It is understood that while the noble fellows do not object to washing at reasonable intervals, they strongly deprecate oiling as unnecessarily adding to the risks of their dangerous calling.

* * * * *

Mr. SMILLIE’S little Armageddon.

  Shall she, the England unafraid,
    That came by steady courage through
  The toughest war was ever made
    And wiped the earth with William two
  (Who, though it strikes us now as odd,
  Was, in his way, a sort of little god)—­

  Shall she that stood serene and firm,
    Sure of her will to stay and win,
  Cry “Comrade!” on her knees and squirm
    To lesser gods of cheaper tin,
  Spreading herself, a corpus vile,
  Under the prancing heels of Mr. Smillie?

  Humour forbids!  And even they
    Who toil beneath the so-called sun,
  Yet often in an eight-hours’ day
    Indulge a quiet sense of fun—­
  These too can see, however dim,
  The joke of starving just for SMILLIE’S whim.

  And here I note what looks to be
    A rent in Labour’s sacred fane;
  The priestly oracles disagree,
    And, when a house is split in twain,
  Ruin occurs—­ay! there’s the rub
  Alike for Labour and Beelzebub.

  And anyhow I hope that, where
    At red of dawn on Rigi’s height
  He jodels to the astonished air,
    Lloyd George is bent on sitting tight;
  Nor, as he did in Thomas’ case,
  Nurses a scheme for saving SMILLIE’S face.

  Why should his face be saved? indeed,
    Why should he have a face at all? 
  But, if he must have one to feed
    And smell with, let the man install
  A better kind, and thank his luck
  That all his headpiece hasn’t come unstuck.

  O.S.

* * * * *

A whiff of the briny.

As I entered the D.E.F.  Company’s depot, Melancholy marked me for her own.  Business reasons—­not my own but the more cogent business reasons of an upperling—­had just postponed my summer holiday; postponed it with a lofty vagueness to “possibly November.  We might be able to let you go by then, my boy.”  November!  What would Shrimpton-on-Sea be like even at the beginning of November?  Lovely sea-bathing, delicious boating, enchanting picnics on the sand?  I didn’t think.  Melancholy tatooed me all over with anchors and pierced hearts, to show that I was her very own, not to be taken away.

I clasped my head in my hands and gazed in dumb agony at the menu card.  A kind waitress listened with one ear.

“Poached egg and bacon—­two rashers,” I murmured.

While I waited I crooned softly to myself:—­

  “Poor disappointed Georgie.  Life seems so terribly sad. 
  All the bacon and eggs in the world, dear, won’t make you a happy lad.”