* * * *

"There is a shamelessness among many in both high and low life
that calls for vehement protest. The question with many seems
to be how near they can come to the verge of decency without
falling over."--_Ashore and Afloat_.

We have noticed a few who have had quite a narrow escape.

* * * * *

WAY OUT.

_(Thoughts on leaving the Crystal Palace.)_

A brigadier or two beside the portal
To cry to me with anguish half disguised,
"Hail and farewell, O brother! pomp is mortal"--
Something, I fancied, something of this sort'll
Happen to me when I'm demobilised.

That was an error. Not a drum was sounded;
No personage, no panoply, no pep;
Only a single private who expounded
My pathway out, and I went forth dumbfounded;
Merely remembering to mind the step.

Nothing spectacular and nothing solemn;
No company of men that I might drill,
And either tick 'em off or else extol 'em
And give 'em "Facing left, advance in column,"
And leave 'em marching, marching onwards till

They butted into something. Never a blooming
Ultimate kit-inspection as I passed,
Nor sound of Sergeant-majors' voices booming,
Nor weary stance while _aides-de-camp_ were fuming,
Not even a practice fire-drill at the last.

And that's the end. To-morrow I'll awaken
To meet a world of doubtfulness and gloom,
By orders and by Adjutants forsaken,
And none to tell what action should be taken,
If any, through what channels, and by whom.

But dreams remain amidst the new disaster:
There shall be visions when the firelight burns--
Squads of recruits for ever doubling faster,
Fresh clothing-issues from the Quartermaster
And audit boards and absentee returns.

I shall forget awhile civilian fashions
And watch the P.T. merchants on the square,
And polish tins and soothe the Colonel's passions,
And mount the guard and go and see the rations
And bid departed days be "as you were."

And souvenirs! I know there are a number
Who stuff their homes with memories of dread;
The ancient hat-stand in the hall encumber
With _Pickelhaubes_ and delight to slumber
With heaps of nasty nose-caps round their bed.

Not I, the bard. When delicately suited
I move again amid the _mufti_ swarms,
Since trophies from the Front may be disputed,
I'll flaunt the only spoils tha