Excellent advice; but in the present state of the country, unless one wears waders, extremely difficult to follow.

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“WANTED.—­A suitable match for a well-connected and refined Suri widower of 37; healthy and of good moral character; monthly income about 500 rupees.  Possesses property.  Late wife died last week.”—­Indian Paper.

It is a sign of the truly moral character to be definitely off with the old love before you are on with the new.

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    “The five main points in the Prime Minister’s programme are: 
    (1) Punch the ex-Kaiser.”—­Sunday Times (Johannesburg).

The other four don’t matter, but we wish to take the earliest opportunity of denying this totally unfounded suggestion.  Mr. Punch is not the ex-Kaiser, and never was.

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[Illustration:  Late Superintendent of Munition Canteen (in dairy where she has dealt for over three years).  “AND YOU WON’T FORGET THE CREAM AS USUAL.”

Dairy Girl.  “SORRY, MADAM.  I REGRET YOU CANNOT HAVE ANY MORE CREAM, AS YOU HAVE CEASED TO BE OF NATIONAL IMPORTANCE.”]

* * * * *

A LITTLE FAVOUR.

Maisie was terribly upset when she lost her gold curb bangle (with padlock attached) between the hospital and the canteen.  The first I knew of it was seeing a handbill offering two pounds’ reward on our front gate, with the ink still damp, when I came home to lunch.  There was a similar bill blowing down the road.  My wife had some more under her arm and she pressed them on me.  “Run round to the shops,” she said; “get them put right in the middle of the windows where they’ll catch everybody’s eye.”

The first shop I entered was a hosier’s.  Since drilling in the V.T.O.  I have acquired rather a distinguished bearing.  Shopkeepers invariably treat me with attention.  The hosier hurried forward, obviously anticipating a princely order for tweeds at war prices.  I hadn’t the courage to buy nothing.  I selected the nearest thing on the counter, a futurist necktie at two-and-six-three, and, as I was leaving the shop, turned back carelessly.  “By the by, would you mind putting this bill in your window?” I said.

His lip curled.  “This is a high-class business.  We make it a rule—­no bills,” he said.

At the butcher’s next door there were several customers.  They all gave way to me.  I made purchases worthy of my appearance and carriage, half an ox tail and some chitterlings.  Then I proffered a handbill.  The man in blue accepted it and, before I had opened my lips, returned it to me wrapped round the ox tail.  I was too taken aback to explain.  In fact, when he held out his hand, I mechanically gave him another bill for the chitterlings.