***

Russian soldiers are now permitted to smoke in the streets and to travel in railway carriages.  Later on it is hoped that the privilege of dying a natural death may be extended to them.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  House-agent’s Clerk (to gentleman hunting for a flat).  “Now then, be off with you.  We never buy anything from ITINERANTS.”]

* * * * *

The Cam offensive.

  Once more on Barnwell’s fetid ooze,
    Neglected these long years of slaughter,
  In stolid tubs the Lenten crews
    Go forth to flog the same old water.

  Fresh from the Somme’s resilient phase,
    From Flanders slime and bomb-proof burrows,
  Much as we did in ancient days
    They smite the Cam’s repellent furrows.

  Their coaches sit the old, old gees,
    But with a manner something larger,
  As warriors who between their knees
    Have learned to steer the bounding charger.

  Unchanged their language, rude and firm,
    Save where a khaki note is sounded,
  And here and there a towpath term
    With military tags confounded.

  “Get forward!  Are you ready?  Quick—­
    March!” “Get a move on!  Keep it breezy!”
  “Two, mind the step!” “Swing out and kick!”
    “Halt!  Sit at—­ease!  Ground—­oars!  Sit easy!”

  “The dressing’s bad all down the line.” 
    “Eyes on your front rank’s shoulders, Seven! 
  Don’t watch the Cam—­it’s not the Rhine—­
    Or gaze for Gothas up in heaven!”

  “I want to hear your rowlocks ring
    Like a good volley, all together.” 
  “Hands up (or ‘Kamerad’) as you swing
    Straight from the hips.  Don’t sky your feather,

  As if I’d given the word, ’High Port’!”
    “Five, I admit your martial charms, Sir,
  But now you’re on a rowing-thwart,
    So use your legs and not your arms, Sir!”

  “Six, you’ve a rotten seat, my son;
    Don’t trust your stirrups; grip the saddle!”
  “Squad—­properly at ease!  Squad—­’shun! 
    Get forward!  By the centre—­paddle!”

O.S.

* * * * *

Cast.

The auctioneer glanced at his book.  “Number 29,” he said, “black mare, aged, blind in near eye, otherwise sound.”

The cold rain and the biting north-east wind did not add to the appearance of Number 29, as she stood, dejected, listless, with head drooping, in the centre of the farmers and horse-dealers who were attending the sale of cast Army horses.  She looked as though she realised that her day had waned, and that the bright steel work, the soft well-greased leather, the snowy head-rope and the shining curb were to be put aside for less noble trappings.