* * * * *

“A vessel of 30,000 tons may be sunk, but on the percentage table, such as the Admiralty serves up to us, she occupies the same relative position as a one-ton yawl returning with a load of kippers.”—­Mr. E. Ashmead-Bartlett in “The Sunday Times."

Inquiries as to the locality of the kipper fishing-grounds should be addressed to our contemporary.  We ourselves hear that it is in the neighbourhood of the fried whitings.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Anxious voice (from motor-launch).  “I SAY, CAN YOU TELL ME EXACTLY WHERE I AM?”

Commander of destroyer.  “YES, DEAR OLD THING.  YOU’RE IN THE NORTH SEA.”]

* * * * *

TO SMITH IN MESOPOTAMY.

Master of Arts, how is it with you now? 
  Our spires stand up against the saffron dawn
And Isis breaks in silver at the prow
  Of many a skiff, and by each dewy lawn
Purple and gold the tall flag-lilies stand;
  And SHELLEY sleeps above his empty tomb
  Hard by the staircase where you had your room,
  And all the scented lilacs are in bloom,
But you are far from this our fairy-land.

Your heavy wheel disturbs the ancient dust
  Of empires dead ere Oxford saw the light. 
Those flies that form a halo round your crust
  And crawl into your sleeping-bag at night—­
Their grandsires drank the blood of NADIR SHAH,
  And tapped the sacred veins of SULEYMAN;
  There flashed dread TIMOUR’S whistling yataghan,
  And soothed the tiger ear of GENGHIZ KHAN
The cream of Tartary’s battle-drunk “Heiyah!”

And yonder, mid the colour and the cries
  Of mosque and minaret and thronged bazaars
And fringed palm-trees dark against the skies
  HARUN AL RASCHID walked beneath the stars
And heard the million tongues of old Baghdad,
  Till out of Basrah, as the dawn took wing,
  Came up the laden camels, string on string;
  But now there is not left them anything
Of all the wealth and wisdom that they had.

Somehow I cannot see you, lean and browned,
  Chasing the swart Osmanli through the scrub
Or hauling railroad ties and “steel mild round”
  Sunk in the sands of Irak to the hub,
Heaping coarse oaths on Mesopotamy;
  But rather strewn in gentlemanly ease
  In some cool serdab or beneath the trees
  That fringe the river-bank you hug your knees
And watch the garish East go chattering by.

And at your side some wise old priest reclines
  And weaves a tale of dead and glorious days
When MAMUN reigned; expounds the heavenly signs
  Whose movements fix the span of mortal days;
Touches on Afreets and the ways of Djinns;
  Through his embroidered tale real heroes pass,
  RUSTUM the bold and BAHRAM the wild ass,
  Who never dreamed of using poisoned gas
Or spread barbed wire before the foeman’s shins.