“If you can’t be original yourself,” said the Colonel kindly, “the next best thing is to quote from those who can.”

“That’s what I thought, Sir.”

“Ha!  Well, of course the writers’ anonymity must be observed—­that’s a point of honour.  Still, I think, Williams—­I have been asked to recommend an intelligent officer for a staff appointment—­that if I were to name you I should not go far wrong.  And—­er—­if you are ever asked for an opinion of the destruction of Ypres—­”

“I shall remember to give the reference, Sir.  Thank you, Sir.”

W.B.

* * * * *

A TROPICAL TRAGEDY.

  On the tesselated slopes
    Of the Isle of Tapioca,
  Where the azure antelopes
    Haunt the valley of Avoca,
  Dwelt the maid Opoponax,
  Only child of Brex Koax,
    Far renowned in song and saga,
  Ruler of ten million blacks,
    Emperor of Larranaga.

  She could play the loud jamboon
    With a fervour corybantic;
  She could hurl the macaroon
    Far into the mid-Atlantic;
  More self-helpful than a SMILES,
  She could ride on crocodiles,
    Catch the fleetest flying-fishes;
  She could cook, like EUSTACE MILES,
    Wondrous vegetarian dishes.

  In the cool of eventide,
    Gracefully festooned with myrtle,
  In her sampan she would glide
    Forth to spear the snapping turtle;
  And her voice was blinding sweet,
  Piercing as the parrakeet,
    Fruity as old Manzanilla,
  With a soupcon of the bleat
    Of the African gorilla.

  Eligible swains in shoals,
    Victims to her fascination,
  Toasted her in flowing bowls
    Far beyond all computation;
  There was valorous Hupu,
  Xingalong and Timbalu,
    And the peerless Popocotl,
  Who had gained a triple blue
    For his prowess with the bottle.

  But Opoponax, whose mind
    Soared above her native tutors,
  Imperturbably declined
    All these brave and dusky suitors. 
  Finally she hailed a tramp
  And, contriving to decamp
    To the shores of Patagonia,
  Finding them too chill and damp,
    Perished of acute pneumonia.

  In an even darker doom
     Tapioca’s greatness ended,
  For her father to the tomb
    By swift leaps and bounds descended;
  Xingalong and Timbalu
  Both were slaughtered by Hupu,
    Who was slain by Popocotl,
  Who himself soon after slew
    With an empty whisky bottle.

  Every tale, we often hear,
    Ought to have a wholesome moral;
  And this truth is just as clear
    In the land of palm and coral;
  For this tragedy in tones
  Louder than a megaphone’s
    Warns us that two things are risky,
  If you dwell in torrid zones—­
    Change of climate, love of whisky.

* * * * *