as music to his
ears. His brother subalterns hailed his return with loud and exuberant
noises, made disparaging remarks about the smartness of his clothes,
sat on him all over the floor and rumpled him. On sighting the Babe,
The O'Murphy went mad and careered round the table wriggling like
an Oriental dancer, uttering shrill yelps of delight; presently he
bounced out of the window, to enter some minutes later by the same
route, and lay the offering of a freshly slain rat at his best
beloved's feet.

At this moment the skipper came in plastered thick with the mud of the
line, nodded cheerfully to his junior sub and instantaneously fell
upon the buttered toast.

"Have a good time, Son?" he mumbled. "How's merrie England?"

"Oh, England's all right, Sir," said the Babe, tickling The O'Murphy's
upturned tummy--"quite all right; but it's jolly to be home again
among one's ain folk."

PATLANDER.

* * * * *

[Illustration: OUT OF REACH.

"Just ask Dr. Jones to run round to my place right away. Our cook's
fallen downstairs, broke her leg; the housemaid's got chicken-pox; and
my two boys have been knocked down by a taxi."

"I'm sorry, sir, but the doctor was blown up in yesterday's air-raid
and he won't be down for a week."]

* * * * *

[Illustration: AT BRIGHTON.

_Tommy (to alien Visitor about to run up to Town for the day)._
"THIS IS THE VICTORIA PORTION, OLD SPORTSKI. HIGHER UP FOR LONDON
BRIDGEOVITCH."]

* * * * *

BEASTS ROYAL.

V.

KING LOUIS' PEACOCK. A.D. 1678.

The paven terrace of Versailles
With tub and orange-tree,
And Dian's fountain tossed awry,
Were planned and made for me;
Since no one half so well as I
Could grace their symmetry,
Nor teach admiring man
The genuine pavane.

I know that when King Louis wears
A Roman kilt and casque
His smile hides many secret tears
In ballet and in masque,
Since to outshine my pomp appears
So desperate a task,
And royal robes look pale
Beside my noble tail.

With turquoise and with malachite,
With bronze and purple pied,
I march before him like the night
In all its starry pride;
LULLI may twang and MOLIERE write
His pastime to provide,
But seldom laughs the KING
So much as when I sing.

His fiddles brown and pipes of brass
May LULLI now forsake,
While