Thus they’ve described thy formidable sire,
    A whiskered person with a chronic liver. 
  I feed him biscuits to appease his ire;
    He eats the gift but fain would bite the giver. 
  His eye is red with reminiscent fire,
    His thoughts are by the great Zambesi River
  Where hides the hippopotam, huge as sin,
  And slinking leopards with the dappled skin.

  No couches of the nymph and Bassarid,
    Or thymy meadows such as Simois glasses,
  Lured his exulting feet, my jocund kid,
    But veldt and kloof and waving jungle grasses,
  Where lurk the python with unwinking lid,
    And the lean lion, growling, as he passes,
  His futile wrath against the hoarse baboons
  That drape the rocks in chattering platoons.

  Free of the waste he snuffed the breeze at morn,
    The fleet-foot peer of sassaby and kudu;
  The hunting leopard feared his bristling horn,
    The foul hyaena voted him a hoodoo;
  Browsing on tender grass and camel-thorn
    He roamed the plains, as all right-minded gnu do;
  But now he eats the bun of discontent
  That once was lord of half a continent.

  And thou, my child, to whom harsh fate has dealt
    A captive’s birthright—­thou wilt never scamper
  With winged feet across the windy veldt,
    Where are no crowds to stare nor bars to hamper;
  Thou wilt not ring upon the rhino’s pelt
    In wanton sport.  But there—­why put a damper
  On thy young spirits by recounting what
  Africa is but Regent’s Park is not.

  It would but grieve thee, and, moreover, I
    Note that thy young attention’s growing looser. 
  A piece of cake?  O fie! my Thomas, fie! 
    The keeper said, “Please not to feed the gnu, Sir.” 
  And yet it seems a shame to pass thee by
    Without some slight confectionery douceur;
  So here’s a bun; and let this thought obtrude: 
  What matter freedom while there’s lots of food!

  ALGOL.

* * * * *

PRO-GERMANISM IN KENSINGTON.

    “At St. Mary Abbot’s, in Kensington, the organist played hymns
    for two hours during the Sunday raid, in which the congregation
    joined.”—­Daily Mirror.

* * * * *

The rumour that in consequence of the recent invasion of a popular sea-coast resort by denizens of the East End the local authorities have decided to change its name to “Brightchapel” is at present without foundation.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  TRIALS OF A CAMOUFLAGE OFFICER.

C.  Officer.  “NOW THEN, WHAT’S THE MEANING OF THIS?”

C.  Painter.  “I WAS TELLING ’IM ’E DIDN’T KNOW NOTHING ABOUT CAMERFLARGE, SIR, AND ’E SAYS, ’HO, DON’T I?  I’LL SOON SHOW YER.  I’LL MAKE YER SO’S YER OWN MOTHER WON’T KNOW YER’; AN’ ’E UPS WITH THE PAINT-BUCKET ALL OVER ME, SIR.”]