Chop into small pieces three or four puntpoles, having first melted down the metal shoes, and spread thin over as many canoe paddles as can be obtained for the purpose.  Immerse the whole suddenly in the river and dry before a quick fire.  Add one boat’s rudder and twenty-four dab-chicks, and season with three yards of grated swans’ necks, six barbel, four dace and a dozen gudgeon, close time for these fish being strictly observed.  Sprinkle with cowslips and willow leaves, insert in a pie-dish and cover with a thick paste of bulrushes and marsh grass.  Then set to bake for three hours, and stick four pigeons’ claws into the crust.  Picnic baskets from which the salt has been omitted may be shredded over the surface instead of parsley.

Mr. Punch has many more recipes equally cheap and excellent, and is prepared to disclose them to those of his readers who may desire to practise a rigid economy and at the same time to enjoy an abundance of good food.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Recruit (with exercising party).  “IF I LETS THE BLIGHTERS GO THE CORPORAL’LL CUSS ME INTO ‘EAPS.  AN’ IF I ’OLDS ON TO ‘EM I’LL BREAK MY BLINKIN’ NECK!”]

* * * * *

    THE END OF THE STORY.

    “Will the soldier who assisted the Gentleman with a motor
    cycle and sidecar on the Downs on Tuesday communicate with him
    at Greenbank Cemetery.”—­Bristol Evening News.

* * * * *

    “Harry Wilson, milkman, of Devonport, has no connection of
    any kind with Woodrow Wilson, of United States of
    America."Auckland Paper.

HARRY is now sorry he wrote.

* * * * *

“The daily rations of the shirkers are:—­
Bread . . . . . . . . . . . 9 oz.
(uncooked, including bone).”
Daily Mail.

The conscientious objector doesn’t seem to be having such a soft time after all.

* * * * *

TYRTAEUS.

  When Sparta’s heroes, tired of truce,
    The fires of battle woke,
  TYRTAEUS sang them golden lays
  And bravely on their marching days
    His queenly Muse outspoke. 
  TYRTAEUS’ name’s come down the years
    And did deserve to do,
  For so he dried men’s eyes of tears,
  So loosed their hearts from idle fears,
  Stouter they thrust their ashen spears,
    Their javelins further threw.

  In those fair days TYRTAEUS’ song
    Was all men had to trust,
  But while he hymned the coming fight
  They did not wail, “He can’t be right,”
    They heard and cried, “He must!”
  When men of craven soul came in—­
    Which now may Heaven forbid—­
  Then stout TYRTAEUS would begin:—­
  “Mere argument can be no sin,
  But whining is; we’re going to win.” 
    And so, of course, they did.