Lord HALSBURY must look to his laurels.

* * * * *

    “Mr. Clement Wragge has prepared a special weather forecast for the
    year 9117.  His opinion is that the year will prove distinctly good.”
    New Zealand Times.

We infer that, in Mr. WRAGGE’s opinion, the War will be over by then.

* * * * *

The Minimum.

Extract from a letter just received from H.Q. in France:—­

    “C.O.’s will take care that all ranks know that they must never parade
    before an Officer—­Brigade, Regimental or Company—­unless properly
    dressed, wearing at least a belt.”

* * * * *

    “The few women on the platform were dressed quietly, as befitted the
    occasion, the smartest person present being Mr. McKenna.”—­Illustrated
    Sunday Herald.

Our contemporary might have told us what he wore.

* * * * *

THE GOLFER’S PROTEST.

  Among the shocks that laid us flat
    When WILLIAM loosed his wanton hordes
  There fell no bloodier blow than that
    Which turned our niblicks into swords;
  And O how bitter England’s cup,
    In what despair the order sunk her
  That called her Cincinnati up
    When busy ploughing in the bunker!

  Even with those who stuck it out,
    Bravely defying public shame,
  Visions of trenches knocked about
    Would often spoil their usual game;
  Rumours of victory dearly bought,
    Or else of bad strategic hitches,
  Disturbed their concentrated thought
    And put them off their mashie pitches.

  Now comes a menace yet more rude
    That puts us even further off;
  It says the nation’s need of food
    Must come before the claims of golf;
  We hear of parties going round,
    Aided by local War-Committees,
  To violate our sacred ground
    By planting veg. along our “pretties.”

  If there be truth in that report,
    Then have we reached the limit, viz.:—­
  The ruin of that manly sport
    Which made our country what it is;
  The ravages we soon restore
    By conies wrought or hoofs of mutton,
  But centuries must pass before
    A turnip-patch is fit to putt on.

  What!  Shall we sacrifice the scenes
    On which our higher natures thrive
  Just to provide the vulgar means
    To keep our lower selves alive? 
  Better to starve (or, better still,
    Up hands and kiss the Hun peace-makers)
  Than suffer PROTHERO to till
    The British golfer’s holy acres.

O.S.

* * * * *

PERSONAL PARS FROM THE WESTERN FRONT.

(With acknowledgments to some of our chatty contemporaries.)

HAPPY C.-IN-C.—­I saw the Commander-in-Chief to-day passing through the little village of X in an open car.  He was very quietly dressed in khaki, with touches of scarlet on the hat and by the collar.  I waved my hand to him and he returned the salute.  It is small acts like this which endear him to all.  I noticed that the Field-Marshal was not carrying his baton.  Doubtless he did not wish to spoil its pristine freshness with the mud of the roads.