Recruit.  “FOR THE DURATION OF THE WAR, OR LONGER IF IT DOESN’T END SOONER.”]

* * * * *

FASHIONS IN BOOK-WEAR.

    ["Rose of Glenconnel.  A first book by Mrs. Patrick MacGill,
    telling of the adventures in the Yukon and elsewhere of
    Rosalie Moran.  With coloured jacket.  Price 5s. net.”

    Advt. in “Times Literary Supplement.”]

Extract from “Belle’s Letters":—­“Other smart books I noticed included Mrs. BARCLAY’S Sweet Seventy-one, looking radiantly young and lovely in a simple rose-pink frock embellished with rosebuds, and Mr. CHARLES GARVICE’S Marriage Bells, utterly charming in ivory satin trimmed with orange blossom.  On another shelf I saw Mr. KIPLING’S The Horse Marines, looking well in a smartly-cut navy blue costume with white facings, and not far away was Mr. ARNOLD BENNETT’S Straphanger, in smoked terra-cotta, and the pocket edition of DICKENS in Mrs. Harris Tweed.  Mr. Britling’s new book, Mr. Wells Sees it Through the Press, was looking rather dowdy in a ready-made Norfolk jacket, but Mr. and Mrs. WILLIAMSON’S The Petrol Peeress was very chic in a delightfully-cut oil-silk wrap; and so was Sir GILBERT PARKER’S This Book for Sale, in a purple bolero.  Academic sobriety characterised the gown worn by the POET LAUREATE’S The Sighs of Bridges, while Mr. A.C.  BENSON’S Round My College Dado was conspicuous in a Magdalene blouse with pale-blue sash.”

* * * * *

    “This was followed by a banquet in which Bro.  W.S.  Williams
    took a prominent part.”—­Daily Chronicle (Kingston,
    Jamaica).

* * * * *

LETTERS FROM MACEDONIA.

II.

MY DEAR JERRY,—­No doubt you think from the light-hearted tone of my last letter that life here is a bed of roses.  In reality we have our flies in the ointment—­nay, our shirt-buttons in the soup.  The chief of the flies is artillery, both our own and that of the people opposite; and the worst of the shirt-buttons is jam.  It sounds strange, but it is true.

There was a time in the olden days when we welcomed gunner-officers, but those days are unhappily past since we met Major Jones.  Learn then the perfidy of the Major and ex uno disce, omnes.

I had a nice little ’ouse up in the front line, well hidden by trees.  It wasn’t a house, Jerry, I wish you to understand; it was merely a little ’ouse standing in its own grounds like, with a brace or so of chickens and a few mangel-wurzels a-climbin’ round the place.  You know what it’s like.

Well, Major Jones, who had been my guest several times in this little ’ouse of mine, came round a few days ago with a worried look and an orderly.

“I want you to come and look at my telephone,” he said hurriedly.