say, "No, there's nothing in particular, but let's have a shoot all the same; for example, there's a dog that barks abominably every night opposite L 57. Couldn't you abolish him?" Incidentally we no longer give our trenches names, such as Piccadilly, Rotten Row, but mere letters and numbers; the reason being that one of the staff was picked up in a fainting condition, having strolled down Park Lane and then found himself, to his horror, in Peckham High Street. The shock—his own home being in Baling Broadway—had proved too much for his constitution. However, to refer back to the map once more, our barricade across the ditch is a most convenient spot for observing artillery fire and as such is frequently used by me. Unfortunately my view was always hasty and badly interrupted by the attentions of a Turkish sniper behind their barricade. This man's name was Ibrahim, and he was a Constantinople cab-driver, married, with two children, both boys. You may be surprised that we know so much about the enemy, but we live in such close proximity that opposite the Lancashire Fusiliers a Turk named Mahomet, who lives at No. 3, Golden Horn Terrace, told the reporter of The Worpington Headlight that for three years he had been suffering from pains in the back—but that's another story. Incidentally Mahomet at present inhabits a sniper's post surrounded by a perfect thicket of barbed-wire, and I had a bright scheme for its removal. I got hold of a trench catapult, an ingenious contrivance of elastic that hurls a bomb some hundreds of yards, and placed in it a harpoon attached to a long coil of rope. The idea was that on release of the catapult the harpoon would be hurled in the air, the rope would neatly pay out, and then, as soon as the harpoon had grappled Mahomet, all we would have to do would be to haul on the rope and over would come the whole bag of tricks. Unfortunately something went wrong, and the rope, instead of neatly uncoiling, flailed round the trench like a young anaconda, and, catching a harmless spectator by the leg, hurled him twenty feet in the air. Immediately the opposition lines resounded like a rifle-booth at a country fair. However our spectator descended unpunctured, and the only damage done was to our vanity, when Mahomet threw over a message attached to a stone to ask whether we would repeat the performance as he and a pal had a bet on as to who was the best shot and wanted a human aeroplane to judge.

But we have got a long way from Ibrahim. Ibrahim possessed the headpiece I am sending you. I could not think of a method for obtaining it, as his vigilance was deadly. However a bright thought struck me, and I assiduously saved up my rum ration for a month. Then one bitter cold night I tossed over the accumulation in a bottle wrapped up in an old sock. Presently there resounded in the still air a pleasant bubbling sound indicative of liquid being poured out of a glass receptacle, then a deep sigh, followed by a profound silence. Inch by inch I crawled over our barricade and slowly wormed my way along the ditch. At last I reached the Turkish barricade and cautiously slid my hand over the top until my fingers encountered Ibrahim's toque. Then I gave a gentle tug. Horror! he had the flap down under his chin. Unmanned for a moment I recovered, and I slowly slid my fingers down his hirsute neck and with a gentle titillation slid the flap clear. Ibrahim merely stirred in his sleep and resumed his slumbers. Triumphantly hugging the trophy to my bosom I crawled back to our barricade.

The saddest part of the tale is yet to come. I had promised to procure you a trophy unstained by association with human slaughter, but when the day dawned there lay poor Ibrahim stiff and stark behind his barricade, killed by a cold in his head.

PANTOMIME ANNOUNCEMENTS.

"Message Boy Wanted for Butchery."

Brechin Advertiser.

A lot of people are after that boy.

"Taxi driver who laid down Fare at Royal Hotel at 2.45 p.m. on Christmas Day, would oblige by returning Gent's Umbrella to Hotel."

Aberdeen Journal.

We gather that it had been a wet morning.

Cyril (eating his bread-and-jam—with not too much jam). "This is prepostrous—this war economy."

HUNTIN' WEATHER.

A Debt of Honour.

Mr. Punch ventures to plead on behalf of the nine hundred men of the Royal Naval Division who were taken prisoners by the enemy in the retirement from Antwerp. Less fortunate than those of the same Division who were interned in Holland (for want of official information most people imagine that all the missing were so interned), they lack the necessities of life. Parcels of food are sent to them, fortnightly to each man, as well as clothing and tobacco; and it is known that they receive all that is sent. Mr. Punch begs his readers to help the fund from which these simple comforts are provided, and to address their gifts to Lady Gwendolen Guinness, at 11, St. James's Square, S.W.

From a report of Mr. Lloyd George's speech:—

"The works of Ireland have been extremely helpful, and I am glad to acknowledge that I have been extremely helpful."

Manchester Guardian.

On this occasion the Minister of Munitions appears to have allowed himself the privilege of "thinking aloud."

"The Daily Mail will not be published to-morrow, and for that reason we seize the occasion to-day of bidding our readers a merry Christmas,"—Daily Mail of December 24th.

And a very good reason too.

Seasonable.

"The Canadian Government has granted to Canadian troops oversea and in training at home a Christmas allowance of one chilling."

Provincial Paper.

"He much regretted that it was not possible to-day to communicate the results of the Derby Report in any detail, or, indeed, at