should be without its
recording paragraph. I would tell all. And I am proud to say I have kept
that vow. I have not even concealed from my readers the names of the
hotels I have stayed in, and if I have liked the watering-places I have
resisted every temptation not to say so. Odd how childish aspirations
can be fulfilled!

* * * * *

[Illustration: _Tommy._ "Hold hard, young feller. You shouldn't butt in
like that--plenty of room behind."

_His Girl._ "Leave him alone, Harry. He thinks it's a recruiting
office."]

* * * * *

"A Young Country Girl, 18, wishes a situation as Housemaid or
Betweenmaid; never out before; wages not objected to."

_Irish Times._

Very nice of her to be so accommodating.

* * * * *

"Col. J. W. Wray and Mrs. Wray entertained the recruiting staff,
numbering L21, to tea at Brett's Hall, Guildford, on Thursday."

_Provincial Paper._

Sterling fellows, evidently.

* * * * *

[Illustration: "Us have had a letter from our Jarge. He've killed three
Germans!"

"I bain't zurprised! Lor'! How that boy did love a bit o' rattin', or
anything to do with vermin!"]

* * * * *

THE FLYING MAN.

When the still silvery dawn uprolls
And all the world is "standing to;"
When young lieutenants damn our souls
Because they're feeling cold and blue--

The bacon's trodden in the slush,
The baccy's wet, the stove's gone wrong--
Then, purring on the morning's hush,
We hear his cheerful little song.

The shafts of sunrise strike his wings,
Tinting them like a dragon-fly;
He bows to the ghost-moon and swings,
Flame-coloured, up the rosy sky.

He climbs, he darts, he jibes, he luffs;
Like a great bee he drones aloud;
He whirls above the shrapnel puffs,
And, laughing, ducks behind a cloud.

He rides aloof on god-like wings,
Taking no thought of wire or mud,
Saps, smells or bugs--the mundane things
That sour our lives and have our blood.

Beneath his sky-patrolling car
Toy guns their mimic thunders clap;
Like crawling ants whole armies are
That strive across a coloured map.

The roads we trudged with feet of lead
The shadows of his pinions skim;
The river where we piled our dead
Is but a silver thread to him.

"God of the ea