Lady Jubb wrote from Toffley Hall, Blankshire, to say that her elder son (seventeen) had no ideas for the future beyond becoming Master of the Barchester when he grew up, but that she was anxious that he should try for some more lucrative post, official preferred.

I replied thus:—­

“So your son looks no higher than a Mastership of Foxhounds.  Well, well, I suppose that so long as there are such things as hounds he, as well as another, may take on the job of Master.

“But I thoroughly approve of your desire that he should try for something higher in life, especially for some official post; and what official post is or can be superior to that of a Borough Surveyor?  Can you not persuade him that this great office is what one chooses to make it, and that, as an autocrat, the M.F.H. is hardly to be compared to the B.S., for, whereas the former can at the most scorch the few people foolish enough to remain within ear-shot, the latter can with a breath damn a whole row of houses and blast the careers of an army of builders with a word.”

And so the propaganda proceeds.

If my efforts result in even one house being erected I shall, I think, have earned my O.B.E., though I would rather have the house.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  My Lady Bountiful. “SO YOUR MOTHER IS BETTER THROUGH TAKING THE QUININE I GAVE HER?”

Little Girl (doing her best to carry out instructions).  “YES’M.  BUT SHE SAYS SHE’S WORSE OF THE COMPLAINT WOT YOU GIVES ’ER PORT WINE FOR.”]

* * * * *

THE TERRITORIAL.

  Oh, civil life is fine and free, with no one to obey,
  No sergeants shouting, “Show a leg!” or “Double up!” all day;
  No buttons to be polished, no army boots to wear,
  And nobody to tick you off because you grow your hair.

  It’s great to sleep beneath a roof that keeps the rain outside,
  To eat a daintier kind of grub than quarter-blokes provide,
  To rise o’ mornings when you wish and when you wish turn in,
  To shirk a shave and never hear the truth about your chin;

  And not to have to pad the hoof through blazing sun or rain,
  Intent on getting nowhere and foot-slogging back again,
  To realise no N.C.O. has any more the right
  To rob you of your beauty-sleep with “Guard to-morrow night!”

  All this is great, of course it is, yet here we are once more
  Obeying sergeants just for fun and cheerier than before;
  We haven’t any good excuse, we’ve got no war to win—­
  But nothing’s touched the kit-bag yet for packing troubles in.

  W.K.H.

* * * * *

A TASTE OF AUTHORITY.

I have often wished I were an expert at something.  How I envy the man who, before ordering a suit of clothes from his tailor, seizes the proffered sample of cloth and tugs at it in a knowledgable manner, smells it at close quarters with deep inhalations and finally, if he is very brave, pulls out a thread and ignites it with a match.  Whereupon the tailor, abashed and discomfited, produces for the lucky expert from the interior of his premises that choice bale of pre-war quality which he was keeping for his own use.