their rifles pointing into the darkness beyond. But not a shot was fired, and when dawn broke all was well. True, the first light revealed the fact that I had got us all with our backs to the enemy, so that if there had been a battle it would have been between ourselves and Mr. Jones's platoon. But you can't have everything; and sense of direction never was my strong point. Never shall I forget our first breakfast in the trenches. It consisted of bacon and eggs, marmalade and tea. How strange and novel an experience it was to be at war!

Mistress. "Well, Jane, what sort of news have you from your young man at the front?"

Jane. "Fatal, Mum."

Mistress. "Dear, dear! I'm very sorry——"

Jane. "Yes, Mum. 'E's broke it off, Mum."

Never shall I forget.... Now I know there was something else, but there are such a lot of things that I am never going to forget about this War that I cannot be expected to remember them all. It was something about someone not shaving, and being in the rear rank while the front rank was being inspected, and in the front rank while the rear rank was being inspected. It was by such brilliance of strategy as this that I was able to do the Bosch out of that little dinner he meant to have in Paris. It was owing to the same, and to my being overheard to remark that I could run the blessed War by myself better than this, that I was given a pen and a piece of blotting-paper and told to carry on. After which, of course, the wretched Bosch never even got as far as Calais.

Truly a remarkable man! But hear the crisis of my career.

This letter is written in England. If you would only read your morning paper properly, you would know why. Looking down the Births Column to see if anybody you know has been born, you would have noticed that We, Henry, are the father of a son, a tall, good-looking fellow, who weighs eight, eighteen or eighty pounds (I could not be sure which) and is a man of few words, obviously the strong silent sort.

On hearing the news we at once reported our achievement to the Staff and asked what we were to do about it. We were informed that, as far as we were concerned, the War stood adjourned for eight days. Later, as we stood in the street trying to think it all out and to remodel our demeanour so as to suggest the responsibility and respectability of a father, we were asked severely why we were standing idle, and told that, unless we were seen forthwith moving off for England at the double, action would be taken. So home, where we were very respectfully saluted by the New Draft. A strange but nice woman who had the parade in hand invited us to come a little closer, but this we refused to do, giving as our reason that we were beginning as we meant to go on and that undue familiarity is bad for discipline. We then addressed a few kind words to the Lady in the Case, who appeared to take it all very much as a matter of course, and with her discussed future dispositions. The Army and the Bar were negatived at once; it was suggested (not by us) that we have already in our small family an example sufficiently fortunate of both. He will be a sailor or a financier. There is something about sailors; it is always a pleasure and a pride to take one of them out to dinner in a public place, especially if he's your own. On the other hand the financier alternative is suggested with a view to the possibility (as things tend) that it may be he who has to take us out to dinner.

Yours ever,  Henry.

"The fall of rain during February in Exeter amounted to 5.39 inches. During the same month 80 hours 58 mins. of sunshine were recorded, being an average of 2 hours 42 mins. per day. The chief tradesmen of the district are responsible for this gratifying result." Express and Echo (Exeter).

They seem to be easily satisfied down in the West. If London tradesmen take to purveying the weather we shall want a little less rain and a good deal more sunshine.

IN PRAISE OF PUSSY.

[Professor Robert Wallace, of Edinburgh University, has been defending the cat as a useful member of society and a defence against the ravages of plague, and encourages the breeding, collecting and distributing of types of cats known to be "superior ratters."]

In these days of stress and passion
Feline charms are out of fashion,
And the cult of Pasht is coldly looked upon;
But cat-lovers may take solace
From the words of Robert Wallace,
Who's a scientific Edinboro' don.

Cats as lissome merry minxes,
Or impenetrable Sphinxes—
Leonine, aloof, impassive, topaz-eyed—
Leave our staid professor chilly,
For he clearly thinks it silly
To regard them from the decorative side.

It is not their grace, now serious,
Now malicious, now mysterious,
That appeals to his utilitarian mind;
But, when viewed as extirpators
Of disease-disseminators,
Then he looks with admiration on their kind.

For if cats should ever shun us
Rats with plague would overrun us,
And they're bad enough on economic grounds;
For their annual depredation
On the food-stuffs of the nation
He would estimate at twenty million pounds.

True, O Puss, romance is lacking
In your latest champion's backing,
But at least he isn't talking through his hat;
And if, after all, what matters
Is to have "superior ratters"—
Well, he pays the highest homage to the Cat.

HEROISM.

There are heroes and heroes. All heroes are heroes: that is certain. But there are some heroes whose heroism involves more thought (shall I say?), more material, than that of others, who are heroic in a kind of rush, without any premeditation—heroic by instinct. Now it seems to me that the rewards of the more complex heroes ought—but let me illustrate.

I have a friend who is a hero. The other day in France he did one of the most desperate things, and did it apparently as a matter of course; and he is to have the V.C. for it. But is the V.C. enough'? If it's enough for the instinctive heroes, is it enough for him? That is my question. The secret history of his deed is known only to me and to himself, and when I give you an idea of it you will be able to answer.

I will tell you.

Never mind what the deed was. All I will say is that it is comparable to the glorious feat of Lieutenant Warneford, who bombed the Zeppelin from above and sent it crashing down. My friend is an aviator too, and since I am not allowed to describe his great performance in detail let us pretend that it was an exact replica of the