his colour brown,
  And I took him up and I get him down
  In the lamp’s full light, in the very front of it,
  Ready and glad to bear the brunt of it;
  And then, having raised my hand and blessed him,
  I thus in appropriate words addressed him:—­
  “Oh, soon to be numbered with the dead,
  Your fortunate brothers, prepare,” I said,
  “Prepare to vanish this very day
  And go to your doom the silent way. 
  For DEVONPORT’s Lord will soon decree,
  With his eye on you and his eye on me,
  That you’re only a useless luxury;
  And, since the War on the whole continues,
  We must tighten our belts and brace our sinews,
  And give up the things we liked before,
  And never, like Oliver, ask for more. 
  Since this is so and the War endures,
  I am bound to abandon you and yours,
  And wherever I meet you I must frown
  On your sweet white core and your coat of brown. 
  But no, since you are the only one,
  The last of a line that is spent and done,
  I shall give myself pleasure once again
  And set you free from a life of pain. 
  Prepare, prepare, for I mean to punch you,
  My lonely friend, and to crunch and munch you.”

  So saying I smiled in a sort of dream
  On my absolute ultimate chocolate-cream;
  Then swiftly I reached my hand to get him
  And popped him into my mouth and ate him.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  First Burglar.  “THEY SEEM TO BE JUST FINDING OUT THERE’S TOO MANY DOGS ABOUT.  WOT PEOPLE WANT TO KEEP DOGS AT ALL FOR I NEVER COULD SEE.”

Second Burglar.  “COMB ’EM OUT.  THAT’S WOT I SEZ.  COMB ’EM OUT.”]

* * * * *

TACTICS.

“Maman! à quel saint prie-t-on—­” began Jeanne.  Ah! but no, a recollection flashed across her mind and was reinforced by other memories.  “J’en ai fini avec les saints,” she mused, proceeding to the other end of the room where, full of intention, she busied herself among some books.  Yes, she was now quite disillusioned; that latest blow, on her recent tenth birthday, had confirmed finally her long-growing suspicion—­prayer to the saints was unavailing.