Old Lady.  “Ah, that’s worse than useless, sir.  It sets me WORRYIN’ about them butchers with their one-and-ten-Pence A pound for Mutton.”]

* * * * *

The best game the fairies play.

  The best game the fairies play,
  The best game of all,
  Is sliding down steeples—­
  You know they’re very tall. 
  You fly to the weathercock
  And when you hear it crow
  You fold your wings and clutch your things,
  And then you let go!

  They have a million other games;
  Cloud-catching’s one;
  And mud-mixing after rain
  Is heaps and heaps of fun;
  But when you go and stay with them
  Never mind the rest;
  Take my advice—­they’re very nice,
  But steeple-sliding’s best!

* * * * *

    “Home wanted for tabby Persian Cat, 3 years old
    (neutral).”—­Scotch Paper.

Why doesn’t it join the Allies?

* * * * *

A short way with submarines.

“A short way with submarines?” said Bill; “oh, yes, we’ve got one all right; but,” he added regretfully, “I don’t know as I’m at liberty to tell you.  Wot I’m thinkin’ about is this ‘ere Defence o’ the Realm Act—­see?  Why, there was a feller I knew got ten days’ cells for just tellin’ a young woman where ’er sweet’eart’s ship was.”

It was the last day of Bill’s “leaf,” of which he had spent the greater part warding off the attacks of old acquaintances bent upon finding out something interesting about the Navy.  Of course during his absence Bill had written home regularly, but his letters had been models of discretion and confined to matters of the strictest personal interest.  Since his return quite a number of temporary coldnesses had arisen as a result of his obstinate reticence, and the retired station-master, after several attacks both in front and flank had ignominiously failed, flew into a rage and said he didn’t believe there was any Navy left to tell about, the Germans having sunk it all at the Battle of Jutland.

Bill said they might ’ave done, he really didn’t know, not to be certain.

But now, with his bundle handkerchief beside him, just having another drink on his way to the station, Bill really seemed to be relenting a little.  The customers of the “Malt House” all leaned forward attentively to listen.

“It’s all among friends, Bill,” said the landlord encouragingly, “it won’t go no further, you can rest easy about that.”

“I’ve ’eard tell as it’s this ’ere Mr. Macaroni,” began the baker, who took in a twopenny paper every day, and gave himself well-informed airs in consequence.