Where Russia is concerned Mr. BALFOUR declines to be included among the prophets; all he knows is that that unhappy country has not yet evolved a Government with which he can negotiate. He was more explicit regarding the German tale of a Privy Council in 1913, presided over by the KING, at which Mr. ASQUITH and Lord KITCHENER conspired with Sir EDWARD GREY and Lord MORLEY (whose "Reminiscences" are strangely silent on the subject) to declare war upon Germany. Who after this shall dare to say that the Germans have no imagination?

Mr. WILL THORNE considers that compulsory rationing ought to be postponed until the menus at the hotels and clubs are cut down to two courses. Somebody ought to invite Mr. THORNE, who from his appearance I should judge to have a healthy appetite, to partake of one of these (alleged) Gargantuan feasts and see what he thinks of it. His comment would probably be, "Can't we go and have a steak somewhere?"

When is a leaflet not a leaflet? "When it is an election address," says Sir GEORGE CAVE. At the same time he warned Mr. KING that if he thought to get round the new regulations by embodying his peculiar views in the form of electioneering literature he might still collide with "Dora." The warning was surely superfluous. The last thing any Pacifist M.P. wishes to do is to submit himself to the judgment of his constituents.

Tuesday, November 27th.—Mr. MACPHERSON'S statement that officers with the Expeditionary Force are supplied with whisky at prices varying from 3s. 6d. to 6s. a bottle may have horrified the teetotalers, but has intensified the patriotic desire of some of our Volunteers to share the hardships of these gallant fellows in the trenches.

There was another long-drawn-out duel between Mr. HOUSTON and Sir LEO CHIOZZA MONEY on the subject of shipping freights. The House always enjoys these encounters, although the opponents, like the toy "wrestlers" of our youth, never get much "forrader." The Member for West Toxteth has probably forgotten more about the shipping trade than his opponent ever knew. But for all that Sir LEO keeps his end up, though his assertion that the consumer would not benefit if the Government charged "Blue-book rates" for ordinary cargo does not convince everybody. But then everybody does not understand Blue-books.

Wednesday, November 28th.—The Peers were surprised to hear from Lord COURTNEY that he was not of the creed of the conscientious objector. They had been under the impression that his public career had been one long orgie of conscientious objection to everything that did not emanate from his own capacious brain. Even his hat and his waistcoat proclaim his defiance of conventional opinion.

For weeks past the House of Commons has been invited to believe that German "pill-boxes" were composed of British cement; and the case seemed clear when a British officer wrote from Flanders the other day that he had discovered in the German lines a label plainly marked "Artificial Portland." Members were relieved to learn that the label came from a Belgian factory taken over by the Germans. "If those pill-boxes had really been made of our cement," said a Medway representative, "we should be hammering at them still."

Thursday, November 29th.—Question-time would be much more amusing if Ministers and Members were more accomplished in the art of repartee. A few are quick enough. When Mr. LEES SMITH complained that one of his statements had been described by the FOREIGN SECRETARY as a mare's nest Lord ROBERT CECIL swiftly replied that he did not remember the incident, but had no doubt that if his right hon. friend used the term it was justified.

Under the Redistribution scheme as arranged by the Boundary Commissioners the name West Birmingham would have disappeared from the roll of constituencies. In graceful tribute to the memory of JOSEPH CHAMBERLAIN the House unanimously agreed to its reinstatement. It also changed the name of the Woodstock division to the Banbury division; but the idea that this was done as a compliment to the junior Member for the City of London is, I am told, erroneous.

"In such a Questionable Shape."

"This, of course, brings up the almighty question—Who wrote Shapespeare?"—Mr. George Moore in "The Observer."

A short answer to this almighty question is—Either Mr. GEORGE MOORE or the writer who determined "to call a spade a spape."

"Cook-General, good (26), Wanted immediately, or by December 6th, for three months, in Exeter. Wages 50s. per mouth."—Express and Echo (Exeter).

We confidently hope that she has only one.

BELIEVE ME OR BELIEVE ME NOT.

Although he had been rendered absolutely dumb by shell-shock the soldier was able to earn a little extra money by doing odd jobs. But nothing could get his speech back. It was a very stubborn and perplexing case. For eighteen months he had not succeeded in uttering a word, though understanding everything that was said to him. All the usual devices had failed; every kind of sudden surprise to startle him into articulation had been attempted; electricity had been passed through the muscles of the tongue and larynx; doctors had discussed him with a volubility only equalled by his own silence. But he remained dumb. It seemed hopeless.

Last week the mistress of the house where he was mostly employed sent him to the grocer's with, as usual, a slip of paper. The paper was addressed to the grocer, and it said, "Please do your utmost to give the bearer some sugar and tea. Even the smallest quantity will be gratefully welcomed."

Entering the shop the soldier laid the message on the counter, prepared to wait patiently for the harassed tradesman to attend to him. He had often been there before and knew what it meant; but on this occasion the grocer instantly advanced to meet him, took the paper smilingly and read it.

"Certainly," he replied. "I suppose four pounds of each would be enough to go on with?"

"Four pounds!" said the soldier. "Strike me pink, she'd think herself the Queen with four ounces!"

Things we should like to see Illustrated.

From a recent novel:—

"... Then the gong went, and she followed it into the dining-room ..."

"Class A (fit for general service) is subdivided as follows:—1—Men actually fit for general service in any theatre in all respects. 2—Recruits who should be fit for A1 as soon as trained. 3—Men who have previously served with an expeditionary force who should be fit for £1 as soon as 'hardened.'"—Scots Paper.

They must be well worth it, even in a soft state.

More War Economy.

"BUTCHER.—Wanted, Second Hand."—Manchester Evening News.

"Southport. Mrs. ——, Homely Apts.; sea view; piano: mod."—Daily Paper.

We approve Mrs. ——'s candour about the piano, which accords with our own experience in seaside boarding-houses.

"Germany recently began calling up Class 19120."—Western Mail.

The end of the War may be in sight, but it still seems to be some distance off.

"In districts where a number of shops were serving the same people and streets, they would be asked to co-operate so that butcher, baker and grocer would use the same vans. Traders who refused to comply with the scheme would be dealt with."—Evening Paper.

But surely such unpatriotic shopkeepers should not be dealt with.

"Lost, on or about September 30 last, a Gold Bar Brooch, with chaste Scotch terrier in centre."—Manchester Evening News.

We are glad to see that at least one of our dumb friends has not been affected by the wave of bigamy that has been sweeping over the country.

THE HUT.

As ordered, we marched the Battery to B 35d 45.25. Reader, have you ever lived in, or on, an unfurnished map-reference in Flanders? If not, permit me to inform you that this group of letters and numerals represented a mud-flat pocked with ancient shell-craters, through which loafed an unwholesome stream under a bilious-looking sky. The Junior Subaltern, fresh from home, asked where the billets were. We could but bless his happy innocence and remind him that as Army Field Artillery we were nobody's children, the orphan bravoes of the Western Front, and that for us a bunch of map co-ordinates was considered ample provision.

The horses, having with proper pride sneered at the stream, were silenced with their nosebags, and then we asked our cook what about it? That dauntless artist in bully-beef promptly brought our far-travelled mess-table into action in the open, and thus publicly we sat round it on our valises and drank Vichy water until the novelty palled. Then the rain began and the men once more united in wishing themselves in Tennessee.

The Captain was now driven from the bosom of the mess to find a Camp Commandant, and to tell him, with the Major's compliments, that even the personnel of Army Brigades were liable, in the words of the book, to deteriorate rapidly if unprotected from damp. The officer, whom he found lurking in a neighbouring Nissen hut, was tall and stately, but admitted, under pressure, that to him was entrusted the stewardship of our mud-flat and the adjacent camps, and that he could give us a mess. Through the insistent drizzle this person, smiling now very pleasantly, led us to a depressed wooden building that suggested a derelict Noah's Ark with a sinister look about the windows. The bad-tempered sky scowled between the planks of the roof; the querulous wind whined up through the floor; rats backed snarling into the corners on our entrance.

"This is the place," said the C.C. "You'll soon make yourselves very comfortable."

That night I dreamed I was a "U" boat, and started up, snorting, to find myself under a cascade, while the felt upon the roof banged and rasped and flapped. It sounded as if the ark were trying to fly, but found its wings rusty. At dawn we sent the Captain out, and refused him breakfast till by some resource of ingenuity or crime he obtained certain sausages of new felt. These our fearless batmen unrolled and nailed upon the roof. After his porridge we pushed him out again with a strong party under orders to carry the nearest R.E. dump by force or fraud, and secure large quantities of timber, nails, canvas and, if possible (the up-to-date R.E. dump secretes many unexpected commodities), Turkey carpets, wall-paper, sofa-cushions and bedroom-slippers.

The batmen were sent out with a limbered cart, some smoke shell and the total establishment of billhooks, and forbidden to return without sufficient material for bedsteads, window-shutters, bookshelves and chairs. By evening the place began to feel habitable, and the C.C., when he looked in to borrow a horse, endeared himself to us all by his obvious pleasure in our comparative comfort. We lent him the best horse in the battery.

The Major's batman devoted the following day to the construction of a species of retiring-room at one end of the hut, wherein the modest members of the mess might bathe and splash at ease. The remainder of the servants went out armed and returned with (1) a zinc bath, (2) a stove, (3) a cuckoo clock, (4) a large mirror, (5) a warming-pan. "Once let us make a home for ourselves," we said, "and our energies will be free to finish the War." We devoted every cunning worker in the battery to this great end. Drill was abandoned, stables forgotten. We installed bookshelves, bootjacks, a sideboard, hat racks, a dumb waiter, a stand for the gramophone and a roll-top desk for the Major. The walls were tapestried with canvas, hung with pictures, scalps, and the various decorations won by members of the mess. The original building, disreputable and hateful, was hidden and forgotten.

And then the C.C. called again, and, after a minute and admiring inspection of our abode, informed us that to his bitter sorrow he had to turn us out; umteen battalions of infantry were coming in and had to be accommodated—this being an infantry camp....

That night, as I walked about in the rain, I looked in at the open door of our lost home. Two N.C.O.'s were sitting over our stove, lost, lonely in the elongated emptiness; longing, I knew, to be with their comrades bellowing in an adjacent hut. And so I understood and knew at length how Camp Commandants manage the maintenance and improvement of their domain. I devote myself now to warning the simple-hearted gunner against unfurnished huts and the hospitality of Camp Commandants. And some day I hope to be in a position to lend that particular C.C. another horse.

Punch's Roll of Honour.

We deeply regret to learn that Lieutenant GEORGE L. BROWN, Loyal North Lancashire Regiment, who contributed sketches to Punch before the War, has died of wounds.

We are very glad to say that Captain A.W. LLOYD, Royal Fusiliers, is making a good recovery from the severe wound which he received in East Africa.

MARGARINE.

A HOUSEKEEPER'S PALINODE.

"The undersigned, who has just returned from the Front, begs to inform the Public that he has opened a Barber's Shop on the ground floor of Miss ——'s house in Great George Street, where he is prepared to give CUTS in any style required."—Dominion Chronicle.

Well, his customers can't complain that they weren't warned.

TO HELP OUR OTHER ARMY.

With all eyes so focussed on the great deeds of our men in France, in Palestine and on the sea, there is a possibility of losing sight now and then of the constant and devoted efforts of the women and girls at home, without whose co-operation the War could not be successfully waged at all. We are the debtors not only of the munition workers who, in their hundreds of thousands, are toiling for victory, but of women and girls in myriad other employments, which they have cheerfully attacked and mastered; and any little thing that we can do for them should, Mr. Punch holds, be done. A practical and very simple way of adding to their happiness and well-being is to contribute a mite to the funds of the Girls' Friendly Society, an organisation with the finest traditions, which is doing its best to build rest and recreation huts all over England, for the purpose of conserving the health and spirits of our great feminine army. A moment's thought will show how vitally and nationally important such help is. Contributions should be sent to the Secretary, War Emergency Committee, Girls' Friendly Society, 39, Victoria Street, S.W.1.

MY AUNT MATILDA.

"It's too bad," said Francesca, "it really is. It'll spoil Christmas."

"The question is," I said, "that this House do accept my Aunt Matilda's invitation of herself to stay in it for an uncertain period at or about Christmas. I think the Ayes have it."

"The Noes have it," shouted Francesca.

"Francesca," I said, "it's no use struggling, and you know it. We've got to have Aunt Matilda, and there's an end of it."

"There isn't an end of it at all. It's only just beginning, and it'll go on getting worse and worse."

"You do not seem to realise," I said, "what the possession of an aunt like Aunt Matilda means. She is like all the aunts you've ever read about in novels, only more so. She's so true to type that you can hardly believe in her existence. To be related to her is to have a Stake in the Country and to be part of the British Constitution, which she ardently believes in without knowing anything about it. She's been a widow for fifteen years, and—"

"Poor old thing," said Francesca, "so she has."

"—for fifteen solitary years she has battled against the world, and managed her business affairs extraordinarily well; and yet she believes that women are perfect fools, and pities them from the bottom of her heart for being women."

"As far as I'm concerned," said Francesca, "she may pity all the other women if she'll only not pity me. If I have a headache she not only pities me, but despises me as a weakling utterly unfitted to manage a household. No, my dear, I can't face it. Your Aunt Matilda's too much for me."

"I admit," I said, "that she's a good deal."

"And of course she'll bring her maid."

"And her pug."

"Whose name is 'MacLachlan,' and you mustn't call him 'Mac' because it's disrespectful."

"And the children won't be allowed to shout about the house when she takes her nap. And of course they will shout about the house, and then there'll be trouble.".

"And the children will be compared with other children who are much better behaved."

"It's a queer thing, but the children don't seem to mind her."

"She bribes them with chocolates."

"Well, she won't do it any more, because there are no chocolates in the world. Chocolates are a luxury."

"So's your aunt," said Francesca. "She's the biggest luxury I ever heard of. She's rare—I might almost say unique. She's expensive, and she can be done without. Obviously she's forbidden by the Defence of the Realm Act. We shall be fined and imprisoned if we conceal her here."

"Well, you'd better sit down and tell her so, and get it off your chest."

"I suppose I must play the humbug."

"Yes, do. She'll see through you all right, though."

"Oh, I say," said Francesca, "there's a P.S. to her letter. She says she's saved two pounds out of her sugar ration, and she's sending it to us as a Christmas present. Isn't she an old topper?"

"Yes," I said, "I forgive her everything. Is two pounds a lot?"

"It's generally supposed to be just two pounds," said Francesca. R. C. L.

THE VENGEANCE.

ONE OF THE CANNIBAL ISLANDS?

"The unfrequented coral harbour was an ideal spot for this operation. The 60 odd men and women on the Seeadler were landed, and the natives, avid for change of diet, welcomed them."—The Times.

"A distinctive uniform will be given the new Air Service when the old is worn out, Major Baird announces."—Daily Mail.

An officer in the R.F.C. writes to say that the old Air Service has no intention of wearing out.

"The coroner said people would be wise to carry electric torches or newspapers, and ladies should wear something white—a pocket handkerchief would be better than nothing."—Sunday Observer.

Certainly "better than nothing," but a newspaper would make a more showy costume.

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

(By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks.)

At this date "The Junior Sub" fortunately needs no introduction to a public that has long gathered him and his to its appreciative heart. I should not like to guess how many people read and enjoyed The First Hundred Thousand; they all, and more, will delight in the appearance of Carrying On (BLACKWOOD), in which the exploits of the famous regiment, of Major Wagstaffe and Captain Bobby Little and the rest of them are continued. What the precise war position of IAN HAY may be by now I am unaware, but I should emphatically suggest his appointment to the post of Official Cheerer-Up. Perhaps (how shall I put it?) the eye-pieces of the writer's mask are a trifle too rose-coloured for strict realism; great-hearted gentlemen as we know our heroes to be, are they always quite so merry and bright as here? One can but hope so. In any case, as special propaganda on the part of the O.C.U., the stories could hardly be bettered. One, called "The Push that Failed," I would order to be read aloud to the workers in every munition factory in the land; its heartening tale of how the British people had, to the paralysed astonishment of Brother Bosch, "delivered the goods" to such effect that his projected spectacular attack under the eyes of WILLIAM the Worst was smashed before it began, is of a kind to strengthen the most weary arm. While I was yet upon the final page the bells in a famous abbey tower close by broke into grateful clamour for the news of victory. But IAN HAY does not wait on victory; he has his joy-bells ringing always in our hearts.

The Tree of Heaven (CASSELL) spread its friendly branches over a pleasant corner of a roomy Hampstead garden. Matter-of-fact Anthony, the timber merchant, always would insist that it was a mere common ash; but the others, Frances, and the children, Dorothy, Michael, Nicky and adopted Veronica, knew better, as also, no doubt, did Jane-Pussy and her little son, Jerry, who was Nicky's most especial pal. Miss MAY SINCLAIR, without being a conscienceless sentimentalist, does us the fine service of reminding us that the world of men is not all drab ugliness, but that there are beautiful human relationships and unselfish characters, and wholesome training which justifies itself in the day of trial. She divides her charming chronicle into three parts—Peace, The Vortex, and Victory. The first deals with the childhood of the happy brood of Anthony and Frances, delicate studies subtly differentiated. Even the little cats have their astonishing individuality, and I don't envy anyone who can read of Jerry's death and Nicky's grief without a gulp. The Vortex is—no, not the War; that comes later—but the trials of a world which tests adolescence, a world of suffrage rebellions, of Futuristic art and morals. Then the real vortex of the War, the Victory which means ready (or difficult, unready) sacrifice and death for the boys and their friends and as great a sacrifice and as cruel a thing as death for the others, the women and the elders.... A novel, which is much more than a novel, packed with beauty and sincerity, setting forth its tragedy without false glamour or shallow consolations.

Since it is natural to expect that a much-heralded book will fail, when it does eventually appear, to fulfil the promise of its publishers, it is the more pleasant to find oneself agreeing with Messrs. HODDER AND STOUGHTON that bashfulness on their part would have been out of place in regard to Mr. JAMES W. GERARD'S memoirs, My Four Years in Germany. As read in their completed and collected form these papers are not only, as one could foresee, of historic importance, but they are moreover capital reading. There is a world of unaffected geniality and humour about them that forms a most admirable complement to such serious matters as the protracted negotiations over the U-boat campaign, or the now famous incriminating telegram addressed by the ALL-HIGHEST to President WILSON in the days before the Huns had quite decided with what lies to defend the indefensible. This document is reproduced in facsimile as the egregious sender of telegrams wrote it for Mr. GERARD to transmit, and is one link more in the thrice-forged chain of evidence. But even stronger witness to German guilt is to be found in the series of minor corroborations appearing incidentally in the course of Mr. GERARD'S narrative, whether the author is pretending to be in awe of Prussian Court Etiquette, or openly laughing at the Orders of the Many Coloured Eagles, or simply detailing his work at Ruhleben and the other prison camps. His devotion there has earned a gratitude throughout this country that it would be mere presumption to try to put into words.

Those of us who have loitered with Mr. DE VERE STACPOOLE by blue lagoons and silent pools know that he is a master of atmosphere, and so he proves himself again in The Starlit Garden (HUTCHINSON), though it takes him some time to get there. When a young American finds himself the guardian of an Irish flapper—a distant relation—and comes over to take her back with him to the States, it does not require much perspicacity to guess what will happen. Phyl Berknowles strongly objects to the intrusion of Richard Pinckney into the glorious muddle of her Irish ménage, and irritates him so successfully that he returns in a considerable tantrum to America, leaving her with some friends in Dublin. So far the tale is lively enough, but not until Phyl feels the call of her blood and goes to stay with her relatives in Charleston does the author find scope for his peculiar charm. Then we get a most delightful picture of a starlit garden in the south of America, where Phyl's experiences, without placing a tiresome strain upon our powers of belief, produce a sensation at once romantic and unusual. Memories of the past hang over this garden, and although Mr. STACPOOLE'S attempt to reconcile the period of which he writes with the years that are gone is not uniformly successful I am cordially glad that he made it.

The publishers of Mrs. ALICE PERRIN'S new volume, Tales that are Told (SKEFFINGTON), appear to be anxious that the public should have no hesitations on the score of measure supplied, as they explain that the chief of the tales is "a short novel of over 20,000 words." I am content to take their word for the figure, but I agree that they were well advised to focus attention upon "Gift of God," which, whatever its length, is an admirable and distinguished piece of writing. The subject of it is the old question of mixed-marriage, but treated from a new aspect. Kudah Bux (the Gift in question) is the son of an adoring Mohamedan father; he goes to England for education in the law, and there falls in love with and marries the brainless daughter of a London landlady. He is a very human and appealing figure. The debacle that follows his return to India with so impossible a bride is told in a way that convinces. Here Mrs. PERRIN is at her best. Some of the shorter tales also succeed very happily in conveying that peculiar Simla-by-South-Kensington atmosphere of retired Anglo-Indian society which she suggests with such intimate understanding. But, to be honest, the others (with the exception of one quaint little comedy of a canine ghost) are but indifferent stuff, too full of snakes and hidden treasure and general tawdriness—the kind of Orientalism, in fact, that one used to associate chiefly with the Earl's Court Exhibition. Mrs. PERRIN must not mingle her genuine native goods with such Brummagem ware.

My idea is that when Mr. H.C. BAILEY called his latest story The Young Lovers (METHUEN) he was doing it something less than justice. For the width and variety of the plot make it far more than a mere love-tale. Arma virique are quite as much Mr. BAILEY'S theme as Cupid, who indeed makes a rather belated appearance at the tag end. Before that we have a vast deal of agreeable adventuring. The scene is set in the period of the Peninsular War; all the characters, lovers, parents and hangers-on, are more or less involved in the fluctuating fortunes of my Lord WELLINGTON. There are spies of both sides, intrigues, abductions and what not. Mr. BAILEY has a pretty touch for such matters; his people move with an air; and, if at times their speech seems a trifle over-burnished, dulness is far from them. Moreover, the incidents of the campaign give scope for some vivid descriptions of war and battles, as such were in the old days before Mars put off his gold lace and sacrificed the picturesque. Sometimes, on the other hand, it is the similarity of conditions then and now that will strike you. For example, the passage telling how, despite apparent inactivity and home prognostications of stalemate, the confidence of the Army grew from day to day—impossible not to see the very obvious parallel there. In fine, Mr. BAILEY has given us another brisk and engaging romance, which, if it is not quite the kind you might expect from its title, is something a good deal better worth reading.

"Fort Worth, Texas.—Poolville, Parker county, near here, has raised $1,246.50 as a reward for the delivery of the German emperor into the hands of the American authorities."—Buffalo Courier.

On reading this item HINDENBURG is reported to have said that if Poolville would make it even money he would think about it.