flat,

That still impinge on my riparian view.

A PAIR OF MILITARY GLOVES.

It was in Italy, on my way home from Egypt to be demobilised, that I decided to buy a pair of warm gloves from Ordnance.

After being directed by helpful other ranks to the A.S.C. Depot, the Camp Commandant's Office and the Y.M.C.A., I found myself, at the end of a morning's strenuous walking, confronted by notices on a closed door stating that this was the Officers' Payment Issue Department; that this was the Officers' Entrance to the Officers' Payment Issue Department; that smoking was strictly prohibited; and that the office would re-open at 14.00.

I went away to lunch.

At 14.01 I knocked out my pipe conscientiously and entered. From 14.01 to 14.50 I watched a Captain of the R.A.F. smoking cigarettes and choosing a pair of socks, and studied notices to the effect that this was the Officers' Payment Issue Department; that only Officers were permitted to enter the Officers' Payment Issue Department; that smoking was strictly prohibited; and that the office would close at 16.00.

At last I heard the B.A.F. man explain that, by James, he had an appointment at three, and would return, old bean—er, Corporal—in the morning to see about those dashed socks. The Corporal behind the counter blew away a pile of cigarette ash and regarded me distrustfully.

"Only one pair of gloves left, Sir," he said. "Gloves, woollen, knitted, pairs one, one-and-tenpence."

"Thank you very much," I said. "They'll do nicely. I'll take them now."

But of course I didn't. At 15.00 was in another building, watching another Corporal make out an indent in quadruplicate for gloves, woollen, knitted, officers, for the use of, pairs one. At 15.05 I was in another building, getting the indent stamped and countersigned. At 15.12 I was in another building, exchanging it for a buff form in duplicate. At 15.20 I re-entered the Issue Department and went through the motions of taking up the gloves.

"Excuse me, Sir," said the Corporal, skilfully sliding them away; "you must first produce your Field Advance Book as a proof of identity."

"I'm afraid I haven't a proper Field Advance Book," I explained. "You see, in Egypt, where I come from—that is, I was attached, you know, to the—well, in short, I haven't a proper Field Advance Book, as I said before. But I have here an A.B. 64 issued in lieu thereof—they do that in Egypt, you know—and I have my identity discs, my demobilisation papers, my cheque-book—oh, and heaps of other things which would prove to you that I am really me. Besides, my name is sewn inside the back of my tunic. And my shirt," I added hopefully.

"If you haven't a Field Advance Book, Sir," said the Corporal coldly, "your only course is to obtain a certificate of identity from the Camp Commandant."

"But, look here, Corporal," I protested, "it would take me a quarter-of-an-hour to get to the Commandant's office and another quarter to get back. I'm sure I couldn't get a certificate of identity under an hour and a-half. It is now twenty-five past three. You close at four. To-morrow morning at five ac emma I entrain for Cherbourg.... You see how impossible it all is, Corporal."

"Sorry, Sir," said the Corporal. "I'm not allowed to issue the gloves without your Field Advance Book or a certificate of identity."

"But what am I to do?" I asked weakly. "Think, Corporal, how cold it will be across Italy and France without gloves. I've been in the East for over four years, and I might get pneumonia and die, you know."

"I should try the Camp Commandant, Sir," he said. "It may not take so long as you think."

At 15.41 I was outside the Camp Commandant's office with my A.B.64, identity discs, demobilisation papers and cheque-book ready to hand, and my tunic loosened at the neck.

At 15.42 I entered the office with some diffidence.

At 15.43 I was outside again, dazed and a little frightened, with a certificate of identity in my hand. It was the fastest piece of work I have ever known in the Army. And I might have been Mr. GEORGE ROBEY in disguise for all they knew in the office—or cared.

"Sorry, Sir," said the Corporal in the Officers' Payment Issue Department at 15.59, "the gloves were sold to another officer while you were away."

ONE OF THE PUNCH BRIGADE.

On Half Rations.

"Two officers will be received as paying guests. Comfortable home. Treated as one of the family."—Daily Paper.

The italics emphasize our own feeling with regard to this niggardly arrangement.

"V.A.D.—Required for Shell-shock Hospital under B.R.C.S., Piano, Billiard Table and Gramophone. Will any hospital closing down and having same for sale, kindly communicate with Secretary."—Times.

We do not know what sort of work the V.A.D. is expected to do under the piano and billiard table, but we presume that her consent would be required, and that she would not be sold, so to speak, over her own head.

THE TURN OF THE TIDE.

JOHN BULL. "I DON'T SAY I'M QUITE COMFORTABLE YET, BUT I CERTAINLY DO SEEM TO BE GETTING IT A LITTLE LESS IN THE NECK."

SCENE.—Amateur Theatrical Rehearsal.

Author. "NOT SO MUCH 'GAGGING,' MY LAD. JUST SPEAK MY LINES, AND THEN WAIT FOR THE LAUGH."

Tommy (on short leave). "WHAT! AND RISK C.B. FOR OVERSTAYING MY LEAVE?"

ON THE RHINE.

I.

"Fee-Fi-Fo-Fum, I am a bold and infamous Hun, I am, I am."

We are obliged to repeat this continually to ourselves in order to present the stern and forbidding air which is supposed to mark our dealings with the inhabitants. For, look you, we have usurped the place of the Royal Jocks on the "right flank of the British Army," and are on outpost duty, with our right resting on the bank of the Rhine, while in front the notice-boards, "Limit of Cologne Bridgehead," stare at us.

No longer are we the pleasant, easy-going, pay-through-the-nose people that we were. No longer does our daily routine include the smile for Mademoiselle, the chipping of Madame, or the half-penny for the little ones. No, we steel ourselves steadily to the grim task entrusted to us, and struggle to offer a perfect picture of stolid indifference to anybody's welfare but our own. "Fee-fi-fo-fum."

What does Thomas think of it all? Well, to tell the truth, I haven't caught him thinking very much about it. Gloating seems foreign to his nature somehow, and I don't think he will ever make a really good Hun. He is rather like a child who for four years has been crying incessantly for the moon. Having got it, he says, "Well, I'm glad I've got it; now let's get on with something else," and takes not the slightest interest in the silly old moon he has acquired with so much trouble.

There are two things to which he cannot quite accustom himself: not being allowed to fraternize with the inhabitants and the realisation that his laboriously acquired knowledge of the French language is no longer of any avail. He will never quite get over the former of these two disabilities, but he is coping