WHAT TO DO WITH OUR SPARE TEETH.

From the window of an emporium of ivory articles:—­

    “CUSTOMERS’ OWN TUSKS MOUNTED.”

* * * * *

    “Daily morning housework; wanted at once, temporarily respectable
    person.”—­Middlesex County Times.

Everything is temporary in war-time.

* * * * *

From a drapery firm’s advertisement:—­

    “We are the hub-bub of the Universe.”

A distinct infringement of the KAISER’S prerogative.

* * * * *

“The pilot of the Sopwith single-seater aeroplane dropped his bombs and made off safely through a hail of anti-aircraft shells, but not before his observer had been wounded in the arm.”—­Daily Express.

It is inferred that the observer, in default of other accommodation, was seated upon the pilot’s knee.

* * * * *

“Many an Englishman who disliked hunting or shooting in July, 1914, would have cheerfully pressed a button if he could thereby kill 100,000 Germans of military age in July, 1915.”—­The English Review.

But then, of course, there is no close time for Germans.

* * * * *

“We were pleased to meet here lately Captain ——­, R.E., who has been in France since near a couple of years and has seen considerable service in H.M. forces.  He left last week en route for la belle Francaise.  We wish the gallant officer all future military success.”—­Scotch Paper.

Our best wishes for the lady, too.

* * * * *

“We have sunk more German submarines than ever before.  The Admiralty has begun to see its way to reduce the danger to proportions, normal and negotiable, like other dangers.  If that is done within the next months the British flee will have gained the most memorable, though the least evident, victory in all its annals.”—­Observer.

Good old insect!  But what an odd way to spell it.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  A CONSIDERATE FOE.

“IS IT SAFE NOW, MISTER?”

“YES—­IT WAS ALL CLEAR AT 9.20.”

“GOOD ON ’EM!  JEST GAVE MY OLE MAN TIME TO GIT ’IS FINAL.”]

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

(BY MR. PUNCH’S STAFF OF LEARNED CLERKS.)

Mr. STEPHEN McKENNA, with the blushing honours of Sonia still fresh upon him, has now turned his pen to a tale of farcical adventure, the result being Ninety-Six Hours’ Leave (METHUEN), and I could find it in my heart to regret it.  Because, to speak frankly, the present volume will do little to add to the reputation so deservedly won by the other.  It is a tangle of complications,