THE SMILE OF VICTORY.

[According to Reuter’s Washington Correspondent, women suffragists have of late regularly picketed the White House.  When President WILSON appears “they deploy so that he cannot fail to see their banners.  The President smiles broadly and passes on.”]

  Though LODGE in the Senate makes critical speeches
  And ROOSEVELT belligerent heresy preaches,
  Though Suffragist pickets keep guard at its portals—­
  Undismayed and unshaken the PRESIDENT chortles.

  He “smiles” at them “broadly” and then hurries off
  To type a new Note, or perhaps to play golf;
  And, while studying closely his putts, to explore
  The obscurity shrouding the roots of the War.

  To cope with emergency once in a way
  Is nothing to facing it every day;
  And that’s where the PRESIDENT’S greatness is seen,
  He’s consistently cheerful and calm and serene.

  O happy idealist!  Others may weep
  At the crimes and the horrors that murder their sleep;
  You’ve two perfect specifics your cares to beguile—­
  An oracular phrase, an implacable smile.

* * * * *

    “A fourth headmaster wanted to know ’who would liev at Yorb when he
    could live at Bournemouth?’”—­Morning Paper.

The answer is “Because there’s a ‘b’ in both.”

* * * * *

“Terrible as this war has been, Mr. Hodge sees that if it had not come Great Britain’s imagination.  As the hypnotised goat is fate would have been miserable beyond swallowed by the boat-constrictor, so Great Britain would have been absorbed by Germany.”—­Evening Paper.

With a little rearrangement we can gather the general drift of the paragraph.  But “boat-constrictor” puzzles us.  Is it a new kind of submarine?

* * * * *

[Illustration:  OUR LAND-WORKERS.

Mabel (discussing a turn for the village Red Cross Concert).  “WHAT ABOUT GETTING OURSELVES UP AS GIRLS?”

Ethel. “YES—­BUT HAVE WE THE CLOTHES FOR IT?”]

* * * * *

THE INFANTRYMAN.

  The gunner rides on horseback, he lives in luxury,
  The sapper has his dug-out as cushy as can be,
  The flying man’s a sportsman, but his home’s a long way back,
  In painted tent or straw-spread barn or cosy little shack;
  Gunner and sapper and flying man (and each to his job, say I)
  Have tickled the Hun with mine or gun or bombed him from on high,
  But the quiet work, and the dirty work, since ever the War began
  Is the work that never shows at all, the work of the infantryman.