surrendered at that, blushing above the door-handle.

"I—I—I say, I should like to get the answer first-hand. Won't you ask me to tea, please?"

I don't yet know what it feels like to capture a prisoner of war, but that's how I assisted at the taking of a prisoner of love.

The Jester. "Hallo, Sonny! Choosin' yer turkey?"

Diminutive Patriot. "Garn! Yer don't catch me 'avin' turkey these days. Wy, I'd as soon eat a German sausage!"

KEEPING IN THE LIMELIGHT.

It was a grand meeting of the literary gents. They had all heard about the War from their publishers, and there had been one or two suggestive allusions in The Author. The question of the moment was, "How can we help?" The chairman was the President of the Society of Authors, who knew everybody by sight.

The first to rise was Mr. Harold Begbie, but he failed to catch the Chairman's eye, which had been secured by Mr. H. G. Wells. This well-known strategist rose to point out that what England wanted in the event of an invasion was the man, the gun and the trench. When he said man he meant an adult male of the human species. A gun was a firearm from which bullets were discharged by an explosion of gunpowder. A trench, he averred, amid loud protests from the ex-Manager of the Haymarket Theatre, was a long narrow cut in the earth. He had already pointed out these facts to the War Office, but had received no reply. Apparently Earl Kitchener required time for the information to soak in. Was it or was it not a national scandal? His new nov——(Deleted by Chairman).

After a little coaxing, Mr. Eden Phillpotts was persuaded to rise to his feet. He said deferentially in the first place that he was not a savage. (General cheering, in which might be detected a note of sincere relief.) He lived at Torquay. (Oh, oh.) He had never been to London before, and was surprised to find it such a large place. (General silence.) He had been a pacifist—(Hear, hear)—but he now thought the German Emperor was a humbug. He wished it to be known that his attitude was now one of great 'umbleness. The war could go on as far as he was concerned. (Applause.) Although he had given up writing about Dartmoor he had that morning applied for the post of Military Member of the Invasion Committee of the Torquay Division of Devonshire. (Profound sensation.) He didn't know if he should get it, but his friend, Mr. Arnold Bennett, with whom he used once to collab—— (Deleted by Chairman).

Mr. Harold Begbie then took the floor, but was interrupted by the arrival of the Military Member of the Invasion Committee of the Thorpe-le-Soken Division of Essex.

Hanging his feathered helmet on the door-peg and thrusting his sword and scabbard into the umbrella-stand, Mr. Arnold Bennett took a seat at the table, afterwards putting out his chest. Mr. Wells was observed to sink into an elaborately assumed apathy. But in his eyes was a bitter envy.

Mr. Bennett, after clearing his throat, said that he had settled the War. Everybody was to do what they were told and what that was would be told them in due course. He and the War Office had had it out. He had insisted on something being done, and the War Office, which wasn't such a fool as some authors thought (with a meaning look at Mr. Wells), had been most affable. Everything now was all right. His next book was to be a war nov—— (Deleted by Chairman).

Mr. Harold Begbie then rose to his feet simultaneously with Mr. Wm. le Queux.

Mr. Wm. le Queux said that he owned an autograph portrait of the Kaiser. It was signed "Yours with the belt, Bill." The speaker would sell it on behalf of the War Funds and humbly apologised to his brother authors for having knocked about so much in his youth with emperors and persons of that kind. It should not occur again. He pointed out that he had foretold this War, and that his famous book, The Great War of—whenever it was—was to be brought up to date in the form of —— (Deleted by Chairman).

At this juncture it was brought to the Chairman's notice that Mr. H. G. Wells was missing. An anxious search revealed the fact that the ornamental sword and plumed casque of the Military Member of the Invasion Committee of the Thorpe-le-Soken Division of Essex had disappeared at the same time, and the meeting broke up in disorder.

THE SUPREME TEST.

The Civilian. "I don't know how you do it. Fancy marchin' thirty miles with the rifle, and that pack on yer back!"

The Tommy. "Yes, and mind You—it's Tipperary all the way!"]

Our Sporting Press Again. "Sporting rifles have been bought in Paris for pheasant-shooting."—Daily News.

THE CHRISTMAS SPIRIT.

I was sitting in front of the fire—dozing, I daresay—when he was announced.

"Father Christmas."

He came in awkwardly and shook me by the hand.

"Forgive my unceremonious entry," he said. "I know I ought to have come down the chimney, but—well, you understand."

"Things are different this year," I suggested.

"Very different," he said gloomily. He put his sack down and took a seat on the other side of the fire-place.

"Anything for me?" I wondered, with an eye on the sack between us.

"Ah, there's no difference there," he said, brightening up as he drew out a big flat parcel. "The blotter from Aunt Emily. You needn't open it now; it's exactly the same as last year's."

I had been prepared for it. I took a letter from my pocket and dropped it in the sack.

"My letter of thanks for it," I explained. "Exactly the same as last year's too."

Father Christmas sighed and gazed into the fire.

"All the same," he said at last, "it's different, even with your Aunt Emily."

"Tell me all about it. To begin with, why didn't you come down the chimney?"

"The reindeer." He threw up his hands in despair. "Gone!"

"How?"

"Filleted."

I looked at him in surprise.

"Or do I mean 'billeted'?" he said. "Anyway, the War Office did it."

"Requisitioned, perhaps."

"That's it. They requisitioned 'em. What you and I would call taking 'em."

"I see. So you have to walk. But you could still come down the chimney."

"Well, I could; but it would mean climbing up there first. And that wouldn't seem so natural. It would make it more like a practical joke, and I haven't the heart for practical jokes this year, when nobody really wants me at all."

"Not want you?" I protested. "What rubbish!"

Father Christmas dipped his hand into his sack and brought out a card of greeting. Carefully adjusting a pair of horn spectacles to his nose he prepared to read.

"Listen to this," he said. "It's from Alfred