It was then that I killed him and buried him under a pyramid of indispensable gadgets.  It will be years before they find him.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Wife (Time 3.45 A.M.).  “WHERE ARE YOU GOING?”

Special Constable.  “AIR-RAID DUTY, DEAR.”

Wife.  “WELL, DON’T LET THE CAT OUT.”]

* * * * *

If TROTSKY is the Enver Pasha of Russia, ENVER PASHA may be described as the Turkey Trotzky.

* * * * *

OUR POPULAR EDUCATORS.

A recent article in The Daily Mail began, “Jerusalem, the famous city of the Bible...”

There is nothing like taking precautions not to talk over the heads of your readers.  We offer a few suggestions on similar lines:—­

“Germany, the powerful enemy against whom we are contending in the present War (1914 onwards)...”

“SHAKSPEARE, the immortal author of Hamlet (the tragedy)...”

“‘Blighty’, the British soldier’s name for England...”

“MOSES, the distinguished lawgiver and prophet...”

“The GERMAN CROWN PRINCE, eldest son of KAISER WILHELM II...”

“EVE, the heroine of the Garden of Eden story...”

“Economy, the virtue imposed on us by the present shortage of food...”

“The Daily Mail, a newspaper...”

* * * * *

HELLO, GIRLS!

    “CIVIL SERVICE LADIES FOR LONDON TELEPHONE EXCHANGES, over 1 and
    under 30 years of age.  Minimum height 5ft.”—­Evening Paper.

Many ladies of our acquaintance, although just over the minimum age, are not yet quite up to the required height.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Lady (displaying costume in which she is to appear as the Queen of Sheba in “Biblical Beauties” tableaux at charity matinee).  “RATHER SWEET, ISN’T IT?”

Friend.  “MY DEAR, ABSOLUTELY TOPPING.  IT MAKES ME FEEL I OUGHT TO BE DOING WAR-WORK TOO.”]

* * * * *

TO SANTA CLAUS.

  Historic Santa!  Seasonable Claus! 
    Whose bulging sack is pregnant with delight;
    Who comest in the middle of the night
  To stuff distracting playthings in the maws
    Of stockings never built for infant shins,
    Suspended from the mantelpiece by pins.

  Thou who on earth wast named Nicholas—­
    There be dull clods who doubt thy magic power
    To tour the sleeping world in half-an-hour,
  And pop down all the chimneys as you pass
    With woolly lambs and dolls of frabjous size
    For grubby hands and wonder-laden eyes.

  Not so thy singer, who believes in thee
    Because he has a young and foolish spirit;
    Because the simple faith that bards inherit
  Of happiness is still the master key,
    Opening life’s treasure-house to whoso clings
    To the dim beauty of imagined things.