wishes, in short, to urge upon all his readers the merits of "Mr. Punch's History of the Great War." Everything is here, in very noteworthy synthesis; the tragedy and the comedy inextricably mingled, as they must ever be, but as by more formal historians they are not.

Such is Mr. Punch's opinion on Mr. Punch's own book, which is no formal history of the War in the strict or scientific sense of the phrase; no detailed record of naval and military operations. Rather it is a mirror of varying moods, reflecting in the main how England remained steadfastly true to her best traditions; a reflex of British character during the days of doubt and the hours of hope that marked the strenuous and wearying days of the War.

All ages and classes come into the picture—combatants and non-combatants, young and old, men and women. And Mr. Punch's pencil plays a part at least equal to that of his pen, the record of each month being generously supplied with cartoons and illustrations by famous Punch artists. Into these pages has been compressed just what we need to remember about the War, and we are reminded of things which we had already forgotten. Here is the tragedy and the pathos of the Great War—even the comedy of those great years of undying memory.

No more popular history of the War has been written; it has been eulogised everywhere, for it is a book that every citizen of the Empire should read and be proud to possess. As a Christmas gift it is ideal, and will be gladly welcomed not only by those at home, but also by those in Canada, Australia, India, South Africa, and other parts of our far-flung Empire, whose gallant sons shared the horrors and the victory of those four-and-a-half years.

An Immortal Story

"Mr. Punch's History of the Great War" is a History we can all read, and all should read, for here is the record of the heroes who added to the glories of our blood and State—a roll that is endless—wonderful gunners and sappers, and airmen and despatch riders, devoted surgeons and heroic nurses, stretcher-bearers and ambulance drivers. "But Mr. Punch's special heroes are the Second-Lieutenants and the Tommy who went on winning the War all the time, and never said that he was winning it until it was won."

To read this book will help us to realise the great debt, unpaid and unpayable, to our immortal dead and to the valiant survivors, to whom we owe freedom and security.

It is "a corrective record," says The Times, "not only of what happened 'over there,' but of what people were saying and feeling at home"; while The Morning Post remarked: "Here Mr. Punch is the nation, deftly wielding the weapon of ridicule that has helped to kill so many enemy tyrants."

OUR MAN.

With Mr. Punch's Grateful Compliments to Field-Marshal Sir Douglas Haig.

["Punch," November 29th, 1918.

THE LAST STRAW.

The Camel Driver. "NOW, WHICH HUMP HAD THIS BETTER GO ON?"

The Camel. "IT'S ALL THE SAME TO ME. IT'S BOUND TO BREAK MY BACK ANYHOW."

Old Josh (who has just purchased stamp). "Would yer mind a-stickin' of it on for me, missie? Oi bain't no scholard."

UNAUTHENTIC IMPRESSIONS.

III.—Sir Eric Geddes.

Which is boyhood's commonest ambition, to run away to sea or to be something on a railway line? And how few, when they are grown up, find that they have realised either of these desires! The present Minister of Transport has freely confessed to his intimates that more than once, when he was floating paper-boats in his bath or climbing a tree in the garden to look out for icebergs from the crow's-nest, he felt in his child's heart that water was the ultimate quest, the adventure, the gleam. And yet for many a long year railways entranced and enslaved him. Often he would sit for hours, forgetful of the griddle cakes rapidly being burnt to a cinder, and gaze at the puffs of steam coming from the spout of the kettle or the quick vibrations of its lid, planning in his mind some greater and better engine that should be known perhaps as The Snorting Eric, and be enshrined in glass on Darlington platform.

Once, when he had bought a small model stationary engine and the methylated spirit lamp had by some accident set fire to the carpet, he was found after the conflagration had subsided standing serenely amongst the wreckage. When challenged as to its cause, "I cannot tell a lie," he replied calmly; "I did it with my little gadget." A few months later he and the present Ambassador of Great Britain at Washington had constructed a double line of miniature tracks, which connected all the rooms on the ground floor of the house and considerably interfered with the parlourmaid's duties. It was known to the family as the Great Auckland Railway.