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of the one fatigue man he had managed to collect and keep—"Quarters! Quarters!" At such times distress of this sort has to be ignored, but this voice was so persistent as eventually to arrest Quarters' attention. "Quarters!" whispered the voice. "Yes, lad," answered he. "Is that you, Quarters?" continued the voice, changing from the distressed to the chatty. "Yes," said Quarters irritably, since the flare lights were becoming unpleasantly frequent and near, and the identity and whereabouts of the party must soon become apparent to the busy rifles on the German parapet. "Quarters," whispered the voice, with damnable iteration, "I want a new pair of trousers and a cap badge." On my honour, Charles, this is a true bill.

I was present, unofficially, at a discussion yesterday in the trenches, at which four of our less sedate youngsters were debating snipers in general, and, in particular, one of this unpopular class who is suspected of carrying on business in a partly demolished farmhouse on our half-left. They were considering the steps to be taken less to prevent than to punish him. The suggestion of the youngest of the party appeared to me the most subtle; it was obviously reminiscent of his misspent boyhood at home. "I should creep out to the farmhouse door by night," said he, impressively, "and listen for myself to find out if the sniper was inside." "And if he was?" asked the others. "Then," said the incorrigible, speaking slowly and with a due sense of climax, "I should ring the front door bell and run away." Can you conceive anything better calculated to annoy and make justly indignant a wholly preoccupied and slightly nervous sniper?

To show you how richly I deserve the abuse which our regular authorities still continue, even at this juncture, to pour upon my territorial head, let me tell you of my latest and worst iniquity. Last night at 11 P.M. I received a packet of socks, for distribution among my platoon. At 11.15 P.M. I handed the last pair of these to my servant, with a short homily on virtue. At 12 midnight my servant, having given me my last meal of the night, turned in. At 1.30 A.M. I trod in a pool, and at 2 A.M. my chilled feet were carrying me towards my servant's dug-out with felonious intent. Did I not stop at stealing my own servant's socks? No, Charles, I did not. Further and worse, I woke the wretched fellow up to ask him where the devil he'd hidden them. Can you wonder that every time I show my head above the parapet a hundred or so lovers of justice do their best to make an example of me?

Yours, Charles.

Who can it be that they are discussing?

Presumably this refers to an after dinner raid by the infantry.

"Von Adler, who was tried first, pleaded guilty, and asked if he could afterwards

The president informed him that he could not."—Aberdeen Evening Express.

When we are on the Bench we never allow prisoners to afterwards.

"We cannot hope to satisfy everybody, because it is a problem that has always provoked intense feeling, because everybody has previous convictions."—Pall Mall Gazette (Mr. Lloyd George on the Drink Question).

Not everybody. We ourselves—and there must be others equally stainless—have never been convicted for inebriety.

How they grow young in Russia (Old Style):—

"The eminent composer Scriabin died in Moscow this morning from blood-poisoning at the age of 35... Born on December 29, 1871 (old style), Scriabin went through a musical education..."—The Times.

{{blockquote| "There is at present a splendid opening in the town of Alberton, Prince Edward Island, for a blacksmith, who must be a good shoer, a barber and a teacher of music who can tune pianos and organs."

A chance for our old friend, the Harmonious Blacksmith.

Q. What would become of Thomas Atkins if the commissariat broke down?

A. He would still remain a gentleman—a preux chevalier, sans beurre et sans brioche.

ONE day last week a Cheerful Miller met a Despondent Brewer in the street.

"Well, how's business?" asked the Cheerful Miller tactlessly, rubbing his hands.

The Despondent Brewer's reply was clothed in language which seemed to intimate that business prospects were not superlatively good.

"For your own sake, personally, I am grieved to hear it," said the Cheerful Miller. "But of course one cannot overlook certain aspects of your trade that render its decline beneficial to the public at large."

The Despondent Brewer, a blunt, outspoken man, made reply, and made it good and strong. But the cheerfulness of the Cheerful Miller was deep-rooted in prosperity, and was not to he disturbed even by the blasts of the Brewer's despondency.

"Now my trade, happily, is free from any such taint," continued the Cheerful Miller. Pointing to the contents of a baker's shop he said, "Look there; that merchandise never did harm to anyone."

The Despondent Brewer looked, first at the crisp brown loaves, and then at a woman who had entered the shop to buy. The woman carried a baby; two other children were with her, holding on to her torn skirt. The Despondent Brewer saw her place a very large sum of money on the counter and receive in exchange a very small loaf.

Hitherto we have refrained from giving the exact words which the Despondent Brewer uttered to the Cheerful Miller. But we will now tell you exactly what he said.

"Thank God, I'm not a Miller," said the Despondent Brewer.

"The Lewes Guardians have sanctioned an application by the workhouse barber to take soldiers of the R.F.A., billeted in Lewes, to the workhouse to assist him and to gain experience. It was stated that the officers wished the men to learn some useful trade in addition to military duty. The chairman said he hardly liked the idea of amateurs experimenting on old men's shins, but other members said the barber guaranteed the work being done satisfactorily."—Birmingham Daily Post.

As nothing is said about the opinions of the hairy-legged paupers on the subject, we infer that they are unfit for publication.