and thunder will be allowed to continue. Rather, I expect, at the moment when John Postman pushes the budget of bills through the slit in the front-door, William Coalman, walking along the roof, will be dropping a couple of Derby Brights, in the mode of Santa Claus, down the chimney. This will get over the basement trouble, and deliveries of course will occur frequently, if irregularly, throughout the day at such times as the Government consider them to be necessary for making up the fire.

But whatever happens about deliveries the Inspector of Grates will be an infernal nuisance. Nothing makes a man more unpopular than interference in a quarrel between husband and wife, and I imagine that there will be many little suburban tragedies like the following:—

Scene.—A Kensington drawing-room. Mr. and Mrs. Smith are discovered shivering over the fire.

Mr. Smith. No, no. Not like that at all. You must break up that big lump first.

Mrs. Smith (coldly). This is the way my mother taught me to make up fires.

Mr. Smith. Your mother! Ha!

[Snatches the poker from her hand.

Mary (entering). The Coal Inspector has called.

Enter Coal Inspector.

Taking the poker from Mr. Smith's nerveless grasp, with three vicious thrusts he assassinates the already moribund fire. They watch him with faces of horror. As he turns to go they glance at each other, and with a simultaneous impulse seize the tongs and shovel and strike him with all their strength on the back of the head.

Mr. Smith rings the bell. Enter Mary.

Mr. Smith. Please sweep that up.

[She does so. He takes up the poker and resumes the altercation.

But let us turn again to the brighter side of things. Nothing fills a house-holder with such deep pleasure as a legitimate grievance against the Government on minor counts, especially when such grievances are properly ventilated in the daily Press. Thus:—

MORE GOVERNMENT CARELESSNESS.

SPARK FALLS ON A HEARTHRUG AT CROYDON.

Or

PRIME MINISTER ENCOURAGES PNEUMONIA.

FIRE GOES OUT AT PONDER'S END.

These are specimens of the headlines we may confidently expect, and little forms like the following will be found in the more popular dailies:—

PROTEST TO YOUR M.P.

I protest against the continued refusal of my fire to burn up, for which Government maladministration is responsible. I urge you to do all in your power to see that a warm ruddy glow is cast continually over my dining-room. The men, women and children of your constituency will judge you at the next election by your action in this matter.

And then there is the question of the miscellaneous material which is now being supplied in the name of coal, especially those large flat pieces of excellent slate. As things are now I often wonder that the miners don't make use of them for propaganda purposes. Chalked manifestoes such as—

We demand forty-four shillings more a ton, a five-hour week and control of the mines

would do much to convert the armchair critic as he digs about in the scuttle. When we get our coal from the State, however, we shall, of course, carefully set apart these sections of slate, wrap them in brown-paper and send them by parcel post to the nearest elementary school, with a note to say there must have been an inter-departmental error.

From State coal too it will only be a step to State firewood, and we know from the papers what lots the Government has of that. Army huts, tables, bed-boards, trestles, aeroplanes, railway trucks—there is no end to it all. And underneath the firewood, of course, carefully packed, comes the daily newspaper itself. There can be little doubt that, once they have obtained a grip of coal and kindling-wood, the Government will proceed to nationalise the Press.

Evoe.

REDS AND DARK BLUES.

[Mr. R. H. Tawney and Mr. G. D. H. Cole, both Oxford Fellows, represent academic intellectualism in excelsis at the G.H.Q. of Labour.]

"Our evening congregations have more than doubled in two months. Sans Deo!" Parish Magazine.

We don't wonder that two foreign languages were required to veil this shocking observation.

From a feuilleton ("dramatic, kinema and all other rights secured"):—

"So he just shook hands all round, and took off his coat, and lit a cigar, and laughed when Betty Cardon pointed out that he had put the wrong end of it in his mouth."—Daily Paper.

This incident should "film" well.

SHOULD AUTHORS PUBLISH THEIR OWN PORTRAITS?

[Mr. Punch herewith disclaims all intention of quoting the title of any actual book.]

"A Latter-day Lothario."

"The young charmers."