sers are blue striped with purple.
He has a long blue cloak decorated with red figures, and his carmine
train is borne by a juvenile page dressed in a short orange-coloured
robe. It is a very magnificent design, and on the back of it is
written:--

"This is but a Birthday rhyme
Written in this dark War-time.
We can't afford to waste our ink,
And so I'll quickly stop, I think."

Thus I was compelled to have a birthday after all.

R. C. L.

* * * * *

TO LUCASTA, FROM THE WARS.

Perusing the epistles I devotedly indite
You long, I know, Lucasta dear, to see me as I write;
Your fancy paints my portrait framed in hectic scenes of war--
I'll try to show you briefly what my circumstances are.

Your swain is now a troglodyte; as in a dungeon deep
He who so worshipped stars and you must write and eat and sleep;
Like some swart djinnee of the mine your sunshine-loving slave
Builds airy castles, meet for two, 'neath candles in a cave.

Above, the sky is very grey, the world is very damp,
His light the sun denies by day, the moon by night her lamp;
Across the landscape soaked and sad the dull guns answer back,
And through the twilight's futile hush spasmodic rifles crack.

The papers haven't come to-day to show how England feels;
The hours go lame and languidly between our Spartan meals;
We've written letters till we're tired, with not a thing to tell
Except that nothing's doing, weather beastly, writer well.

So when you feel for us out here--as well I know you will--
Then sympathise with thousands for their country sitting still;
Don't picture battle-pieces by the lurid Press adored,
But miles and miles of Britishers, in burrows, badly bored!

* * * * *

[Illustration: WAR ECONOMY.

_Mistress (to chauffeur, who is crawling down-hill)._ "Why are you
driving so slowly?"

_Chauffeur_ (_ex-coachman_). "Well, Ma'am, you told me to be as
economical as possible these times, so I was puttin' the brake on to
make the down-'ill last as long as possible."]

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks._)

_Narcissus_ (SECKER), by Miss VIOLA MEYNELL, is one of those books for
which I cannot help feeling that my appreciation would have been keener
two years ago than is possible to-day. It is the story of the growth to
manhood of two brothers, _Victo