“Here at last is an actual invasion!  Prussian officers landing on our defenceless shores, on the transparently flimsy pretext of making themselves acquainted with our military establishments, at the rate (excluding Sundays) of 240 a week, or in this present September, of 1,080 a month, or, amazing and terrifying total, of 12,520 a year!  We commend this startling announcement to the attention of the Cabinet (Parliament, unfortunately, is not sitting), the Commander-in-Chief, the War Office, the Commanders of all Volunteer Corps, the Author of ‘The Battle of Dorking,’ Sergeant Blower, and Cheeks the Marine.”

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Tommy (homeward bound, and determined not to disappoint).  “WHY, MISSY, THREE DAYS BEFORE THE ARMISTICE THE AIR WAS THAT THICK WITH AEROPLANES THE BIRDS HAD TO GET DOWN AND WALK.”]

* * * * *

THE SAUSAGE ROLL.

THE VERY LATEST DANCE.

[To any English composer who has not yet contributed to the wave of music and dance which is now sweeping the country the writer offers the following as the basis of an entirely new and original dance, strictly national in character and full of that quaint old rustic, not to say aboriginal, grace which distinguishes modern dance-music.]

  Oh say, won’t you stay down-away at the Sausage Farm? 
  It’s a scream, it wouldn’t seem you could dream such perfect ch-e-arm;
    You can bet that Jazz’ll be beat to a frazzle,
    And the old Fox Trot’ll be a pale green mottle,
  When they gauge what’s the rage of the age at the Sausage Farm. 
          (CRASH!  BANG!  TINKLE!)

  Come along, you’ll be wrong if you miss that Sausage Roll.
  Every pig does the jig, for he’s in this heart and so-ul:
    See the old sow shout, “What about my litter?"
    But she dries those tears when she hears, poor crittur,
  That they’re all at the Ball in the Soss-Soss-Sausage Roll.
          (TZING!  BOOM!  The lights go out.)

  Oh, haste, life’s a waste till you’re based at the Sausage Farm,
  Where the dog and the hog and the frog go arm-in-arm;
    And the farm-yard bosses can all do Sosses;
    The old man’s crazy, and his poor Aunt Maisie,
  Over this hit of bliss (have a kiss) at Sausage Farm. 
          (CLATTER!  BUMP!  The walls begin to crack.)

  Come a-quick, you’ll be sick if you miss that Sausage Roll,
  For the cow does it now and the cat we can’t contro-ol,
    And I heard as she purred, “Oh, I’ve found my kittens,
    You could bet they’d get with the best-born Britons,
  For they’re all at the Ball in the Soss-Soss-Sausage Roll."
          (CRASH!  BANG!  The roof falls in.)

A.P.H.

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