So we went through it all again, and I worked at it with a will, for I wanted to see him get under his black cloth and finish the business.

It wasn’t as bad as I had thought, but he was not done by any means when he had fired his first shot.  He rammed more cartridges into the breach, and twisted me into three fresh contortions.  He said he was sure that some of the efforts would turn out magnificently.

I don’t feel quite the same confidence myself.  I am anxiously awaiting the result, and trying to get rid of the crick in my neck and to unbuckle the smile in the meantime.  If it doesn’t turn out satisfactorily, I shall get a few lines—­not too deep—­put into the negative of the one taken under the crab-tree, and a little hair painted out—­but not too much.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  “WORK!  I’M NOT AFRAID O’ WORK, BUT I CAN’T GET ANY IN MY LINE.”

“WHAT IS YOUR LINE?”

“I USED TO BE A STOCKBROKER, LIDY.”]

* * * * *

    “Lemnos and Samothrace are to pass to Greece, and Chios and
    Wtlylene are to be neutralised.”—­Daily Citizen.

We shall remain anxious until the last-named is sterilized.

* * * * *

THE TRAGEDY OF MIDDLE AGE.

  When I was a mid-Victorian nut
    With a delicate taste in ties,
  A highly elegant figure I cut,
    At least in my own fond eyes,
  And used to regard unwaxed moustaches
  As one of the worst of social laches.

  But now I find in my youngest son
    The sternest of autocrats. 
  He tells me the things that must be done
    And orders my collars and spats;
  Prescribes mild exercise on the links
  And advises me on the choice of drinks.

  I’ve faithfully striven to imitate
    My Mentor in dress and diction,
  And loyally laboured to cultivate
    A taste for the latest fiction;
  Though I still read DICKENS upon the sly,
  And even SCOTT, when nobody’s by.

  It’s true I’ve managed to draw the line
    At going to tango teas,
  For, after all, I am fifty-nine
    And a trifle stiff in the knees;
  But I’ve had to give up billiards for “slosh,”
  And pay laborious homage to “squash.”

  Long since my whiskers I had to shave
    To please this young barbarian,
  But still for a while I stealthily clave
    To the use of Pommade Hungarian;
  But now my tyrant has made me snip
  The glory and pride of my upper lip.

  “My dear old man,” he recently said,
    “If you go on waxing the ends,
  You’re bound to be cut, direct and dead,
    By all of my nuttiest friends. 
  For it’s only done, so The Mail discovers,
  By Labour leaders and taxi-shovers.”

  So the deed was done, but whenever I gaze
    On my face in the glass I moan
  As I think of the mid-Victorian days
    When my upper lip was my own. 
  For now, of length and of breadth bereft,
  The ghost of a tooth-brush is all that’s left.