But enough has been said.  The National War Bonds must be sold, and Art must help, and no one must wince.

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[Illustration:  Mother (in course of an arithmetic lesson).  “WHAT IS HALF FOUR?”

Daughter.  “TWO.”

Mother.  “AND CAN YOU TELL ME WHAT IS HALF FIVE?”

Daughter.  “WELL, MUMMIE, IT DEPENDS WHICH HALF YOU MEAN—­THE TWO OR THE THREE.”]

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OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

Many years ago, when I was younger and more optimistic than to-day, I thought out what struck me as an adventure-story of wonderful promise, and confided the plot to a friend, reputed expert in such matters.  He heard me with indulgent attention and, when I had finished, “Capital,” says he; “but do you propose to differentiate it in any way from Dead Man’s Rock?” I am reminded of this ancient wound by the appearance of a new buccaneering book by Sir ARTHUR QUILLER-COUCH; and that not only on account of the name of the author, but because when a tale of this kind begins in Bristol Docks, with a company that includes an apprentice-hero, a one-eyed sailor and a parrot of piratical past, it is impossible not to recall Treasure Island.  However this may be, Mortallone soon attains a development quite sufficiently original, with an island and a secret and a noble store of buried treasure, all in doubloons and pieces of eight, which is exactly how I prefer it.  In short a capital yarn, which did but confirm me in an old resolve that, were I ever thinking of commencing pirate or starting any unlawful business of the seas, I should avoid apprentices like the plague.  The second part of Mortallone and Aunt Trinidad (ARROWSMITH) I found rather less satisfactory.  Here a number of tales of the Spanish Main are supposed to be told by a trio of withered beldames whose youthful prime was spent as pirate queens.  A striking and novel approach; though my belief in it was hindered by the discovery that these untutored crones not only spoke but wrote an admirable, if slightly mannered, prose, akin to that of STEVENSON or, say, Sir ARTHUR himself.  But these be the carpings of age; I am sure that no boy lucky enough to find Mortallone among his Christmas presents will leave a paragraph undevoured.

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Dr. H. STUERMER is one of that small band of Germans who have had the courage to denounce the policy and acts of their Government.  When the War began he joined the German army, fought in the Masurian operations, was invalided out of the army at the beginning of 1915, and thereupon became correspondent in Constantinople of the Koelnische Zeitung, in which capacity he acted until the end of 1916, when his too great truthfulness proved distasteful to his employers and