from which the last
Seljuk ruler, Didyffius the Forty-fifth, leaped in front of a
machete wielded by his eldest son, who therefore became Didymus the
Forty-sixth."

He was delighted to find so much sympathy and understanding in an
alien journalist from far across the seas. His bill, so far as a
hurried and discreet glance could reveal, was 89 francs 50 centimes,
not including the _taxe_.

On the other hand, the _sous-secretaire_ of the Pan-Deuteronomaniad
delegation, who took me out to dinner that same night, paid 127 francs
(including theatre tickets) before he proved to my satisfaction
that the basic civilization of Funicula Island is after all
Pan-whatever-you-call-it.

At any rate my point is made. My expenditure on food these three
days in Paris has been negligible, and there is rumour that the
Supra-Zambesian delegation is thinking of opening a hotel with running
water, h. and c., in every room.

* * * * *

[Illustration: _Gunner_. "DO YOU PLAY THE PIANO?"

_Jack_. "NO, SIR."

_Gunner_. "NOR THE 'CELLO?"

_Jack_. "NO, SIR."

_Gunner_. "WELL, THE NEXT TIME YOU HEAR RUMOURS OF A BARBER JUST
FOLLOW THE MATTER UP."]

* * * * *

_DULCE DOMUM_.

The air is full of rain and sleet,
A dingy fog obscures the street;
I watch the pane and wonder will
The sun be shining on Boar's Hill,
Rekindling on his western course
The dying splendour of the gorse
And kissing hands in joyous mood
To primroses in Bagley Wood.
I wish that when old Phoebus drops
Behind yon hedgehog-haunted copse
And high and bright the Northern Crown
Is standing over White Horse Down
I could be sitting by the fire
In that my Land of Heart's Desire--
A fire of fir-cones and a log
And at my feet a fubsy dog
In Robinwood! In Robinwood!
I think the angels, if they could,
Would trade their harps for railway tickets
Or hang their crowns upon the thickets
And walk the highways of the world
Through eves of gold and dawns empearled,
Could they be sure the road led on
Twixt Oxford spires and Abingdon
To where above twin valleys stands
Boar's Hill, the best of promised lands;
That at the journey's end there stood
A heaven on earth like Robinwood.

Heigho! The sleet still whips the pane
And I must turn to work again
Where the brown stout of Erin hums
Through Dublin's aromatic slums
And Sinn Fein youths with shif