“BEAUTY IN HOUSE BUILDING.

    LET US LOOK AS THOUGH WE HAD WON THE WAR.”—­Daily Mirror.

Who said we hadn’t?

* * * * *

THE DAY.

At last the great day has arrived; in less than half an hour I shall be at the church.  Heavens! what excitement.  And yet I suppose most girls have had to undergo the ordeal, if one may so describe it, at some period of their life.

The magic church is not far distant and from my room I can hear the merry pealing of the bells.  In the garden the birds are singing as they have never sung before.  Truly life is a beautiful poem on such a day as this.

But I have really little time to dwell on these things, for am I not the centre of creation itself, the hub around which the whole household revolves in one wild bewildering whirl of ecstasy?  How can one think when one is surrounded by a triumphant mother, a couple of adoring and not envious sisters, a critical brother and a doting father?

But then why should I think?  Why use my brain at all when all the thinking that needs to be thought is being thought for me?  Goodness, how my poor head reels.  If only I could sleep.  Ah, yes, that is what I could almost wish for at this moment—­sweet, soothing, refreshing sleep.

But it is not to be; the house is just a great tearing pandemonium of joy.  Hark!  What’s that?  A motor horn?  Yes, yes, a taxi is at the gate.  Now another has glided forward and waits expectantly for the central figure—­myself.

“Well, darling,” murmurs my father, “it’s high time we were off.  Wouldn’t do to be late today, you know.”  And he laughs proudly.

Can I describe the journey to the church?  I can, but I will spare you.  Enough to say that I carry myself with dignity.  Whether I do so in the vast solemn atmosphere of the church I am unable to say, though I will confess to a feeling almost of awe.

In deep silence we move down the aisle.  The service begins.  Can I repeat it?  I fear not.  But one passage there is which stands out prominently from the rest.  It is in the form of a demand made by the clergyman.  Looking steadily at my father, he exclaims:—­

    “Name this child.”

I am roused to a fresh interest, and with fast-beating heart I await my father’s answer.  It comes as a bombshell to my sensitive ears:—­

    “Armisticia Beatty Zeebrugge!”

And I believed that only Germans could wage war on helpless babes.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  SPRING-TIME IN THE OFFICE.]

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

(By Mr. Punch’s Staff of Learned Clerks.)