shell-binding and cartridge-cases; a Turkish dud from Gallipoli to serve as a door-stop; a pencil-case made of an Austrian cartridge from the Carso; a cigarette-lighter made of English cartridge-cases; and several shell-cases transformed into vases for flowers. One of these at this moment contained some very beautiful late sweet peas, and the old gentleman had made a pleasant little joke, after dinner, about sweet peace blossoming in such a strange environment, and would probably make it again the next time they had guests.

You may be sure that, with the arrival of these souvenirs from such exciting parts, the conversation of the room became more interesting, although it may be that some of the stay-at-homes began after a while to feel a little out in the cold. What was an ordinary table to say when in competition with a .75 shell-case from the Battle of the Marne, or a mere Jubilee wedding-present against an inkstand composed of articles of destruction from Vimy Ridge, which had an irritating way of making the most of both its existences—reaping in two fields—by remarking, after a thrilling story of bloodshed, "But that's all behind me now. My new destiny is to prove the pen mightier than the sword"? Even though the Jubilee wedding-present came from Bond Street, and had once been picked up and set down again by QUEEN ALEXANDRA, what availed that? The souvenir held the floor.

Gradually the other occupants of the room had come to let the souvenirs uninterruptedly exchange war impressions and speculate as to how long it would last—a problem as to which they were not more exactly informed than many a human wiseacre. Under cover of this kind of talk, which is apt to become noisy, the humdrum of the others, the chairs and the table and the mantelpiece, and the pacific ornaments, and the mirror, could chat in their own mild way; the wicker-chair, for example, could wonder for the thousandth time how long it would be before the young Captain sat in it once more; and the mirror could remark that that would be a happy moment indeed when once again it held the reflections of the Lieutenant and his fiancée, who was one of the prettiest girls in the world.

"Do you think so?" the knob of the brass fender would inquire. "To me she seemed too fat and her mouth was very wide."

"But that's a fault," the tongs would reply, "that you find with every one."

To return to the night of which I want particularly to speak, no sooner had the clock made his monosyllabic utterance than "I am probably unique," the Vimy Ridge inkstand said.

"How?" the cigarette-lighter sharply inquired, uniqueness being one of his own chief claims to distinction.

"Strange," said the inkstand, "the blacksmith who made me was not blown to pieces. The usual thing is for the shell to be a live one, and no sooner does the blacksmith handle it than he and the soldiers who brought it and several onlookers go to glory. The papers are full of such incidents. But in my case—no. I remember," the inkstand was continuing—

"Oh, give us a rest," said the shell door-stop. "If you knew how tired I was of hearing about the War, when there's nothing to do for ever but stop in this stuffy room. And to me it's particularly galling, because I never exploded at all. I failed. For all the good we are any more, we—we warriors—we might as well be mouldy old fossils like the home-grown things in this room, who know of war or excitement absolutely nothing."

"That's where you're wrong," said a quiet voice.

"Who's speaking?" the shell asked.

"I am," said the door. "You're quite right about yourselves—you War souvenirs. You've done. You can still brag a bit, but that's all. You're out of it. Whereas I—I'm in it still. I can make people run for their lives."

"How?" asked the inkstand.

"Because whenever I bang," said the door, "they think I'm an air-raid."

Butler (the family having come down to the kitchen during an air-raid). "'YSTERIA—WITHIN REASON—I DON'T OBJECT TO. BUT WHAT I CAN'T STAND IS BRAVADO."

CUSS-CONTROL.

ERRARE EST DIABOLICUM.

From the Indian author of an Anglo-vernacular text-book:—

"As the book had to go through the press in haste I am sorry to write to you that there are some printers' devils, especially in English spelling."

"Nelson himself being a Suckling on his mother's side."—Observer.

We cannot know too much about the early history of our heroes.

"Captain William Redmond, son of Mr. John Redmond, has been awarded the D.S.O. He was commanding in a fierce fight and was blown out of a shell hole, sustaining a sprained knee and ankle. He rallied his men, and by promptly forming a defensive flank saved his part of the line."—Daily Express.

This must have been in Sir WALTER SCOTT'S proleptic mind when he wrote (in Rokeby):—

A BIRTHDAY GREETING FOR HINDENBURG.

F.M. SIR DOUGLAS HAIG (sings). "O I'LL TAK' THE HIGH ROAD

                            AN' YE'LL TAK' THE LOW ROAD...."

[The enemy has been fighting desperately to prevent us from occupying the ridges above the Ypres-Menin road, and so forcing him to face the winter on the low ground.]