Some of those that we bequeath to our ancestors will be quite as odd.

* * * * *

It is rumoured that during the period of food-control a well-known Soho restaurant intends to change its name to the “Rhondda-vous.”

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[Illustration:  Busy City-man to his Partner (as one of the new air-raid warnings gets to work).  “IF YOU’LL LEAVE ME IN HERE FOR THE WARNINGS I’LL CARRY ON WHILE YOU TAKE SHELTER DURING THE RAIDS.”]

* * * * *

THE LITTLE THINGS.

  I used to be a peaceful chap as didn’t ask for trouble,
    An’ as for rows an’ fightin’, why, I’d mostly rather not,
  But now I’d charge an army single-’anded at the double,
    An’ it’s all along o’ little things I’ve learned to feel so ’ot.

  It’s ‘orrid seein’ burnin’ farms, which I ’ave often seen ’ere,
    An’ fields all stinks an’ shell-’oles, an’ the dead among the flowers,
  But the thing I’ve ‘ated seein’ all the bloomin’ time I’ve been ’ere
    Is the little gardens rooted up—­the same as might be ours

  It’s bad to see the chattos—­which means castles—­gone to ruins,
    And big cathedrals knocked to bits as used to look that fine,
  But what puts me in a paddy more than all them sort o’ doin’s
    Is the little ’ouses all in ’eaps—­the same as might be mine.

  An’ when the what’s-it line is bust an’ we go rompin’ through it,
    An’ knock the lid off Potsdam an’ the KAYSER off ’is throne,
  Why, what’ll get our monkey up an’ give us ’eart to do it? 
    Just thinkin’ o’ them little things as might ’ave been our own
    (An’ most of all the little kids as might ’ave been our own)!

  C.F.S.

* * * * *

GOIN’ BACK.

  I’m goin’ back to Blighty and a free-an’ easy life,
    But I grant it ain’t the Blighty of me pals: 
  They takes the Tube to Putney, to the kiddies and the wife,
    Or takes the air on ’Ampstead with their gals;
  My little bit o’ Blighty is the ’ighway,
    With the sweet gorse smellin’ in the sun;
  And the ’eather ’ot and dry, where a tired man may lie
      When the long day’s done.

  There’s picture-’alls in ‘Ammersmith to suit them mates o’ mine;
    There’s beer and ’addock suppers and cigars;
  But I guess I’d sooner slog it where there’s jest the scent o’ pine
    And over’ead an ‘eap o’ little stars;
  The lights o’ Charin’ Cross and Piccadilly,
    I’d swop ’em for the silver of the streams,
  When the summer moon is lit and the bats begin to flit
      And the dark earth dreams.