me, could possibly be served by demanding an imitation of an owl at eleven o'clock on a wintry morning. It argued a perverted sense of humour at least; and in truth I had been expecting a slight lapse from the paths of sanity on the part of our Mr. Carfax for some time. For, you see, he is a pivotal man who cannot get away until others arrive to replace the pivots, and it is difficult to persuade him that all is for the best. But he informed me that "Hoot up" had nothing whatever to do with, the night-cries of owls or any other kind of bird, but was in fact the idiotic way in which the natives of this country pronounce "Hut ab" (Hat off).

Now you realise what horrid Huns we are. Civilians are obliged to take off their hats to British officers—a very grim business. In reality, except that we are the hated English, it makes very little difference to the Bosch, for the innkeeper here says that orders concerning the taking off of hats to all and sundry became so stringent in 1918 that the local postman was constantly interrupted in his duties to answer the salutes of people who wished to be on the safe side.

Bosches who have really fought for their country do not object to "Hoot-upping." They of course are the first to realise that inhabitants of occupied countries were forced by them to "hoot up," and that therefore there is a certain justice now in the retaliation. Anyway, from these people the procedure does not greatly interest us; but the overdressed Bosch profiteer, fat and muttony—to hoot him up in his own village! Really, you know, in some ways the War has been worth while.

But the knowledge that he is carrying out a perfectly definite order does not make the subaltern turn any the less pink the first time he ticks off a civilian for failing to comply with the regulations. No, you can't produce a really good Hun without lots of practice. I made almost a companion of the Sergeant-Major at first, because he used to say it for me; but the second day I got caught. It came as I was picking my way down the main (and only) street of the village. My attention being riveted upon keeping my feet, for there are little streams on either side of the street which freeze and flood it, making life in army boots difficult, I did not notice the approach of the fellow until he was on me. And then I saw it was a real Hunnish Hun; and, oh joy! he had a fur coat and a face which I had not thought could exist outside bad dreams. His wicked little eyes glared insolently at me, and he strolled by with his hat stuck at a rakish angle; and for the life of me, would you believe it? I could not remember the magic words. Turning in desperation I commanded him without further delay to "hot hoop." He appeared surprised. He made no sort of motion to comply with my order. "Hut hop!" I cried, purple with vexation, and still the abominable article of headgear remained jauntily perched over his square ugly face. Advancing threateningly I thundered out that it was my firm intention that he should, under peril of instant arrest, "take his confounded, hat off!" At this final command (the first he had found intelligible) he grabbed hastily at the offending article, slipped up on the ice, and, in my moment of triumph, so did I.

It is a sickening business sitting on the ground opposite a man you don't like, but I had the better of it in the end, for I had sat down where the water was already frozen, and he hadn't.

Our Mr. Carfax too had an awkward incident happen to him. We were walking down the street discussing the Pay Warrant, which gives the young Army of Occupation a bonus from February 1st, and gives us nothing for doing their job until May, when suddenly a civilian passed us with a mere nod. Mr. Carfax went on with his insubordinate conversation, oblivious to the insult.

"Mr. Carfax," I said sadly, "when will you learn that private affairs must never be allowed to interfere with military duties?"

"Sir," he said, surprised and aggrieved, "though a pivotal man of some years' standing I really am taking an interest in my platoon—"

"It is not that," I said; "but do you know you allowed a civilian to pass on your side without taking his hat off?"

Scarlet with chagrin he rushed back after the offender and "hooted him up" more sternly than I could have believed possible for anybody but a Hun to the manner bred.

"I'm most awfully sorry," said the man, "but I've only just got out and didn't know about it." It transpired (as they say) that he was an Englishman who had been interned in the village for four years.

L.

["All horses selected from the Expeditionary Forces for shipment to the United Kingdom must have the letter Y clipped on the off saddle."—-Remount Regulation.]

Elated War-Horse (on completion of operation). "HOME, JOHN!"

"Mr. —— will play the flue obbligato for Miss ——, and none better could be found."—Provincial Paper.

Very kind of him, no doubt, but most of us would prefer to do without this accompaniment.

PUNCH'S APPEAL FOR "OUR DAY."

The following letter, dated March 12th, has been received from Sir ARTHUR STANLEY:—

"The completion of the Fund which Mr. Punch has raised in connection with the 'Our Day' appeal gives me the opportunity of again expressing my grateful appreciation of this splendid effort.

"The total remittances we have received from you amount to £11,040 5s. 5d., and the long list of subscribers shows how loyally and generously the readers of Punch have rallied to your appeal.

"On behalf of the Joint War Committee of the British Red Cross Society and the Order of St. John, I should like to thank you and your readers most cordially for the welcome assistance you have provided for the relief of the sick and wounded."

"To-day in the garden:—

"Refine the onion-bed thoroughly."—Daily Mail.

Have you tried eau-de-Cologne?

NOUVELLES DE PARIS.

Paris, March 1919.

DEAREST POPPY,—I have a piece of news to send you from here that will give you a veritable frisson d'angoisse. No, it doesn't concern the Peace Conference; it's something far worse than that. Figurez-vous, the new style of coiffure is severe to the point of being absolutely terrifying—that is to the woman who has been shivering on the brink of thirty for any length of time.

Foreheads are coming in again—que c'est embêtant! I thought they'd been abolished long ago. I wish I could get hold of the méchant (for I know it's a man) who is introducing them now. I had my hair dressed chez Manet to-day in the new style, and when I saw myself afterwards I sat down and wept like the women of Babylon.

Quel horreur! My locks were strained, brushed, tightened back, and I was left high and dry with my exposed brow revealing four furrows to an unsympathetic world. C'est navrant. We're not to be allowed even the soupçon of a wave or the lightest bouffée, while side-curls are quite démodés.

I think the situation is really tragic. So few women can afford to have a forehead. The result will be that lots of our débutantes of some seasons ago will be "coiffées à Ste. Catherine" in more senses than one.

The "jewellery" one wears now is made of wood; we have carved wooden beads, wooden bracelets, even wooden rings. "Therefore it will be cheap!" you exclaim.