with such
affectionate eyes as Lord DUNSANY. _Tales of War_ (FISHER UNWIN) is
full of this sweet theme. The first of the tales is a fine story of
the Daleswood men who, cut off from their supports and worried because
there would be none left in their native village to carry on the
Daleswood breed, were for sending out their youngest boy to surrender.
But, deciding that that wasn't good Daleswood form, they (for their
last hours, as they thought) fell to recalling the familiar beauties
of their old home and to cutting in the Picardy chalk the roll of
their names for remembrance. You get it again, that calling-up of
the home memories, when, in another marooned party, the Sargeant that
was keeper begins with a vision of sausages and mashed and goes on
to the birds and beasts and flowers and soft noises of English woods
at night. And in a half-dozen other sketches. And it is good to find
an Irishman and a poet to say things which stick on our embarrassed
tongues. Lord DUNSANY has a happy trick of compressing a great deal
into a little space, and his vignettes, sketched in with a conscious
art, should find a place on our shelves among the war records which
our children are to read.

* * * * *

[Illustration: THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT.

_War Profiteer_. "Stow that row, 'Orace. 'Ow did _I_ know yer wanted
a toy?"]

* * * * *

"When the wife of President Wilson was in London she spent
hours shopping in Regent Street and other quaint sections of
London."--_Daily Gleaner_.

Regent Street _will_ be pleased.

* * * * *

"Captain Hayes, of the Olympic, in receiving a loving cut from
Halifax citizens, described how the Olympic sank the U-boat 103, a
few months ago. The liner cut through the submarine without losing
a single revolution of the propellers."--_Australian Paper_.

One good cut deserves another.

* * * * *

THE INFLUENZA-MASK.

"Shall I," he cried, "who made the Hun skedaddle
And caused the _Wacht an Rhein_ to lose its job,
Taught Johnny Turk the use of boot and saddle
And fetched out FERDINANDO for a blob--
Shall I allow each little grinning urchin
To move me from my purpose? Shall I shrink
For fear of idle Rumour wagging her chin?
No, no! I do _not_ think.

"My high emprise may set the suburbs hooting
And lay me under Balham