ace of every glutton
Shone with a patriot's after-glow,
And then they retired a mile or so
And the WAR LORD pressed the button.

_Hoch!_ The howitzer stood the test,
Belching like fifty craters,
And (this is perhaps the cream of the jest)
There was more than metal inside its chest,
For they hadn't removed the waiters.

Now it has come on armoured trains
To the further side of the Channel;
Prayers are said in a hundred fanes
For its godlike soul, and whenever it rains
They muffle its throat with flannel.

Strange indeed is the cry of its shells,
Like a pack of hounds in full wail,
Like the roar of a mountain stream that swells
Or like anything else from a peal of bells
To the bark of a wounded bull-whale.

But the worst of it is that when--and if--
It begins its work of slaughter
It will possibly harm the Kentish cliff,
But it's perfectly certain to go and biff
The French one into the water.

So when you shall hear a noise on high
Like the medium brush of a barber,
And a monstrous bullet falls from the sky
And blows off the head of a Prussian spy
As he dallies in Dover Harbour,

You shall know that at last the WAR LORD'S host,
By dint of a stout endeavour,
Have chipped off a bit of the Calais coast
And caused the isle that they pant for most
To be further away than ever.

EVOE.

* * * * *

THE PEACE CIGAR.

"By the way, Lorna was there this morning," said Celia. "Her brother's
in the War Office."

"And what did KITCHENER tell him when they last had lunch together?" I
asked.

"Well," smiled Celia, "he does say that----"

I get all my best news from Celia nowadays. When I meet you in the City
and mention that I know for a fact that the KAISER is in hiding at
Liverpool, you may be sure that Celia saw Vera yesterday morning, and
that Vera's uncle is somebody important on the Liverpool Defence
Committee.

Twice a week Celia ties up parcels for the Fleet. Ordinary people
provide the blankets, sea-boots, chocolate, periscopes and so forth;
Celia looks after the brown paper and string, which always seems to me
the most tricky part. There are a dozen of them, all working together;
and you can imagine (or, anyhow, _I_ can) Vera or Kitty or Isobel, her
mouth full of knot, gossiping away about her highly-placed relations,
while Beryl or Evelyn or Lorna looks up from the parcel she