“Good heavens!” shouted the wasp.  “Here comes old Bless-my-Soul bent on murder.  Look out!  I’m going for his neck.”

Old Bless-my-Soul slashed wildly with his table-napkin and slew the bee.  He went back triumphantly with his spoil.

“A bee!” shouted everybody.  “I thought it was a wasp.  I didn’t know bees were like that.”

“All insects are vicious,” said old Bless-my-Soul.

* * * * *

Another Impending Apology.

    “London Pavilion.  Cheerio! at 8.30.—­’Just the thing for a dull
    evening.’”—­Daily News.

* * * * *

    “A few of the waiting women abandoned hope of getting potatoes, and
    substituted the purchase by parsnips and sweres.”—­Daily Mirror.

In the circumstances who shall blame them?

* * * * *

Notice.

In order to meet the national need for economy in the consumption of paper, the Proprietors of Punch are compelled to reduce the number of its pages, but propose that the amount of matter published in Punch shall by condensation and compression be maintained and even, it is hoped, increased.

It is further necessary that means should be taken to restrict the circulation of Punch, and its price has been raised to Sixpence.  The Proprietors believe that the public will prefer an increase of price to a reduction of matter.

Readers are urged to place an order with their Newsagent for the regular delivery of copies, as Punch may otherwise be unobtainable, the shortage of paper making imperative the withdrawal from Newsagents of the “on-sale-or-return” privilege.

In consequence of the increase in the price of Punch the period covered by subscriptions already paid direct to the Punch Office will be proportionately shortened; or the unexpired value will be refunded, if desired.

The next issue of Punch (March 28th) will be a Navy Double Number, price Sixpence.  The Proprietors regret that arrangements for this Number were completed before the further drastic restrictions in the paper supply were announced.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Unlucky One (after perusing latest list of honours).  “NEVER HAVE HAD ANY LUCK.  MONTHS AGO I SAVED A SERGEANT CHAP FROM A ROTTEN PLACE—­CARRIED THE FELLOW ALL THE WAY BACK—­AND TOLD HIM NOT TO SAY A WORD ABOUT IT!”

Friend. “WELL, WHAT’S WRONG?  HAS HE BEEN TALKING?”

Unlucky One. “NOT A WORD, CURSE HIM!”]

* * * * *

THE MUD LARKS.

When I was young, my parents sent me to a boarding school, not in any hopes of getting me educated, but because they wanted a quiet home.

At that boarding school I met one Frederick Delane Milroy, a chubby flame-coloured brat who had no claims to genius, excepting as a litterateur.