cession of beans, with never a carrot to make a splash of colour
nor an onion to scent the steamy air. And, James, I have a friend who
is known to all and sundry as "The Old Bean." Every bean I was called
upon to boil would remind me of him, whom I would not boil for worlds.

Here is something extraordinarily attractive--_Black Pudding Maker_.
You know black puddings. I am told that when you stew them (do not eat
them cold, I implore you!) they give off ambrosial perfumes, and that
after tasting one you would never again touch _peche Melba_. But as a
_Black Pudding Maker_ should I become nauseated?

Almost next door comes _Blood Collector_. Wait while I question the
Mess Cook ... James, I cannot become a Black Pudding maker. The Mess
Cook tells me that _Blood Collector_ and _Black Pudding Maker_ are
probably allied trades. How dreadful!

How about _Bobber?_ Does that mean that I should have to shear my
wife's silken tresses? Cousin Phyllis has appeared with a tomboy's
shock of hair, and she says it "has only been bobbed." By a "bobber"?
I would like to wring his neck. But if _Bobber_ has something to do
with those jolly little things that dance about on cotton machines
(aren't they called "bobbins"?) I will consider it.

I have not even finished the "B's." A glance ahead and other
enchanting vistas are revealed. For instance, _Desiccated Soup Maker,
Filbert Grower_ and (simply) _Retired_.

This Schedule is splendid in its way, but why can't they be honest?
They must know that lots of us in our great national army are in
ordinary life just rogues and vagabonds. The Schedule ignores such
honest tradesmen. How is a respectable tramp to know when his group
is called for demobilisation if he is not even given a group? What a
nation of prigs and pretenders we are!

Yours ever, WILLIAM.

* * * * *

_AUTRES TEMPS, AUTRES MOEURS._

My baker gives me chunks of bread--
He used to throw them at my head;
His manners, I rejoice to state,
Have very much improved of late.

My butcher was extremely gruff,
And sold me--oh, such horrid stuff;
But I observe, since Peace began,
Some traces of a better man.

I find my grocer hard to please
In little things like jam or cheese;
Now that the men are coming back
His scowl, I think, is not so black.

My coalman is a haughty prince
No tears could move or facts convince;
But tyrants topple everywhere
And he too wear