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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

March 31, 1915

Old Lady (to nephew on leave from the Front). "Good-bye, my dear boy, and try to and find time to send a postcard to let me know you are safely back in the trenches."

THE BIRDS OF ST. JAMES'S.

I rambled round St. James's Park (A pleasant after-luncheon jaunt) To woo digestion and to mark The varied waterfowl that haunt St. James's lake; the scene was drear, For men have drained the local mere.

Where dimpled waters danced of late Lies arid concrete, chill and bare, But just beside the Whitehall gate One sorry pool remains, and there Such homeless birds as love the damp Have formed a concentration camp.

And where before the lake ran dry, The pelicans' exclusive club Contrived to win from passers-by Most of the notice (and the grub), Coarse rowdy riff-raft throng the plat, A vulgar proletariat.

The pelicans, so ill equipped To race with widgeon, coot or teal, Nine times in ten get badly pipped When sprinting for the casual meal; From their demeanour I inferred That this is apt to sour a bird.

For now they darkly brood apart, Observing an unwelcome fast, Each mourning in his secret heart The dear undemocratic past, Before the bbing of the floodHad set aside the claims of blood.

AN EASTER CALL FOR SACRIFICE.

Londell's rooms are two―one to sleep in, and the other to bolt toast in. I found him in the breakfasting chamber. On the table was a basin of hot water; Londell, with a small sponge in his hand, was gazing sadly at a Gladstone bag.

"Forgive me for intruding on this busy bath night," I said. "I have looked in to remind you of our Easter engagement. This time, try to avoid packing odd boots for your spare pair."

"I don't think I can come away for Easter," he said gloomily; and he fingered the sponge as one in a dream.

Something had depressed Londell; he wanted rousing. I went and helped myself to one of his three remaining cigars, but it had no effect.

"If I had another bag," he went on, "it might be different; but this is the only one I have."

"What's the matter with it? Quite a good bag, it seems to me."

Londell pointed to it in a way that made me think I had never before seen him so like the late Sir Henry Irving. "There," he said, "is the work of half a lifetime. That collection is among the best in the Temple. I have lavished time and thought, ay, and money upon it. It has cost me two hundred pounds if it has cost me a penny. Am I to sacrifice all for the sake of a paltry four or five days at the sea?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, but I feel sure you're wrong."

"I don't mind the Chamonix one, or that little chap under the buckle there―the one from the Canaries. But how could I face Bournemouth with all those German and Austrian hotel labels on my bag?"

The Trojan Horse Outdone.

"PARIS, Tuesday.―After the Frenchmen's fruitless efforts to capture the strongly-held position at the Great Dune, twenty-four Algerians, concealed in the bellies of horses, appeared in the German trenches at nightfall. When the Germans were about to capture the horses, the response was a sharp cry, and the Algerians galloped back to the French lines, whereupon twenty-four grey forms rose from the ground, and threw themselves into the trenches."

Sydney Daily Telegraph.

The Arab horse's powers of initiative have evidently been under-estimated.

"The Kaiser, on a white horse caparisoned in purple, angrily stepped into a motor-car and went to Lille."―Waikato Times, N.Z.

A remarkable instance of putting the car before the horse.