s vernal blooms,
And that dear country's hallowed right to dump
Things on us in the lump;

Of tropic isles whereon this beverage springs,
And niggers sweating out their pagan souls;
Of British workmen, flattered even as kings,
So to secure their suffrage at the polls;
Of liberty for all to go on strike
Just when and where they like.

I would renew these wistful dreams to-night;
For, since upon my precious nibs, when ground,
McKENNA's minions, with to-morrow's light,
Will plant a tax of sixpence in the pound,
My sacred memories, cheap enough before,
Will clearly cost me more.

O. S.

* * * * *

ANOTHER SCRAP OF PAPER.

I look all right, and I feel all right, but the doctor said the Army was
no place for me. Having given me a piece of paper which said so, he
looked over my head and called out, "Next, please." It was with this
document I was going to produce a delicious thrill--what I might call an
"electric" moment. I carefully rehearsed what should happen, though I
was not quite sure what attitude to adopt--whether to give the
impression that I was a member of a pacific society, look elaborately
unconcerned or truculently youthful. This, I decided, had better be left
to the psychological moment.

I would take my seat or strap in the crowded tram or train. Observing
that I wore neither khaki nor armlet someone would want to know why "a
big, strong, healthy-looking fellow like you was not in the Army." I
should then try to look pacific or elaborately--see above again. But I
should say nothing. My studied silence would annoy everybody. I was
quite sure of this, because I really can do that sort of silence very
well. The inevitable old woman with a bundle would fix me with her
watery eye. "The man in the street," who, of course, would now be in the
tram or train, would give a brief history of his three sons and one
brother-in-law at the Front. The armleted conductor (we are now in the
tram) would give my ticket a very rude punch and my penny a very angry
stare. When I was quite sure I had been set down as a slacker, I should
produce the doctor's certificate of exemption. In my ultra-polite
manner, which is nearly as good as my annoying silence, I should hand it
to the man whose three sons and one brother-in-law had evidently been
writing for more cigarettes. I would then say, "I know you can talk. It
is possible you can read.