Anyhow, the fact is that I have read a paragraph in one of the papers about a proposed revival of rowing.  Rowing, like other sports, has, it seems, lain dormant for the past four years and a half.  From the moment in 1914 when war was declared it suffered a land-change; shorts and zephyr and blazer and sweater were abandoned at once, and, for the oarsman as for everybody else, khaki became the only wear.  Already trained by long discipline to obey, our oarsmen trooped to the colours, and wherever hard fighting was to be done their shining names are to be found on the muster-roll of fame.  Some will return to us, but for others there waited the eternum exitium cymbae—­a very different craft from those to which they were accustomed, but they accepted it with pride and without a murmur.

Bearing these things in mind, I went to Henley last week to interview Father Thames.  I found the veteran totally unchanged in his quarters on the Temple Island, and immediately began the interview.

“Dull?” he said.  “I believe you, my boy.  But they tell me there’s talk of reviving the regatta.  You tell them with my compliments not to be in too great a hurry about it.  Think of what Henley meant to the lads who rowed.  They hadn’t learnt their skill in a day—­no, nor in as many days as go to a year.”

“Do you then,” I said, “consider the regatta only from the oarsman’s point of view?”

“Really,” said the old gentleman, “there’s no other.  Not but what,” he added with a chuckle, “it gave them more pleasure to row their races with lots of pretty faces to look on.  Lor’ bless you, I don’t object to ’em.  It’s the prettiest scene in the world when the sun shines as it sometimes does.  And that’s enough talking for one afternoon.”  With that he plunged, and nothing I did could bring him to the surface again.

* * * * *

EARLY ONE MORNING.

  Bound South from Japan to the port of Hong Kong
  We fell in with a little junk blowing along;
  We met her all bright at the breaking of day,
  And we gave her good-morning and passed on our way. 
  She had stretched her red sails like the wings of a bat,
  And light, like a gull, on the water she sat;
  She had two big bright eyes for to keep a look-out;
  On her stern there were dragons cavorting about. 
  And Mrs. Ah Fit by the kitchen did sit
  Preparing some breakfast for Mr. Ah Fit,
  The gentleman who, as we saw when we neared her,
  By waggling the tickle-stick skilfully, steered her. 
  The little Fit men and the little Fit maids
  Were playing at tig round the brass carronades,
  And with all the delight of a juvenile Briton
  The littlest Ah Fitlet was plucking the kitten. 
  With a “How do you do, Sir?” and “Hip, hip, hooray!”
  ’Twas so they blew by at the breaking of day.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Comedian (who has been instructed to modify his humour to suit the taste of a select audience at a charity performance at the local theatre).  “THERE YOU ARE!  NOT A LAUGH!  THIS IS WOT COMES OF YOUR ‘FUNNY WITHOUT BEIN’ VULGAR’!”]