[Patsy has indeed deserved well of the commonwealth.  Some official recognition is clearly called for, preferably a special collar—­unstarched, of course—­recording his services.—­ED. Weekly Simpleton]

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HOW TO PROVIDE FOR POMS.
Mazawattee Mansions, Matlock.

DEAR SIR,—­I have had since 1912 a Pomeranian dog of good pedigree.  Wishing to give him a chance, I changed his name from Fritz to Jock, but he refuses to answer to the new title.  As it is impossible to deport him to his native land, I think of presenting him to a German Prisoners’ Camp in the neighbourhood, but before doing so should be glad of your advice.  Yours anxiously, PUZZLED.

[The problem is a difficult one, but we see no reason for vetoing our correspondent’s generous proposal.  The position of neutral dogs is also puzzling.  Only the other day we heard of a Great Dane who could not be taught to “die for the King”—­doubtless on conscientious grounds.  The feelings of the mites in a Dutch cheese, again, ought to be considered.—­ED. Conscience.]

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[Illustration:  PLAYING SMALLER.

THE KAISER MAKES A CHANGE OF INSTRUMENT.]

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THE MUD LARKS.

When we have finished slaying for the day, have stropped our gory sabres, hung our horses up to dry and are sitting about after mess, girths slackened and pipes aglow, it is a favourite pastime of ours to discuss what we are going to do after the War.

William, our mess president and transport officer, says frankly, “Nothing.”  Three years’ continuous struggle to keep the mess going in whiskey and soda and the officers’ kit down to two hundred and fifty pounds per officer has made an old man of him, once so full of bright quips and conundrums.  The moment HINDENBURG chucks up the sponge off goes William to Chelsea Hospital, there to spend the autumn of his days pitching the yarn and displaying his honourable scars gained in many a bloody battle in the mule lines.

So much for William.  The Skipper, who is as sensitive to climate as a lily of the hot-house, prattles lovingly during the summer months of selling ice-creams to the Eskimos, and during the winter months of peddling roast chestnuts in Timbuctoo.  MacTavish and the Babe propose, under the euphonious noms de commerce of Vavaseur and Montmorency, to open pawn-shops among ex-munition-workers, and thereby accumulate old masters, grand pianos and diamond tiaras to export to the United States.  For myself I have another plan.

There is a certain historic wood up north through which bullets whine, shells rumble and no bird sings.  After the War I am going to float a company, purchase that wood and turn it into a pleasure-resort for the accommodation of tourists.

There will be an entrance fee of ten francs, and everything else will be extra.