units of your nation,

It seems a little odd

That you should go and clap him into quod.

O. S.

NIGHTMARES.

II.

OF A T.B.D. CAPTAIN, WHO DREAMS THAT HE HAS FOUND HIS LOG BOOK MADE UP BY MR. PH*L*P G*BBS.

Time:—7.30 A.M.—Once more we set out on our never-ending mission, our ceaseless vigil of the seas. The ruddy weather-stained coxswain swung the wheel this way and that—his eyes were of the blue that only the sea can give—in obedience to, or rather in accord with, the curt, mystic, seaman-like orders of the young officer of the watch. "Hard a-port! Midships! Hard a-starboard! Port 20! Steady as she goes!" And ceaselessly the engine-room telegraph tinkled, and the handy little craft, with death and terror written in her workmanlike lines for the seaman, for all her slim insignificance to the landlubber on the towering decks of the great liner, swung smartly through the crowded water-way out to the perils lurking 'neath the seeming smile of the open sea: the guardian angel of our commerce it went, to meet—what Heaven alone could foretell!

Course.—S. 70° E. Towards the rising sun and our brethren in khaki, toiling in the wet mud as we toil on the wet waters!

Deviation.—1° E. Wonderful the accuracy of the little instrument whereon men's lives do hang, wise in the lore of the firmament!

Patent Log.—O. Nothing—as yet! What will it register ere the day be done? Or will its speckless copper lie rusting in the grey chill of the sea's dank depths?

Revs.—I don't know, but the propellers swirl faithfully and unceasingly.

Wind.—W. by E. Bearing a message across the vast Atlantic of hope and present succour from our new great Ally, the mighty Republic of the West. America, ah America! But we of the sea are men of few words, and this is not the place.

Force.—3. A balmy zephyr, yet with the sharp salt tang of the sea that a sailor loves.

Sea.—2. Softly undulating is the swell, scarce perceptible to inexperienced eyes, such as those of the land-lubbers on the towering decks of the great liners; gleaming dead copper and blue in the morning sun, flecked with spectral white in the distance—the easy roll of untrammelled waters!

Weather.—C. Detached clouds. Almost had I written "B," seeing the perfect filmy blue all around the horizon; but a seaman's scrutiny showed me faint fluffy wisps o'erhead, luminous and marged with palest gold; and ever must a sailor be suspicious of the treacherous weather-god.

Thermometer.—42°. Not yet is Winter here, but its threat approaches.

Barometer.—30·01. Will it stay there?

Remarks.—Once more we set out on our ceaseless vigil, our never-ending mission of the sea!

Remarks.—(7.30 P.M.).—Another day has passed, another day's duty has been done. Nothing apparently has happened outside the ordinary routine of the ship. One keen-eyed young officer has succeeded another on the bridge, with tired lines on a face grey beneath the great brown hood of his duffle—a face so youthful, yet with the knowledge of the command of men writ plain thereon. The propellers have swirled faithfully and unceasingly; the good ship in consequence has cleft the passive waves. But who knows what hideous lurking peril of mine or torpedo we have not survived, what baleful eye has not glowered at us, itself unseen, and retired again to its foul underworld, baulked of its thirsted prey?

III.

OF THE EDITOR OF THE DAILY YAP, ON OBSERVING THAT HIS SPECIAL CORRESPONDENT IS A RETIRED LIEUT., R.N., WHO SENDS HIM THE FOLLOWING ACCOUNT OF A PUSH:—

Time: 6.0 A.M. Course: (approx.) E. Distance run: 1-1/2 m. Wind: S.W. Force: 6. State of land: 5 (rough, owing to craters). Weather: R. Therm.: 35°. Bar.: 28·89. Remarks: Objectives attained. Observation hampered by weather.

BIG GAME SHOOTING.

"Angus Bowser, the popular feed merchant of Dartmouth, shot his mouse on Thanksgiving Day. With a couple of friends he left in auto about 1 o'clock Monday afternoon for Bowser's Station. The party was in the woods for about two hours when the mouse was sighted."—Canadian Paper.

We hope Mr. ROOSEVELT will not be jealous.

Extracts from a recent novel:—

"He stepped out at Fernhurst Station, and walked up past the Grey Abbey that watched as a sentinel over the dreamy Derbyshire town.... So it was the system that was at fault, not Fernhurst. Fairly contentedly he went back by the 3.30 from Waterloo."

The train system which sent him to the Midlands by the South-Western was doubtless deranged by military exigencies.

"Although Lord Warwick is the most sympathetic and attentive of listeners, he has not remembered more than one good story, and that has now been quoted in all the papers; we mean Lord Beaconsfield story is said to be unprintable; then why tantalise Lord Rosslyn, on account of the possible effect of his language on the pack, compensated by the Commissionership of the Kirk of Scotland. The other Beaconsfield story is said to be unprintable, then why tantalise us?"—Saturday Review.

Why, indeed?

THE GREAT UNCONTROLLED.

LORD RHONDDA. "LOOK HERE, JOHN, ARE YOU GOING TO TIGHTEN THAT BELT, OR MUST I DO IT FOR YOU?"

JOHN BULL. "YOU DO IT FOR ME. THAT'S WHAT YOU'RE THERE FOR."

Farmer. "WHY DO THEY LET THAT CLOCK CHIME? AREN'T THEY AFRAID THE HUNS MIGHT HEAR IT?"

Yokel. "BLESS YOU, THAT'S TO DECEIVE 'EM. IT'S 'ALF-A-HOUR FAST."

HOW TO BECOME A TOWN-MAJOR.

Through large and luminous glasses Second-Lieut. St. John regards this War and its problems. He is a man of infinite jobs. There are few villages in France of which he has not been Town Major. Between times he has been Intelligence Officer, Divisional Burial Officer, Divisional Disbursing Officer, Salvage Officer, Claims, Baths, Soda-water and Canteens Officer.

He was once appointed Town-Major of some brick-dust, a rafter and two empty bully-beef tins—all of which in combination bore the name of a village. He assumed his duties with a bland Pickwickian zest, which did good to the heart. He had boards painted.