I.

  Goddess, hear me—­oh, incline a
  Gracious ear to me, Lucina! 
  Patroness of parturition,
  Pray make this a special mission;
  Prove a kind inaugurator
  Of my votive incubator!

  Seventy eggs I put into it—­
  Each a chick, if you ensue it. 
  Pray you, let me not be saddled
  With a single “clear” or addled. 
  See! the temperature is steady. 
  Now then, Goddess, are you ready?

Hear me, Goddess, next invoking You to keep the lamp from smoking, And, the plea so humbly voiced, you’re Sure to regulate the moisture?  Oh, Lucina, ’twill be ripping When we hear the eggs all pipping!

  When no chick the shell encumbers,
  Goddess, hear their tuneful numbers! 
  Then, O patroness of hatches,
  We will try some further batches. 
  Goddess, hear me!—­oh, incline a
  Gracious ear to me, Lucina!

* * * * *

“MATRIMONY.—­Two young, respectable fellows wish to meet two respectable young girls, between the ages of 20 and 30, view above.—­T.S.R. and E.C.P., Clematis P.O., Paradise.”—­Melbourne Argus.

If marriages are made in heaven these respectable young fellows have selected a really promising postal address.

* * * * *

“Nine petty officers were landed from the damaged German destroyer V69 and brought to the Willem Barrentz Hotel, Ymuiden, to-night.  My correspondent engaged them in conversation at a late hour.  After some Dutch Bock beer they rapidly recovered their spirits and began to sing Luther’s well-known hymn, ‘Ein Feste Bung.’”—­Provincial Paper.

Very appropriate too, but wouldn’t a loose “Bung” have pleased them even better?

* * * * *

[Illustration:  A PLAIN DUTY.

“WELL, GOODBYE, OLD CHAP, AND GOOD LUCK!  I’M GOING IN HERE TO DO MY BIT, THE BEST WAY I CAN.  THE MORE EVERYBODY SCRAPES TOGETHER FOR THE WAR LOAN, THE SOONER YOU’LL BE BACK FROM THE TRENCHES.”]

* * * * *

[Illustration:  “STICK TO HIM—­STICK TO HIM!”

“I’LL STICK TO HIM, SIR.  BUT WHICH ONE DO YOU MEAN?”]

* * * * *

LETTERS FROM MACEDONIA.

IV.

MY DEAR JERRY,—­I am writing this from my position on top of a small hill, while my devoted band of followers sits round me and waits for me to speak.  I always sit here, because if I wanted to go somewhere else I should have to climb down this hill and then up another one.  I hate hills.  So does the devoted band.

Behind another little hill a hundred yards away we believe there lurks an army corps of Bulgars, but we are afraid to look and see.  Instead, we fix and unfix bayonets every ten minutes and make martial noises.  This, we hope, affects the enemy’s moral, and having your moral affected every ten minutes is no joke, I can tell you.