“Give them a fitting reception,” was my reply.

In a moment our Army halted and pitched their tents.  Accustomed to State functions of every sort and description, it was no difficult matter to them to decorate the line of march appropriately.  Suddenly there was the sound of firing, and five minutes later an officer wearing the uniform of the enemy entered my tent and surrendered his sword.

“General,” said he, “I yield to your superior knowledge of military tactics.  I had expected to find friends, and now I have come across foes.  And you number more than half a million of men, do you not?”

“Well, no; you may mean my brother commander, who has that force under his orders.  But we have only about twenty thousand.”

“And I have given up my arms for nothing,” said my visitor.

“To whom have I the honour of speaking?” I asked, haughtily.  “I presume, the Captain of the ‘A’ Division?”

“The ‘A’ Division!  Why, they are miles away! and so are the ‘B’ Division.”

“Then, who on earth are you?”

“Why, surely you know we are the ‘C’ Division?”

At this moment the Chief of my Staff again appeared.  “Sir,” said he, “are we to advance or retire?  I must know at once, with a view to arranging satisfactorily the requirements of the Commissariat.”

“One moment, Gentlemen,” I replied, and then entered an inner recess.  I searched my pockets, and finding my tossing half-crown, spun it into the air.  I eagerly ascertained the result.

“We will advance, Sir,” said I to the Chief of the Staff on my return.  And my tone suggested both strong determination and peremptory command.

* * * * *

LULLABY OF AN INFANT SPECULATOR.

1891.

(A LONG WAY AFTER SIR WALTER SCOTT.)

    [Packets called “Lucky Sweets,” in which the bait is the
    chance of “prize gifts,” are having a large sale amongst
    children.]

[Illustration]

  Oh, hush thee, my babie! thy sire is a “bear,"[1]
  Thy mother a “booky,” both leary and fair,
  And the spirit of bold Speculation, I see,
  Heredity’s taint hath stirred early in thee. 
    Oh, two to one bar one!  Heigh! dance, babie, dance! 
    Oh, tiddley-um, diddley-um, back the off-chance!

  Oh, hear not thy rattle, though loudly it goes;
  Oh, suck not thy fingers!  Oh, count not thy toes! 
  The “Last Odds” and “Share List” to thee shall be read
  To-night ere thou’rt cosily tucked up in bed. 
    Oh, two to one bar one, &c.

  Oh, hush thee, my babie!  Thy sire will soon come,
  With “Surprise Packets” for thee.  Oh, ain’t it yum-yum? 
  And “Lucky Sweets,” babie, will catch thine off eye. 
  Not “Hush-a-bye, babie!” but rather, “Buy!  Buy!”
    Oh, two to one bar one, &c.

  My lullaby, babie, ’s not that of old nurse;
  The pillow for thee has less charms than the purse;
  It is not that “Sweets” from those packets you’d suck;
  No, babie, your yearning’s to try your young luck. 
    Oh, two to one bar one, &c.