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THE GREATEST PATRIOT OF ALL:  A public servant who did not strike during the War—­Big Ben.

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[Illustration:  EFFECT ON BALLROOM IF, OWING TO THE STRIKE MANIA, THE MUSICIANS WERE SUDDENLY TO “DOWN INSTRUMENTS.”]

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THE APPOINTMENT.

  They tell me there is work for most,
      However tired they be,
  That there are Offices engrossed
  In finding me a well-paid post
      Of suitable degree;
  That there are businesses that itch
  To make the young lieutenant rich,
  Yet I have not discovered which
      Is itching after me.

  And this is strange; for I could shine
      In any place you please,
  Although, if there is any line
  Which is most obviously mine,
      It is the man of ease—­
  The man whose intellect is such
  He never has to labour much,
  But does the literary touch
      In comfort at “The Leas.”

  Or I could be a splendid Squire
      And watch the harvest grow,
  Could urge the reaper to perspire
  And put the cattle in the byre
      (If that is where they go),
  And every morning do the rounds
  Of my immense ancestral grounds
  With six or seven faithful hounds,
      And say, “It looks like snow.”

  And there are moments when I feel
      The diplomatic call;
  No trickery would long conceal
  The state of things at Bubazeel
      When I was at the Ball,
  To spy across the “brilliant floors”
  On daughters of Ambassadors,
  And “obviate” impending wars
      By dancing with them all.

  A bishopric I can’t afford,
      Though I could give it tone,
  And often when the people snored
  I’ve felt they would not be so bored
      By sermons of my own;
  But if the Secretaries cry
  For secretaries—­here am I;
  Or nobly would I occupy
      The taxi-driver’s throne.

  For I should beam across the street
      When people waved at me,
  And say, “My petrol’s incomplete,
  I haven’t had my bit of meat
      Nor yet my bit of tea,
  But just because I like your face
  I’ll take you out to any place
  However distant from my base—­
      And ask no extra fee.”

  And yet I doubt could England bear
      To see my rest destroyed? 
  A soul so delicate and fair
  Should simply saunter through the air
      And cultivate the void;
  One would not readily degrade
  One’s loveliness in any trade,
  Only, of course, one must be paid
      For being unemployed.

A. P. H.

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SMITH MINOR PROFFERS A REQUEST.

(An authentic document.)