oor head reels. If only I could sleep. Ah, yes, that is what
I could almost wish for at this moment--sweet, soothing, refreshing
sleep.

But it is not to be; the house is just a great tearing pandemonium of
joy. Hark! What's that? A motor horn? Yes, yes, a taxi is at the gate.
Now another has glided forward and waits expectantly for the central
figure--myself.

"Well, darling," murmurs my father, "it's high time we were off.
Wouldn't do to be late today, you know." And he laughs proudly.

Can I describe the journey to the church? I can, but I will spare you.
Enough to say that I carry myself with dignity. Whether I do so in the
vast solemn atmosphere of the church I am unable to say, though I will
confess to a feeling almost of awe.

In deep silence we move down the aisle. The service begins. Can I
repeat it? I fear not. But one passage there is which stands out
prominently from the rest. It is in the form of a demand made by the
clergyman. Looking steadily at my father, he exclaims:--

"_Name this child_."

I am roused to a fresh interest, and with fast-beating heart I await
my father's answer. It comes as a bombshell to my sensitive ears:--

"_Armisticia Beatty Zeebrugge!_"

And I believed that only Germans could wage war on helpless babes.

* * * * *

[Illustration: SPRING-TIME IN THE OFFICE.]

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

Books dealing with life at the Front have naturally somewhat slackened
in volume of late. Perhaps this accounts for some part of my interest
in _Pushed and the Return Push_ (BLACKWOOD). But more must be put down
to the lure of the subject, and most of all to the admirable way in
which the writer, who chooses to be known as "QUEX," has dealt
with it. Briefly, the book is a record of the two great sensational
movements of 1918, and of the writer's experiences as an officer of
an Artillery Brigade in the retreat forced upon the Fifth Army by the
break through of the Germans on March 21st, and subsequently in the
return push which broke the Hindenburg Lino and ended the War.
The publishers say that this is the only account yet written by a
participator in these happenings; I hardly think that any will appear
more vivid and moving. The amazing sequence of the events with which
it deals gives to the book the thrill of arranged drama, in which
disaster is balanced by the