and old trench boots,
Which scarcely seems traditional.

I met my Colonel at a hop
Jazzing in his goloshes,
With a dress-tie pert on a cricket-shirt
That had shrunk in various washes;
And my Major was doing the Donkey-Drop
Between a couple of rippers--
Yet his pink-and-white pyjama-top
If anything seemed a shade _de trop_,
And his faultless coat hardly echoed the note
Of his worsted bedroom slippers.

But the world long since went off its chump,
And the cry of the man from France is,
"I simply refuse to let shirts and shoes
Prevent me from going to dances.
I'll take the shine out of collar and pump,
And their wearers _will_ look silly
When I once begin the Giraffe-Galump,
The Chicken-Run and the Jaguar-Jump,
The Wombat-Walk and the Buffalo-Bump,
With a chamois vest on my manly chest,
And football-boots and the smartest of suits
They can cut in Piccadilly."

* * * * *

THE GRAND TRUNK LINE.

"The following are some alternative routes which could be used by
people going home this evening from the City or West End:--

"Clapham Common.--By Elephant, trams and 'buses."--_Evening News_.

LOCAL COLOUR.

I ran upstairs after lunch to-day to see old Harris. He has the
flat over mine, you know. In addition to this Harris is an author.
Sometimes he even gets money for it.

"Doin' a bit of work to-day, Harris?" I remarked casually.

"I'm doing a little flying story," he informed me with dignity.

"Oh, yes," I agreed carelessly, then woke up and stared hard.

"Flying?" I repeated. "But what the--I mean, what do you know about
flying, anyway?"

Brutality is the only thing with Harris. He was very hurt. He gasped
and glared at me in a most annoyed manner.

"I know a pretty good lot," he announced with some asperity. "I've
talked to dozens of pilots about it and I've read books on flying--and
the newspapers--"

"And don't forget you once passed Hendon in the train too, old son,"
I soothed him. "I'd no idea you were so well up in it. Sorry I spoke.
Let's see it; may I?"

Harris picked up a couple of sheets of paper from the desk and,
coughing imposingly, proceeded to read out his masterpiece:--

"Lionel Marchant came slowly out of the hangar, drawing on his long
fur gloves and studying his maps with an intent and keen face.

"His machine, a single-seater scout of the latest type, was just being