to move in here on April 7th, Sir," said the C.C., with almost an
injured note in his voice.

"Have you?" said the Highest Authority. "Why?"

The experts saluted and moved off, commenting quietly among themselves upon
the good sense and magnanimity of the Highest Authority. As for that Camp
Commandant--

Yours ever, HENRY.

* * * * *

FOOD BEFORE CLOTHES.

"Exchange Fawn Costume, slight figure, good condition, for two broody
hens."--_The Smallholder._

* * * * *

THE HEROINE OF THE NEW NOVEL.

[Illustration: "BUT I CANNOT LINGER THUS WITH YOU, SIR REGINALD," SAID THE
RUSTIC BEAUTY; "I HAVE TO CLEAN THE PIG-STY." SHE PAUSED, AND THEN ALMOST
INAUDIBLY, "YOU MAY HELP ME, IF YOU LIKE."

SIR REGINALD VAVASOUR'S HEART LEAPT WITHIN HIM.]

[Illustration: AT LAST HE HAD HIS CHANCE. "HOW MUCH IS IT TO THE MARBLE
ARCH?" HE ASKED.

"TUPPENCE," SHE REPLIED SOFTLY; AND THE SIMPLE WORD RANG THROUGH EVERY
FIBRE OF HIS BODY.]

[Illustration: DUSK WAS DESCENDING. HIS BACK TYRE WAS PUNCTURED, AND HE WAS
ALONE--LOST IN THE WILD MOORLAND. SUDDENLY A CHEERY YOUNG VOICE SMOTE UPON
HIS EAR: "WHAT'S UP, OLD CHAP? CAN I BE ANY USE?"]

[Illustration: "OH, I'M SO FEARFULLY SORRY!" SAID A SWEET YOUNG VOICE IN
DISTRESSED ACCENTS. AND THEN HE BECAME AWARE OF A DAINTY LITTLE FOOT AND
ANKLE COYLY PROTRUDING FROM A BLUE TROUSER ALMOST AT A LEVEL WITH HIS EYE.]

* * * * *

IN MEMORIAM.

FRANCIS COWLEY BURNAND,

1836--1917.

EDITOR OF "PUNCH," 1880--1906.

Hail and Farewell, dear Brother of the Pen,
Maker of sunshine for the minds of men,
Lord of bright cheer and master of our hearts--
What plaint is fit when such a friend departs?
Not with mere ceremonial words of woe
Come we to mourn--you would not have it so;
But with our memories stored with joyous fun,
Your constant largesse till your life was done,
With quips, that flashed through frequent twists and bends,
Caught from the common intercourse of friends;
And gay allusions gayer for the zest
Of one who hurt no friend and spared no jest.
What arts were yours that taught you to indite
What all men thought, but only you could write!
That wrung from gloom itself a fleeting smile;
Rippled with laughter but refrained from guile;
Led you to prick some bladder of conceit
Or trip intrusive folly's blundering feet,
While wisdom at your cal