Hence, if our leaders in their style
  Are able to suppress their bile,
  And practise noble moderation
  In comment and in objurgation,

  Why should not I, a doggerel bard,
  All futile expletives discard,
  And discipline my restive soul
  With salutary cuss-control?

* * * * *

ERRARE EST DIABOLICUM.

From the Indian author of an Anglo-vernacular text-book:—­

    “As the book had to go through the press in haste I am sorry to
    write to you that there are some printers’ devils, especially in
    English spelling.”

* * * * *

    “Nelson himself being a Suckling on his mother’s
    side.”—­Observer.

We cannot know too much about the early history of our heroes.

* * * * *

“Captain William Redmond, son of Mr. John Redmond, has been awarded the D.S.O.  He was commanding in a fierce fight and was blown out of a shell hole, sustaining a sprained knee and ankle.  He rallied his men, and by promptly forming a defensive flank saved his part of the line.”—­Daily Express.

This must have been in Sir WALTER SCOTT’S proleptic mind when he wrote (in Rokeby):—­

“Young Redmond, soil’d with smoke and blood,
Cheering his mates with heart and hand
Still to make good their desperate stand.”

* * * * *

[Illustration:  A BIRTHDAY GREETING FOR HINDENBURG.

F.M.  SIR DOUGLAS HAIG (sings).  “O I’LL TAK’ THE HIGH ROAD
AN’ YE’LL TAK’ THE LOW ROAD....”

{The enemy has been fighting desperately to prevent us from occupying the ridges above the Ypres-Menin road, and so forcing him to face the winter on the low ground.}]

* * * * *

[Illustration:  INFORMATION TO THE ENEMY.

Wife. “I CALL IT SIMPLY SCANDALOUS THAT THE PAPERS SHOULD BE ALLOWED TO PUBLISH THE DATES WHEN THE MOON IS FULL.”]

* * * * *

OSWALD AND CO.

We live in a fortress on the crest of a hill overlooking a little Irish town, a centre of the pig and potheen industries.  The fortress was, according to tradition, built by BRIAN BORU, renovated by Sir WALTER RALEIGH (the tobacconist, not the professor) and brought up to date by OLIVER CROMWELL.  It has dungeons (for keeping the butter cool), loop-holes (through which to pour hot porridge on invaders), an oubliette (for bores) and a portcullis.

In spite of these conveniences our fortress is past its prime and a modern burglar would treat it as a joke.  It is so weak in its joints that when the wind blows it shakes like a jelly, and we have to shave with safety-razors.

In a small villa opposite lives Freddy, our married subaltern, and Mrs. Freddy.