One has one’s terrors, I’ll allow,
  The centipede, perhaps the cow,
      But nothing in the Zoo;
  The things that wriggle, jump or crawl,
  The things that climb about the wall,
  And I know what is worst of all—­
      It is the earwig—­ugh!

  The earwig’s face is far from kind;
  He must have got a spiteful mind;
  The pincers which he wears behind
      Are poisonous, of course;
  And Nanny knew a dreadful one
  Which bit a gentleman for fun
      And terrified a horse.

  He is extremely swift and slim,
  And if you try to tread on him
      He scuttles up the path;
  He goes and burrows in your sponge
  And takes one wild terrific plunge
      When you are in the bath;
  Or else—­and this is simply foul—­
  He gets into a nice hot towel
      And waits till you are dried,
  And then, when Nanny does your ears,
  He wrrriggles in and disappears: 
  He stays in there for years and years
      And crrrawls about inside. 
  At last, if you are still alive,
  A lot of baby ones arrive;
      But probably you’ve died.

  How inconvenient it must be! 
  There isn’t any way, you see,
      To get him out again;
  So, when you want to frighten me
      Or really give me pain,
  Please don’t go on about that bear
  And all those burglars on the stair;
  I shouldn’t turn a tiny hair
      At such Victorian stuff;
  You only have to say instead,
  “THERE IS AN EARWIG IN YOUR BED”
      And that will be enough.

A.P.H.

* * * * *

MY RIGHT-HAND MAN.

On glancing the other day through the only human column of my newspaper—­that headed “Personal”—­I was much intrigued by the advertisement of a gentleman who styled himself a “busy commercial magnate,” and who announced his urgent need of a “right-hand man.”  The duties of the post were not particularised, but their importance was made clear by the statement that “any salary within reason” would be paid to a really suitable person.

No, I did not think of applying for the post myself; a twelve months’ adjutancy to a dyspeptic Colonel had long cured me of the desire to bottle-wash for anyone again, however lavish the remuneration.  But, I thought to myself, it must evidently be a profitable notion to employ a right-hand man, or why should this magnate person be so airy on the subject of salary?  Would it not then pay me to engage somebody in a similar capacity?  Increased production, in spite of Trade Union economics, is emphatically a need of the moment.  With a right-hand man at my right hand (when he wasn’t at my left) I could, I felt sure, increase my own output enormously; and I began to plan out my daily work under the reconstruction scheme.