P.S.—­Another couple of pounds of chocs would be useful.

    DEAR ALEC,—–­Awfully glad to hear the fishing is so good.  I
    shall expect a brace of good long trout for breakfast one of
    these days.

    Yours, GARRY.

    DEAR GARRY,—­Who said anything about fish?  I sub-let the water
    (at a profit) to the War-profiteer three days after arriving.

    Miss Stevenson, with a brace of bouncing terriers, is outside
    whistling for me, so I must put the lid on.

    Yours, ALEC.

DEAR ALEC,—­What’s the idea?  You say you let the fishing a fortnight ago; but last Wednesday you wrote about catching eleven beauties, one over nineteen and a half inches long.  Some trout—­what?  But why the terriers?  Yours in darkness,

    GARRY NORTON.

    Postcard.

    Rats.

    ALEC.

* * * * *

    “WHEN GREEK JOINS GREEK.”

“The Red Cross announces that the repatriation of Greeks forcibly removed from their homes in Eastern Macedonia has been virtually completed despite Bulgarian opposition.  The reports says the Greek Red Cross rendered invaluable aid in looting imprisoned Greeks hidden remotely.”—­Egyptian Gazette.

* * * * *

THE NAVY AT CAMBRIDGE.

  When first I joined the R.N.V. 
  And ventured out upon the sea,
  The war-tried Subs.  R.N. and Looties
  Who guided me about my duties
  Were wont to wink and chuckle if
  I found the going rather stiff;
  And when, upon the Nor’-East Rough,
  My legs proved scarcely firm enough
  To keep me yare and head-to-wind
  The very nicest of them grinned.

  Now times are changed, and here I am
  Once more beside the brimming Cam,
  Where lo, those selfsame Loots and Subs
  Whirl madly by in punts and tubs,
  Which they propel by strength of will
  And muscle rather more than skill. 
  For (if one may be fairly frank)
  They barge across from bank to bank,
  With zig-zag motions, in and out,
  As though torpedoes were about;
  Whilst I with all an expert’s ease
  Glide by as gaily as you please,
  Or calmly, ’mid the rout of punts,
  Perform accomplished super-stunts.

But do not think I jibe or jeer However strangely they career.  In soothing accents, sweet as spice, I offer them my best advice, Or deftly show them how to plant a Propulsive pole in oozy Granta, Observing, “If you only knew it This is the proper way to do it;” Till soon each watching Looty’s face Grows full of wonder at my grace, And daring Subs in frail Rob Roys Attempt to imitate my poise.

  O war-tried Loots and Subs.  R.N.,
  Thus by the Cam we meet again;
  And, as in wilder sterner days,
  We shared the ocean’s dreary ways
  In fellowship of single aim,
  I never doubt we’ll do the same
  By sunny Cam in happier times;
  And therefore, if through these my rhymes
  Some gentle banter slyly flits,
  Forgive me, Sirs—­and call it quits.