[Illustration:  MISTRESS (as the new troops go by):  “Which of them is your cousin?”

NURSEMAID (unguardedly):  “I don’t know yet, ma’am.”]

The lavish and, in many cases, inexplicable distribution of the Order of the British Empire bids fair to add a peculiar lustre to the undecorated.  The War has produced no stranger paradox than the case of the gentleman who within the space of seven days was sentenced to six months’ imprisonment for a breach of the Defence of the Realm regulations and recommended for the O.B.E. on account of good services to the country.  The fact that the recommendation was withdrawn hardly justified the assumption of a Pacificist Member that a sentence under the Defence of the Realm Act was regarded as the higher honour of the two.

There is one thing, however, that war at its worst cannot do.  It cannot make an Englishman forgo that peculiar and blessed birthright which enables him to overthrow the Giant Despair with the weapon of whimsical humour—­in other words, to write, as a young officer has written for Mr. Punch, such a set of verses as the following in June, 1918: 

THE BEST SMELL OF ALL

  When noses first were carved for men
    Of varied width and height,
  Strange smells and sweet were fashioned then
    That all might know delight—­
  Smells for the hooked, the snub, the fine,
    The pug, the gross, the small,
  A smell for each, and one divine
    Last smell to soothe them all.

  The baccy smell, the smell of peat,
    The rough gruff smell of tweed,
  The rain smell on a dusty street
    Are all good smells indeed;
  The sea smell smelt through resinous trees,
    The smell of burning wood,
  The saintly smell of dairies—­these
    Are all rich smells and good.

  And good the smell the nose receives
    From new-baked loaves, from hops,
  From churches, from decaying leaves,
    From pinks, from grocers’ shops;
  And smells of rare and fine bouquet
    Proceed, the world allows,
  From petrol, roses, cellars, hay,
    Scrubbed planks, hot gin and cows.

  But there’s a smell that doth excel
    All other smells by far,
  Even the tawny stable smell
    Or the boisterous smell of tar;
  A smell stupendous, past compare,
    The king of smells, the prize,
  That smell which floods the startled air
    When home-cured bacon fries!

  All other smells, whate’er their worth,
    Though dear and richly prized,
  Are earthy smells and of the earth,
    Are smells disparadised;
  But when that smell of smells awakes
    From ham of perfect cure,
  It lifts the heart to heaven and makes
    The doom of Satan sure.

  How good to sit at twilight’s close
    In a warm inn and feel
  That marvellous smell caress the nose
    With promise of a meal! 
  How good when bell for breakfast rings
    To pause, while tripping down,
  And snuff and snuff till Fancy brings
    All Arcady to Town!