class="i2">(Lo! with the loud "All Clear!" our pæan mingles),

An era when the OUTHWAITES cease to rage

And there is respite from the prancing PRINGLES,

And absence puts a curb

On the reluctant lips of SAMUEL (HERB.).

HOW TO THROW OFF AN ARTICLE.

"Do you really write?" said Sylvia, gazing at me large-eyed with wonder. I admitted as much.

"And do they print it just as you write it?"

"Well, their hired grammarians make a few trifling alterations to justify their existence."

"And do they pay you quite a lot?"

"Sixpence a word."

"Oo! How wonderful!"

"But not for every word," I added hastily, "only the really funny ones."

"And they send it to you by cheques?"

"Rather. I bought a couple of pairs of socks with the last story; even then I had something left over."

"And how do you write the stories?"

"Oh, just get an idea and go right ahead."

"How wonderful! Do you just sit down and write it straight off?"

I just—only just—pulled myself up in time as I remembered that Sylvia was an enthusiast of twelve whose own efforts had already caused considerable comment in the literary circles described round the High School. I felt this entitled her to some claim on my veracity.

"Sylvia," I cried, "I shall have to make a confession. All those stories you have been good enough to read and occasionally smile over are the result of a cold-blooded mechanical process—and the help of a dictionary of synonyms."

"Oo! How wonderful! Do show me how."

"Very well. Since you are going to be a literary giantess it is well that you should be initiated into the mysteries of producing what I shall call the illusion of spontaneity. Now take this story here. Here on this old envelope is THE IDEA."

"Oo! Let me see. I can't read a word."

"Of course you can't; nobody could. Rough copies are divided into classes as follows:—

"No. 1. Those I can read, but nobody else can.

"No. 2. Those I can't read myself after two days.

"No. 3. Those my typist can read.

"This story is about a certain Brigade Major who is an inveterate leg-puller. Some Americans are expected to be coming for instruction. Well, before they arrive the Brigade Major has to go up to the line, and on his way he meets a man with a very new tin hat who asks him in a certain nasal accent we have all come to love if he has seen anything of a party of Americans. Spotting him as a new chum, the Brigade Major offers to show him round the line, and proceeds to pull his leg and tells him the most preposterous nonsense. For instance, on a shot being fired miles away he pretends they are in frightful danger, and leads him bent double round and round trenches in the same circle."

"What a shame!"

"Wasn't it? Well, when he gets tired he asks the American if he thinks he has learnt anything. The American says, 'Gee, I've been out here two years now, but I guess you've taught me a whole heap I didn't know. I'm a Canadian tunneller, you know, and I've got to show some Americans our work, but I guess I've had a most interesting time with you."

"Ha! ha!"

"Well now, to put the story into its form. Here's Copy No. 1, on this old envelope. 'Americans coming—Brigade Major sees American looking for party—pulls his leg—pretends to being in frightful danger—American is Canadian who has been out two years.' See? Copy No. 2. Here we begin to till in. Describe Brigade headquarters and previous leg-pulls of Brigade Major. Make up details of what he tells the American—'That's a trench. That thing you fell over is a coil of wire. This is a sunken road—we sunk it, etc., etc.' Copy No. 3, additions and details, little touches of local colour, revision of choice of words, heart-rending erasions. And here, my child," I concluded, bringing out the beautiful, clean, smooth typed copy—"here is the finished work itself, light, pleasant, fluent, humorous and, most important of all, spontaneous."

"Oo! But how awfully cold-blooded. I thought you smiled to yourself all the time you wrote it."

"My dear girl, it takes hours. If I smiled continually all that length of time the top of my head would come off."

"Isn't it wonderful? Fancy building it all up from jottings on an old envelope! What's that piece of paper you took out of the typed copy?"

"Oh, that's nothing to do with the literary side of it," I said, crumpling up the little memorandum, which said that the Editor presented compliments and regretted that he was unable to make use of the enclosed contribution.

"Mr. Henderson ... was received with a cry of 'He is not on the map now.'"—Times.

It is supposed that his supporter meant to say "not on the mat"—in reference to an incident at the close of Mr. HENDERSON'S Ministerial career. But many a true word is said in the Press by inadvertence.

THE WAR AGAINST THE PUBLIC.

PROFITEERING HEN. "NOTHING DOING AT FIVEPENCE. BUT I MIGHT PERHAPS LAY YOU ONE FOR NINEPENCE. WHAT! YOU THOUGHT THE WAR WAS OVER? NOT MY WAR."

Dear Old Lady (to returning warrior). "WELCOME BACK TO BLIMEY!"

A DEMOBILISATION DISASTER.

Private Randle Janvers Binderbeck and Private John Hodge (of No. 12 Platoon) both enlisted in 1914. Previously Handle wrote articles, mostly denunciatory. He denounced the Government of the day, tight skirts, Christian Science, scorching on scooters, the foreign policy of Patagonia and many other things. John, on the other hand, had not an agile brain. He worked on a farm in some incredibly primitive capacity, and the only thing that he denounced was the quality of the beer at the "Waggon and Horses." It certainly was bad.

In the Army Randle had no ambition except to get out of it and to remain a private while in it. His ambition for his civil career was tremendous. He tried to prod the placid John (his neighbour in their hut) into an equal ambition.

"My poor Hodge," said Randle to John, "you must cultivate a soul above manure. Does it satisfy you, as a man made in the image of God, to be able to distinguish between a mangold and a swede? Think of the glory of literature, the power of the writer to send forth his burning words to millions and sway public opinion as the west wind sways the pliant willow."

"I dunno as I'd prefer that to bird-scaring or suchlike," murmured John.

Goaded by such beast-like placidity, Randle would forget all restraint in trying to lash John into a worthy ambition.

It was for talking after "Lights out" that Randle and John were given a punishment of three days' confinement to barracks. Randle, pouring out a devastating torrent of words in the manner of a public orator, bitterly denounced the punishment; John, who had merely snored (the Captain said it took two to make a conversation), bore it with the stoicism of ignorance.

Randle used to dream of Peace Day. He heard Sir DOUGLAS HAIG order his Chief-of-Staff to summon Private Randle Janvers Binderbeck. "Release him at once," said HAIG, in Randle's dream, "to resume his colossal mission as leader and director of public opinion."

If John dreamed, it was of messy farmyards and draughty fields; but it is improbable that he dreamed at all.

They both went to the