ROTSKY is the Enver Pasha of Russia, ENVER PASHA may be described
as the Turkey Trotzky.

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OUR POPULAR EDUCATORS.

A recent article in _The Daily Mail_ began, "Jerusalem, the famous
city of the Bible..."

There is nothing like taking precautions not to talk over the heads of
your readers. We offer a few suggestions on similar lines:--

"Germany, the powerful enemy against whom we are contending in the
present War (1914 onwards)..."

"SHAKSPEARE, the immortal author of _Hamlet_ (the tragedy)..."

"'Blighty', the British soldier's name for England..."

"MOSES, the distinguished lawgiver and prophet..."

"The GERMAN CROWN PRINCE, eldest son of KAISER WILHELM II..."

"EVE, the heroine of the Garden of Eden story..."

"Economy, the virtue imposed on us by the present shortage of food..."

"_The Daily Mail_, a newspaper..."

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HELLO, GIRLS!

"CIVIL SERVICE LADIES FOR LONDON TELEPHONE EXCHANGES, over 1 and
under 30 years of age. Minimum height 5ft."--_Evening Paper_.

Many ladies of our acquaintance, although just over the minimum age,
are not yet quite up to the required height.

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[Illustration: _Lady_ (_displaying costume in which she is to appear
as the Queen of Sheba in "Biblical Beauties" tableaux at charity
matinee_). "RATHER SWEET, ISN'T IT?"

_Friend_. "MY DEAR, ABSOLUTELY TOPPING. IT MAKES ME FEEL I OUGHT TO
BE DOING WAR-WORK TOO."]

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TO SANTA CLAUS.

Historic Santa! Seasonable Claus!
Whose bulging sack is pregnant with delight;
Who comest in the middle of the night
To stuff distracting playthings in the maws
Of stockings never built for infant shins,
Suspended from the mantelpiece by pins.

Thou who on earth wast named Nicholas--
There be dull clods who doubt thy magic power
To tour the sleeping world in half-an-hour,
And pop down all the chimneys as you pass
With woolly lambs and dolls of frabjous size
For grubby hands and wonder-laden eyes.

Not so thy singer, who believes in thee
Because he has a young and foolish spirit;
Because the simple faith that bards inherit
Of happiness is still the master key,
Opening life's treasure-house to whoso clings
To the dim beauty of imagined things.

Wherefore, good Kringle, do not pass me by,
Who am too old,