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Dear Mr. Punch,―As an Anglo-Italian dachshund, with a Russian grandmother, I must thank you from the bottom of my heart for publishing Fritz's letter,^[1] and so doing your best (and your best is very good, my Missus says, because you voice "the real England") to right the almost Hunnish injustice done to my race.

If a Dachs is to be considered an alien, and, as you know, dear Mr. Punch, we were originally of good old English stock, and never "made in Germany" at all, what about Poms and Pekies?

For my own part I feel doubly hurt by caricatures, for I have done my little bit for the Allies. I claim to be the very first British dog who took a piece out of the leg of an Austrian enemy―it belonged to the son of the luggage-porter―in the early days of August, and my Missus, engaged in escaping from the country, was not as pleased as she should have been.

My little friend Franzl, another Briton born in Italy like myself, disputes my claim to the first bite. I must add with sorrow that my poor friend is now among the British subjects interned in Austria.

I am one of the very few dogs who travelled across Europe, in the early days of the War, by mobilization trains. I barked at the "great new siege-guns," as our fellow-travellers (and enemies) called them, as they passed me on their way to Germany; and when my Missus got arrested at Bozen station I made a point of telling the Polizei-Chef what I thought of him, hinting plainly that I had no objection to trying a second Austrian leg.

Meanwhile I cannot sufficiently thank you for the stand you have taken against this grave and almost Hunnish injustice (forgive me for repeating this expression, but I feel it strongly) to a true British race.

I am personally, as I have mentioned, part Russian by descent, but my silly Missus mixed up Poland with Russia proper, so I must sign myself,

Your very faithful (and always ready to bite your enemies) black-and-tan friend,

Clementina Sobieski.

P.S.―How soon do you think the War will end? Because it seems that till it does I must not grumble about (nor roll upon) a huge tickly red-white-and-blue bow, but wear it with pride and circumstance. Do I not suffer for my country?

Dear Mr. Punch,―With much interest and sympathy I read the pathetic letters of my kinsman Fritz in a recent issue of Punch. Having myself suffered from the same sudden coldness―not to say hostility―on the part of former friends, and knowing that I possess an undoubtedly authentic pedigree of at least eight generations of British-born Dachshunds, the time has I think arrived when I may justly claim to be a British dog. I therefore venture to suggest that in future we should be given an English name.

Dachs is the German for badger, and badgers are just as indigenous to the British Isles as to Germany. In Scotland and the North of England the country name for a badger is "brock." Why not then in future call us Brockhounds? The word has a true British ring.

Entrusting our cause to your all-powerful influence, believe me, dear Mr. Punch, with profound respect and fidelity. Your most obedient Servitor,

Charles Brock
(sometime Karl Dachs).

"An officer of the Lion says the Indomitable steamed at a rate undreamt of by her builders. The strokers off duty swarmed to the hold to help their comrades. Sir David Beatty at the end of the action signalled 'Well done strokers of the Indomitable."

Statesman (India).

We always had somebody to stroke our boats at Cambridge, but never at such a pace.

From Le Journal de Petrograd:―

Lorsque le Kaiser est à Berlin, le repas est plus simple encore: l'Empereur mange un potage et la viande qui a servi à faire oc potage avec du pain K K."

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KK bread is, of course, Kartoffelbrod, and not provender supplied by Lord Kitchener of Khartoum.