I think I hear you saying, “Not so much
  Of waving palm-trees and the flight of years;
It’s evident that you are out of touch
  With war as managed by the Engineers. 
Hot blasts of sherki are our daily treat,
  And toasted sandhills full of Johnny Turk
  And almost anything that looks like work,
  And thirst and flies and marches that would irk
A cast-iron soldier with asbestos feet.”

Know, then, the thought was fathered by the wish
  We oldsters feel, that you and everyone
Who through the heat and flies conspire to dish
  The “Drang nach Osten” of the beastly Hun
Shall win their strenuous virtue’s modest wage. 
  And if at Nishapur and Babylon
  The cup runs dry, we’ll fill it later on,
  And here where Cherwell soothes the fretful don
In flowing sherbet pledge our easeful sage.

ALGOL.

* * * * *

APPROPRIATOR OF TUBERS.

At a time when not a potato was to be found in all Kensington, the Food Controller decided to form the Potato Appropriations Department.  I was put at its head and received my orders direct from that supreme official.

Up to the moment of being called upon to take up this important post I was a Captain on the Staff of an Artillery Headquarters, and my ignorance of the finer points of the potato was profound.  It was therefore with some trepidation that I proceeded to hold a lengthy consultation with the Controller on the subject of the organisation and general duties of my department.  My official title, I was told, was Appropriator of Tubers.  I was further informed that, until the department got into the swing of routine, it had better work under the direct supervision of the Food Controller.  I agreed.

I was then taken into the Controller’s confidence with regard to a certain matter, and it was suggested that I should see to it.

I demurred on the ground that I did not yet feel myself a sufficient authority on the potato to carry out this particular duty; but the Controller overcame my objection by sending for a Mrs. Marrow, an expert on the Potato Utilisation Board.  She appeared, a plump middle-aged lady, attired appropriately in a costume of workmanlike simplicity.

Thus reinforced, I ordered the car and drove to Whitechapel.  At the end of a street, whose gutters were full of vegetable garbage I stopped, and, descending, beckoned imperiously to an adjacent policeman.

“On duty for the Food Controller, constable,” I said.  “Take me to the nearest greengrocer, please.”

He saluted respectfully and led the way to where a long queue, armed with a varied assortment of baskets and bags, waited impatiently and clamoured.  A hush fell on our approach.  Two more policemen who now appeared on the scene constituted themselves my retinue.  Through a lane opened in the throng I made a stately entrance, Mrs. Marrow and the police bringing up the rear.  I was confronted by a large flabby individual, who grasped a cabbage in one hand and a number of mangel-wurzels in the other.