I went straight back and told the Town Major of Ripilly that one of the new divisional huts was being occupied by the Sappers.  It wasn’t cricket, but it was all I could do.

“That’s all right,” he said.  “Chaucer’s acting as divisional R.E.  He’s entitled to one hut.  He told me he had been arranging for you to erect it for him.”

* * * * *

[Illustration:  LIFE’S DIFFICULTIES.

Mother.  “WHY, WHAT’S THE MATTER, DARLING?”

Small daughter (tearfully).  “OH, MUMS, I DO SO WANT TO GIVE THIS WORM TO MY HEN.”

Mother.  “THEN WHY DON’T YOU?”

Small daughter (with renewed wails). " C-COS I’M SO AFRAID THE WORM WON’T LIKE IT.”]

* * * * *

OUR PESSIMISTS.

    “Applications are invited from properly qualified persons for
    the position of Medical Officer of Health....

    The appointment will be from the 1st July, 1919, for the
    duration of the War.”—­Advt. in Local Paper.

* * * * *

    “Chicks, day old; ready Saturday.”—­Advt. in Local Paper.

It looks like a case of counting before they are hatched.

* * * * *

THE KEY TO FAIRYLAND.

  The trees have magic doorways
    Down into Fairy-land,
  Yet nobody, but only me,
    Has time to understand
  That if we knew the magic,
    If we could work it too,
  We could creep down to Fairy-town
    And do as fairies do.

  The keys are four-leaved clovers;
    They’re not so hard to get—­
  Just creep about and search them out,
    And don’t mind getting wet;
  But oh!  I wish the fairies
    Weren’t quite so secrety;
  I’ve tried and tried, but still they hide
    The key-holes for each key.

* * * * *

FROM GRAVE TO GAY.

    “The Burial Board resolved that tenders be obtained from the
    various bands in the district with a view to holding concerts
    in the Queen’s Gardens during the summer months.”

* * * * *

AT THE PLAY.

“CYRANO” MOVES TO DRURY LANE.

SIR THOMAS BEECHAM, having been translated to another place, has made way for Cyrano and his nose, which now finds more room to turn round in.  I had not seen Mr. LORAINE on the more congested stage of the Garrick.  Indeed the last time that I assisted at M. ROSTAND’S play was some twenty years ago in the South of France.  It happened that there had recently been a vogue of Musketeer plays in England.  Behind my seat was a British Baronet (a recent creation) for whom the French language had little or no meaning.  The first and only sign of intelligence that he showed was well on in the performance, at the words, “Qui est ce monsieur?” “C’est D’Artagnan.” (D’Artagnan then disappears altogether).