She gets in what she can, of course, and I do the rest.  Doing the rest, by the way, takes up a great deal of my time.  But I generally have an hour free in the evenings.

Your brave DODO.

Puddleford.

DEAR MOIRA,—­I am glad to say Emma has gone and I am putting my name down at a registry-office in the usual way.  It’s too much of a strain having “conference” girls in the home.

Who was it said that if we are to allow the working classes to get the upper hand it was nothing short of encouraging Bolshevism in the home?  Anyhow, I think he—­or perhaps it was she—­must be right.

I must close rather hastily.  I have just heard a terrific crash in the kitchen; I’m afraid Harry has dropped something on his foot again.

Your long-suffering DODO.

* * * * *

    “Mr. ——­, like a fatherly hen, hovered over all, satisfying
    himself that nothing had been omitted that could detract from
    their comfort.”—­Egyptian Mail.

We cannot imagine any hen, however unsexed, behaving like that.

* * * * *

RHYMES OF RANK.

  Vice-Admirals command a base;
  Their forms blend dignity with grace. 
  You never see the smallest trace
  Of levity upon the face
  Of one who wears a Vice’s lace. 
  For Admirals to romp and race
  Or frolic in a public place
  Is held to be a great disgrace;
  I do not think a single case
  Of this has happened at our base.

  The Commodore, the Commodore
  Is very popular ashore;
  He can relate an endless store
  Of yarns which scarcely ever bore
  Till they are told three times or more. 
  The ladies young and old adore
  This man who bathed in Teuton gore
  And practically won the War;
  But once, a fact I much deplore,
  A General was heard to snore
  While seated near the Commodore.

  The Captain dwells aloof, alone;
  He has a cabin of his own;
  And should the smallest nose be blown,
  Though softly and with dulcet tone,
  In earshot of this sacred zone
  The very ship herself would groan. 
  Yes, Captains (though but flesh and bone
  Like little snotties, be it known)
  Are best severely left alone.

  Commanders are a stern-eyed folk
  Who may or may not take a joke;
  It really isn’t safe to poke
  Light fun at any three-ringed bloke;
  You may be sorry that you spoke. 
  Their ways are proud; they sport the oak;
  They are not tame enough to stroke;
  I greatly dread these grim-eyed folk.

  Lieutenants of the R.N.V. 
  Were born and bred on land, not sea,
  And ancient mariners like me
  With sly grimace and winks of glee
  Would watch them when the winds blew free,
  Or send them down a cup of tea. 
  But soon their deeds became their plea
  For standing with the Big Navee
  In equal fame and dignity: 
  While even Subs.  R.N. agree
  They’re better than they used to be,
  These Looties of the R.N.V.