Mr. Punch begs to call attention to a Great Lottery of Paintings, Drawings, Sculptures, etc., by many of the chief British artists of the day and of earlier schools, which is being organised, by licence of the Board of Trade, in aid of the St. Dunstan’s Hostels for Blinded Soldiers and Sailors.  These works of art (including many by Mr. Punch’s artists) will be exhibited at the Bazaar which is being held this week at the Royal Albert Hall in aid of the same splendid cause.  After May 10th they may be seen at the Chenil Galleries.  Tickets for the Lottery (5s.) are to be obtained from Mr. Kineton Parkes, The Chenil Galleries, 183A, King’s Road, Chelsea, S.W.  The drawing of the Lottery Prizes will take place on July 10th at St. Dunstan’s Hostel, Regent’s Park.

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Mr. Punch also commends to his kind readers the claims of “Lamp Day,” which is to be celebrated in London on Friday, May 11th, and in the suburbs on May 12th, the birthday of Florence Nightingale.  The proceeds are to be divided between the Women’s Service Bureau, which registers and trains women for national employment, and the Scottish Women’s Hospitals, whose London units are doing gallant work with the Serbian division of the Russian Army in Roumania.  Each of these is a cause that would have appealed to the heart of the “Lady of the Lamp,” devoted pioneer of Women’s Service both at home and in the field.  Those who live outside the Metropolitan area are begged to send a little money to the Hon. Treasurer of Lamp Day, Lady COWDRAY, 16, Carlton House Terrace, S.W.  Cheques and Postal Orders to be crossed “London County and Westminster Bank, Victoria Branch.”

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[Illustration:  DONNERWETTER.

Hindenburg:  “Whichever comes out, it’s rotten weather for me!”]

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[Illustration:  Lidy (referring to Court Rival).  “I won’t ’ARF give ’er SOMEFINK when I see ‘er—­LEARNIN’ ‘er BLOOMIN’ kids to swank past my Door SUCKIN’ SUGAR—­like BLINKIN’ PLUTERCRATS.”]

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Told to the Marines.

  This is the yarn wot Sergeant Wells
    O’ ’Is Majesty’s Marine
  Told in the mess ’bout seven bells—­
  ‘E’s the skipper’s servant an’ knows a lot;
  An’ I don’t say it’s true and I don’t say it’s not,
    But it easily might ’ave been.

  “‘Twas in the fust few months o’ the War,
    An’ the vessel wot I was on
  Was layin’ a couple of cables from shore;
  I’d pulled to the steps in the scullin’ boat
  To get some thread for the skipper’s coat
    Where the seam of the arm ’ad gone.

  “I was driftin’ back on the fallin’ tide,
    And feeling a trifle queer,
  When somethin’ grated agin the side;
  I sat up straight and I scratched my ’ead;
  ’There ain’t no rocks round ‘ere,’ I said,
    ’It must ‘ave bin all that beer.’