But indulge in a little self-sacrifice.

    Not only eat less bread
    But
    Read less GARVIN.

* * *

    DOWN SPECTATORS!

    Give

    THE SPECTATOR

    A WIDE BERTH.

    There are reasons why it must be published
    regularly

    But there are no reasons why you
    should buy it.

    There is no better, saner, or soberer
    Critic of Life; but what of it?

    We print all the latest Canine and
    Feline news; but never mind.

    If you won’t, as seems probable, down
    your glass, down your Spectator.

* * *

    HELP TO WIN THE WAR

    BY NOT BUYING

    THE DAILY CHRONICLE.

* * *

    Whatever Sixpenny weekly you buy
    don’t let it be

    THE NATION.

    Owing to its persecution by the present
    incapable Government The Nation is
    achieving an embarrassing popularity.

    Please forget it.

    Let your only

    NATION

    Be your determi-

    Nation

    NOT TO BUY IT.

* * *

    THE PROPRIETORS OF

    THE STAR

    urge you not to buy it any more until
    the War is over and paper is cheap again.

    Buy The Evening News instead.

* * *

    DON’T BUY

    THE SPHERE.

    IT IS ONLY SEVENPENCE A WEEK,

    BUT DON’T BUY IT.

It is full of Pictures of the War, but you can do without them.  It has punctual literary judgments of astounding finality by “C.K.S.,” but they can wait.

    Do anything in reason, but don’t buy

    The Sphere.

The depreciation, you observe, is not always quite whole-heartedly done.  But it must be remembered that the habit of self-praise cannot be broken down in a minute, and this is only a beginning.

* * * * *

PAN PIPES.

In the green spaces of the listening trees
Pan sits at ease,
Watching with lazy eyes
Little blue butterflies
That flicker sidelong in the fitful breeze;
While on his pipe he plays
Quaint trills, and roundelays
With dropping cadences;
And shy red squirrels rub against his knees.

And, thro’ the city’s tumult and the beat
Of hurrying feet,
Those whom the god loves hear
Pan’s pipe, insistent, clear;
Echoes of elfin laughter, high and sweet;
Catch in the sparrows’ cries
Those tinkling melodies
That sing where brooklets meet,
And the wood’s glamour colours the grey street.

=A LOCAL FOOD-CONTROLLER.=

“No partner for you this evening, Sir,” said the Inspector.  “Mr. Tibbits has just telephoned through that he has rheumatism badly again.”