This afternoon.

The jumping fountain never stops--
He sat upon the highest drops
And bobbed about.
His legs were waving in the sun,
He seemed to think it splendid fun,
I heard him shout.

The sparrows watched him from a tree,
A robin bustled up to see
Along the path:
I thought my wishing-bone would break,
I wished so much that I could take
A fairy bath.

R.F.

* * * * *

"LIBRARY NOTES.

"Mr. Buttling Sees It Thru, H.G. Wells."
--_Citronelle Call_ (_Alabama, U.S.A._).

Rumours that Mr. WELLS is a convert to the "nu speling" may now be
safely contradicted.

* * * * *

[Illustration: "KEEP THE HOME FIRES BURNING."

SOLO BY OUR OPTIMISTIC PREMIER.]

* * * * *

THE MUD LARKS.

I am living at present in one of those villages in which the
retreating Hun has left no stone unturned. With characteristic
thoroughness he fired it first, then blew it up, and has been shelling
it ever since. What with one thing and another, it is in an advanced
state of dilapidation; in fact, if it were not that one has the map's
word for it, and a notice perched on a heap of brick-dust saying that
the Town Major may be found within, the casual wayfarer might imagine
himself in the Sahara, Kalahari, or the south end of Kingsway.

Some of these French towns are very difficult to recognise as such;
only the trained detective can do it. A certain Irish Regiment was
presented with the job of capturing one. The scheme was roughly this.
They were to climb the parapet at 5.25 A.M. and rush a quarry some one
hundred yards distant. After half-an-hour's breather they were to go
on to some machine-gun emplacements, dispose of these, wait a further
twenty minutes, and then take the town. Distance barely one thousand
yards in all. Promptly at zero the whole field spilled over the bags,
as the field spills over the big double at Punchestown, paused at the
quarry only long enough to change feet on the top, and charged yelling
at the machine guns. Then being still full of fun and _joie de vivre_,
and having no officers left to hamper their fine flowing style, they
ducked through their own barrage and raced all out for the final
objective. Twenty minutes later, two miles further on, one perspiring
private turned to his panting chum, "For the love of God, Mike, aren't
we ge