* * * * *

A Junker interlude.

  Once more the Militant Mode recurs
  With clank of sabre and clink of spurs;
  Once more the long grey cloaks adorn
  The bellicose backs of the high-well-born;
  Once more to the click of martial boots
  Junkers exchange their grave salutes,
  Taking the pavement, large with side,
  Shoulders padded and elbows wide;
  And if a civilian dares to mutter
  They boost him off and he bites the gutter.

  Down by the Brandenburger Thor
  Kitchens are worked by cooks of war;
  Loyal moustaches cease to sag,
  Leaping for joy of the old war-flag;
  Drums are beating and bugles blare
  And passionate bandsmen rip the air;
  Prussia’s original ardour rallies
  At the sound of Deutschland ueber alles,
  And warriors slap their fighting pants
  To the tune Heil dir im Siegeskranz.

Life, in a word, recalls the phase Of the glorious Hohenzollern days.  What if a War’s meanwhile occurred And talk of a humbling Peace been heard?  Treaties are meant to be torn in two And wars are made to be fought anew. Hoch! for the Tag, by land and main, When the Monarchy comes to its own again.

  Surely tho wind of it, faint but sweet,
  The Old Man sniffed in his Dutch retreat;
  Surely it gave his pulse a jog
  As he went for his thirteen thousandth log,
  Possibly causing the axe to jam
  When he thought of his derelict Potsdam,
  Of his orb mislaid and his head’s deflation,
  And visions arose of a Restoration. 
  (If not for himself, it might be done
  For little Willie or WILLIE’S son).

  Alas for the chances of child or sire! 
  The coup went phut, for the Kapp missed fire.

O.S.

* * * * *

A flat to let.

It was twelve o’clock (noon) and I was sitting over the fire in our squalid lodgings reading the attractive advertisements of country mansions in a weekly journal.  I had just decided on a delightful Tudor manor-house with every modern convenience, a nice little park and excellent fishing and shooting, when Betty burst upon me like a whirlwind.

Her face was flushed and a fierce light shone in her usually mild blue eyes.  She looked like a Maenad or the incarnation of Victory at a bargain sale.

“Come on,” she gasped, seizing me by the arm.  “Hurry.”

“Good heavens!  Is the house on fire?  My child!  Let me save my child.”

“Oh, do come on,” cried Betty; “there’s not a moment to be lost.”

“But how can I come on in slippers?” I demanded.  “If I may not save the young Henry Augustus, at any rate let me put on my boots.”

Betty’s only reply was to drag me from the room, hustle me through the hall, where I dexterously caught my hat from the stand in passing, and thrust me into the street.