class="smcap">Warneford triumph. Armed with his bombs he saw the approaching Zepp and flew high, six or seven thousand feet, to get above it. So far he had merely obeyed the dictates of his brave impulsive nature. He had given no thought to the chances of danger or death, but had flown direct to his duty. So far he was instinctive. But my friend, as well as being unusually brave, is a singularly retiring kind of man. He hates publicity, ostentation. Very shy and very quiet, he moves about the world unperceived, and has all the reluctances of the anchorite. Nothing but his deep feeling about the War could have got him to do anything as prominent as aviation, so that it is not unnatural that, as he mounted higher and higher and came nearer and nearer to the desired point over the Zepp, he should suddenly realise what it would mean for him if he succeeded in bringing it down.

Not that he had too much time for such reflections, for until the envelope intervened between him and the Zepp's marksmen he was being blazed at steadily. Bullets whistled about him. But one thinks swiftly, and in a flash he saw the extremely distasteful consequences to humility, and the dislocation of his secluded way of life if, dropping his bombs accurately, he earned (as he was bound to do) the Victoria Cross. All this he saw, and was properly furious at his bad luck—at the trick that destiny had played on him. He then dropped the bombs, the envelope ignited, and the Zepp, with its crew and its deadly cargo, fell to earth and was blown to atoms.

Now my point is that for such a hero as my friend, whose whole soul is to be outraged by publicity and réclame, and much of whose dearly loved privacy is to be lost for ever, there ought to be a V.C. above and beyond the ordinary V.C.—a super V.C.; for he performed not one deed, but two: he not only destroyed the Zepp but he surrendered his sanctuary.

An Exhibition of Mr. Punch's War Cartoons is now being held at the Leicester Galleries, Leicester Square.

TO THE PRINCE OF ARTILLERYMEN

who recently brought down a Zeppelin.

When, Gunner, through the breech you passed
That wingéd messenger of death,
And having made the breech-block fast,
With pounding heart and bated breath
Drew back the rod of tempered steel
That frees the charge and fires the fuse,
I would have given much to feel
My feet in your distinguished shoes.

But when your deadly missile burst
Right on the rover, checked his speed,
And made him rock like one whose thirst
Has frankly caused him to exceed,
You must have felt as feels a god
To whom whole nations bend the knee—
Whichever of the dozen odd
Disputant gunners you may be.

"Who can tell but what Rumania's watchful eye will yet sound the bugle note which at the psychological moment will unite the Balkan thrones?"—Shanghai Mercury.

Rumania seems to have something more than a speaking eye. It even plays tunes.

From a German paper quoted by The Times:—

"The German people fully recognises the nicely retiring manner of the Kaiser during this war."

The Allies are confident that it will receive further recognition before long.

In an article entitled "The Superiority of German Strategy" the Frankfurter Zeitung says:—

"The road before us is, however, long and calls for great achievements. We are not lacking in strength. Let us wait and see."

Mr. Asquith is wondering what this flattery portends.

"I have spoken of the good there is in grooves, in the groovy way of life ... Who can be blind to the fact that life in a groove leads to bigotry and nar-grooves, in the groovy way of life?"

"Claudius Clear" in "The British Weekly."

Not we. We have never been blind to anything of the sort.

"Little Lady, during all these months thoughts entirely with you, treasuring up unbleaching memory of happy hours spent together."—Advertisement in "The Times."

Presumably in the wash-house. Unless some confusion arose, in the mind of the advertiser, between dying and bleaching.

ECONOMY IN DRESS: THE NEW SMARTNESS.

"It's lovely, but I'm afraid thirty guineas is too much for me."

"It is a good deal, but Madam must remember this a genuine old dress. We Guarantee it to have been in constant wear for at least five years."

"I say! that's a smart frock, if you like!"

"H'm, yes. But it's only imitation—not real old."

"I like it, but it looks dreadfully new."

"If you feel that, Madam, might I suggest that you have it soiled by our special process? We only charge three guineas extra."

"Come along, Mabel. Don't make your mouth water looking in there. Old clothes are not for the likes of Us."

Visitor. "And how did you know when you were wounded?"     Tommy. "Saw it in The Daily Mail."

MATCH PLAY.

Since the Budget was produced the match-mendicant is at work more industriously than ever, patting his pockets and looking round expectantly at his fellow-travellers. The surreptitious filling of private boxes in restaurants and club smoke-rooms is rapidly on the increase. Yet if men would only meet the proposed match-tax calmly and thoughtfully they might still remain honest and independent.

There are too many three-match men. Just as the tennis-player sends down the first ball into the net with a fine abandon, and is more careful with the second, so the three-match man strikes his first match without arresting his progress along the street, only slows down a little with the second, and not until the third is in his fingers does