He stood by for half an hour, and then, as nothing happened, turned in.  Ten minutes later the Infantry rang up again.  More funny business; three rockets had gone up.

He stood by for an hour with no result, then sought his bunk once more, cursing all men.  Confound the Infantry getting the jumps over a rocket or two!  Confound them two times!  Then a spark of inspiration glowed within him, glowed and flamed brightly.  If his exalted poilus got the wind up over a handful of rockets, how much more also would the deteriorating Boche?

Gurgling happily, he brushed the rats off his chest and the beetles off his face, turned over and went to sleep.  Next morning he wrote a letter to his “god-mother” in Paris ("une petite femme, tres intelligente, vous savez"), and ten days later her parcels came tumbling in.  The first night (a Monday) he gave a modest display, red and white rockets bursting into green stars every five minutes.  Tuesday night more rockets, with a few Catherine-wheels thrown in.  Wednesday night, Catherine-wheels and golden rain, and so on until the end of the week, when they finished up with a grand special attraction and all-star programme, squibs, Catherine-wheels, Roman candles, Prince of Wales’ feathers, terminating in a blinding, fizzing barrage of coloured rockets, and “God bless our Home” in golden stars.

“All very pretty,” said I, “but what were the results?”

“Precisely what I anticipated.  A deserter came over yesterday who was through it all and didn’t intend to go through it again.  They had got the wind up properly, he said, hadn’t had a wink of sleep for a week.  His officers had scratched themselves bald-headed trying to guess what it was all about.  All ranks stood to continuously, up to their waists in mud, frozen stiff and half drowned, while my brave little rogues of poilus, mark you, slept warm in their dug-outs, and the only man on duty was the lad who was touching the fireworks off.  O friend of mine, there is much innocent fun to be got out of the Boche if you’ll only give him a chance!”

PATLANDER.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Verger (to Mrs. Smith, about to wed for fourth time).  “VERY UNUSUAL INDEED, MRS. SMITH.  I CAN’T REMEMBER ANY OF THE OTHER THREE BEING QUITE SO LATE AS THIS.”]

* * * * *

    “The position of men who were not 41 before June 24, 1917,
    and who have since attained 41 is again the subject of much
    confusion.”—­Daily Dispatch.

We can well believe this.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Mollie (who has been naughty and condemned to “no toast").  “OH, MUMMY!  ANYTHING BUT THAT!  I’D RATHER HAVE A HARD SMACK—­ANYWHERE YOU LIKE.”]

* * * * *

A CURE FOR CURIOSITY.