rosity; but other
spheres of action await exploration.

I had hoped that the War was going to reform ideas on dress and make
things more simple for those whose trouser-knees go baggy so soon and
remain thus for so long; but, like too many of the expectations which
we used to foster, this also has failed. It is therefore the benign
couple who must carry on the good work. Let them, if they really love
their fellow-creatures, go to a wedding or two (having previously
given a present of sufficient value to ensure respect) and display
their careless garb among the guests, and then in a little while old
garments would at these exacting functions become as fashionable as
new and we should all be happier.

I was asked to a wedding last week, and should have accepted but for
the great Smart Clothes tradition. If _The Times'_ hero and heroine
were to become imaginatively busy as I suggest, I could go to all the
weddings in the world. (Heaven forbid!) Receptions, formal lunches,
the laying of stones, the unveiling of monuments, private views--these
ceremonies, now so full of terrors for any but the dressy, could be
made endurable if only the gentleman in the black coat green with age
and the lady with the elastic sides would show themselves prominently
and receive conspicuous attentions.

And then, if any more statues were needed for the police to keep
their waterproofs on, one of them should be that of an unknown
philanthropical gentleman who wears venerable top-boots, and another
that of a philanthropical lady who would rather be without any boots
at all, and the inscription on the pedestals would state that their
glorious achievement was this: They made old clothes the thing.

E. V. L.

* * * * *

THE OLD BEER FLAGON.

(_Many old English flagons are adorned inside with grotesque figures
of animals_.)

Within my foaming flagon
There crawls on countless legs
A lazy grinning dragon
That wallows in the dregs;
Of old I saw him nightly
Look up with friendly leer,
As if to hint politely,
"I share your taste in beer!"

Through merry nights unnumbered
(From Boxing Day to Yule)
He'd greet me, ere I slumbered,
From out his amber pool;
But now he is beginning
To look a trifle strange;
His smile, once wide and winning,
Has undergone a change.

No more, as pints diminish
(I wish the price grew less)
He hails me at the finish
With