Infant Prodigy (ditto).  “WHAT IS ’NERVOUS’?”]

* * * * *

MY AMERICAN COUSINS.

  Because they speak the tongue that’s mine,
    Rich in the treasure that belongs
  To them as well as me, and twine
    Their heart-strings in our English songs,
  I knew they’d scorn those German threats
          And sham regrets.

  Because their country’s name is scrolled
    With Liberty’s; because her fate,
  Like England’s own, must be unrolled
    In Freedom still, they had to hate
  The thought of bowing down before
          A Lord of War.

  And now they’ll lavish in the strife
    The gold they’ve scorned to love too well,
  And fleets to bring the food that’s life,
    And guns of death, and steel and shell;
  Defeat or triumph, stand or fall,
          They’ll share their all.

  They’re out for business; now’s their Day;
    They took their time, but finished right;
  The heat got slowly comes to stay;
    Patient for peace means firm in fight;
  And so their country still shall be
          Land of the Free.

* * * * *

    “Remarkable scenes were witnessed at Exeter yesterday at the
    free distribution of 10,000 lbs. of potatoes in 5 lb. lots. 
    Five thousand people obtained 5 lbs. each.”—­Sunday Paper.

This result was obtained by the forethought of the distributors, who had the potatoes laid out on multiplication tables.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Farmer.  “WHAT THE BLAZES ARE YOU DOING?  AND WITH THEM ‘ORSES STANDIN’ HIDLE?”

Tommy.  “CLEANIN’ ME BUTTONS.  ’AVEN’T YOU NEVER BEEN A SOLDIER?”]

* * * * *

THE DOLLS THAT DID THEIR BIT.

"Je vous tends mon corbillon:  qu’y met-on?" asked Jeanne, holding out her basket towards the first of her dolls seated in a semi-circle before her.  Most of them were quite familiar with the game, but for the sake of a new-comer Jeanne had explained that each player must place in the basket some object the name of which ended with on, to rhyme with corbillon.  She had announced that this time the game was in aid of a cause, and that therefore it must be played with things and not with words only.

“Qu’y met-on, Marie?” repeated Jeanne.  “Rappelez-vous bien que c’est une quete a l’intention des petites filles polonaises internees au camp de Havelberg!” What, Marie had nothing but her chain necklace, and that did not end in on? No, but the links of the chain did, argued Jeanne.  “Donne des chainons!” she prompted in a whisper.  “J’y mets des chainons,” said Marie in Jeanne’s thinnest voice, and the necklace found its way into the basket.

“Je vous tends mon corbillon:  qu’y met-on? A vous, Marthe.  O,” exclaimed Jeanne, “tu y mets ton chignon? Eh bien, tu sais, n’est-ce pas, beta, qu’il faut que tu t’y mettes avec!” and into the basket she went after a lingering caress from Jeanne.