“Where did you get it?” he inquired.

“Oh, I just got hold of it,” I said airily.  “It’s rather good, don’t you think?”

He stood for some time in doubt.

“It’s a dog,” he said at last.

I shook him warmly by the hand.

“You have taken a great load off my mind,” I told him.  “I will get a licence at once.”

This will score off them pretty badly.

After all you can’t go behind a Government certificate, can you?  EVOE.

* * * * *

[Illustration: 

  Caller. “IS MRS. JONES AT HOME?”
  Cook-General. “SHE IS, BUT SHE AIN’T ’ARDLY IN A FIT STATE TO SEE
   ANYBODY.  SHE’S JUST BIN GIVIN’ ME NOTICE.”]

* * * * *

=THE CRY OF THE ADULT AUTHOR.=

[The “Diarist” of The Westminster Gazette, in the issue of October 25th, utters a poignant cri de coeur over what he regards as one of the great tragedies of the time—­the crowding-out of the “genuine craftsmen” of journalism and letters by Cabinet Ministers, notoriety-mongers and, above all, by sloppy infant prodigies.]

  Oh, bitter are the insults
    And bitter is the shame
  Heaped on deserving authors
    Of high and strenuous aim,
  When all the best booksellers
    Their shelves and windows cram
  With novels from the nursery
    And poems from the pram.

  In recent Autumn seasons
    Writers of age mature
  (From eighteen up to thirty)
    Of sympathy were sure;
  Now publishers their portals
    On everybody slam
  Save novelists from the nursery
    And poets from the pram.

  Unfairly WINSTON CHURCHILL
    Invades the Sunday sheets;
  Unfairly MRS. ASQUITH
    With serious scribes competes;
  But these are minor evils—­
    What makes me cuss and damn
  Are novels from the nursery
    And poems from the pram.

  When on the concert platform
    The prodigy appears
  I do not grudge his welcome,
    The clappings and the cheers;
  But I can’t forgive the people
    Who down our throats would cram
  The novelists from the nursery,
    The poets from the pram.

  I met a (once) best seller,
    And I took him by the hand,
  And asked, “How’s OPAL WHITELEY
    And how does DAISY stand?”
  He answered, “I can only
    See sloppiness and sham
  In novels from the nursery
    And poems from the pram.”

  If I were only despot,
    To end this painful feud
  I’d banish straight to Mespot
    The scribbling infant brood,
  And bar the importation,
    By that hustler, Uncle Sam,
  Of novels from the nursery
    And poems from the pram.

* * * * *

From an account of Sir J. FORBES-ROBERTSON’S debut:—­