THE PRIZE.

Royalties We Have Never Met.

"The Emperor Williams, who was reported to have been at Breslau ... seems to have returned to Berlin."—Evening Despatch.

ON EARTH—PEACE.

SANTA CLAUS AT THE FRONT.

As Christmas draws nearer, the problem of what gifts to send to our brave men at the Front becomes more acute. For of course they must all have presents, no matter what decision is come to as to the manner of spending the dear old festival at home.

As an aid to the generous there is nothing like a walk down Bongent Street, where will be found many ingenious novelties designed especially for the mirthful anniversary which will so soon be on us with all its associations of peace and goodwill to men.

It is no part of my duty to recommend shops and their wares, but it is a pleasure to put on record some of the things on which my roving eyes settled as I traversed London's most luxurious thoroughfare. Every taste is there considered, but for the moment my interest is solely in gifts for our brave officers—and privates too, if they have wealthy enough friends.

At Messrs. Baskerville's, for example, I perceived a host of captivating articles calculated to make glad the heart of any fighting man. In one window was a Service Smoker's Companion which cannot be too highly extolled, especially as this War is, as everyone knows, being waged very largely on the beneficent Indian weed. The equipment consists of four delightful gold-mounted pipes, each guaranteed to be made of briar over eighty years old; a gold-mounted pencil; a gold cigar-case and fifty cigars; a gold cigarette-case and 1,000 cigarettes; a gold cigar-cutter; a gold mechanical lighter; a gold and amber cigar-holder; a gold and amber cigarette-holder; a smoker's knife and two gold ash-trays—the whole neatly packed in a leather case and weighing only nine pounds. No soldier—at any rate, no officer—should be without it. Cheered by its presence he would fight twice as well, and any horrid old pipe that he might possess and, however tired of it, be forced still to smoke for want of a new one, he would be able to give to a Tommy. The same set is obtainable in silver at a lower cost; but my advice to everyone is to take the gold one.

Many of our brave fellows are supplied with helmets, belts and mufflers by the loving hands of their friends; but for those who cannot knit, Messrs. Tyke and Taylor have a most attractive show of all the woollen articles with which it has been decreed that our warriors shall cover their bodies. Their ten-guinea Campaign Abdominal Belt could not be improved upon, little strands of real gold thread being woven into the ordinary fabric. I foretell an enormous sale for this fascinating article, and also for the Service Muffler at seven guineas, which has real gold tassels at each end.

Messrs. Cartersons are concentrating their energies on letter-paper for the Front. In a compact and very tasteful morocco case is a sufficient supply of paper, envelopes and blotting-paper for a considerable correspondence.

A gold ink-pot, a gold pen and a gold pencil are also included, together with sealing-wax and nibs, and a very clever little rubber-stamp with the words, "Somewhere at the Front." A writing pad for the knee when in action completes this timely budget. Those interesting letters from officers and men, which now form so popular a section of each paper, are likely soon to be noticeably increased in numbers. Fortunate indeed is the man who gets one of Messrs. Cartersons' Front Correspondence Companions! The total weight is only a little over two pounds, which is, of course, nothing.

In another of Cartersons' windows I noticed a very delightful Field Tantalus, which can easily be attached to a shoulder-strap or, better still, be carried by an orderly.

The moment the threshold of Mr. Luke Jones' establishment is crossed, both eye and mind are in a state of ecstasy in the presence of so much Christmas enterprise. Here, as elsewhere, the first thought has been for our brave soldiers at the Front, and particularly the gallant officers. Wrist watches of every shape are to be seen, each thoughtfully provided with its strap—for Mr. Jones forgets nothing. In addition to wrist watches are wrist compasses for the other arm, and for the ankles a speedometer and barometer. Thus fitted, the officer knows practically all that can be learned. I need not say that all are in gold; but a few special sets in radium can be obtained. Even these, however, are not ruinous, for with Mr. Luke Jones reasonable prices are a fetish.

The full assurance of securing the best possible value at the lowest possible price adds yet another reason for visiting the charming premises of Messrs. Slimmer and Bang. Their Service knick-knacks cannot be overpraised. Glancing hastily around, I noticed several with devices all calculated not only to be useful but to amuse at the Front, wherever our stalwart representatives are gathered.

One of the most practical is a boot-cleaning set in strong pigskin with gold clasps, including, very ingeniously, a bottle of patent-leather reviver. Another pigskin, indispensable at the Front, holds a complete tea-set. It resembles the old tea-basket, but weighs at least five ounces less (no small matter on the march, I am told) and is more compact. With such a gift as this, no officer need ever again go without tea in the trenches. Messrs. Slimmer and Bang are to be congratulated.

Anything more charming than the Service card-cases at Messrs. Slosson and Kay's I have never seen. One side is intended for paper notes, of which every officer at the Front is in constant need; the other half is reserved for his visiting-cards, which it is de rigueur, I am told, to leave on the enemy after every visit to their trenches. Some officers go so far as to place their cards on the point of their bayonet—a characteristic British touch. Messrs. Slosson and Kay also have charming combinations of drinking-flask and ear-syringe in all the more precious metals, and field-glasses studded with diamonds. For home use the same firm has a most delightful Special Constable's gold-mounted truncheon, which unscrews for liquid refreshment, of which our S. C.'s are often in need.

Messrs. Kyte and Kyte have a really dinky little Game Book especially prepared for the War and as a Christmas gift. It differs at first sight very little from the ordinary game book of an English shoot, but on examination we find that the game is of larger size. The divisions include all ranks of the German army, so that an exact analysis of one's bag can be kept. Messrs. Kyte and Kyte also make a Service Fountain Pen which not only acts as a pen but also as a clinical thermometer and pipe-cleaner. It has furthermore an attachment for removing stones from horses' feet. Made in gold, it is a most becoming Yuletide gift.

A CREDIBILITY INDEX.

"This Poland business is still rather hard to follow," said my wife plaintively, after consulting the latest newspaper map pinned over the mantelpiece, "and I know it's tremendously important. I wish they wouldn't keep fighting in small villages that aren't marked; and really beyond the bare fact that both armies repeatedly surround one another simultaneously it is not at all easy to gather just what they are at."

"The whole thing would be as clear as day," said my sister-in-law, who likes to be regarded as an authority on land operations—I am myself our Naval Expert—"if only one knew what to believe. Have the Germans occupied Przsczwow or have they not?"

"I think they must have done. Last night's paper said that it was believed that Przsczwow was officially occupied, and it says here that it is officially stated that Przsczwow is believed to be occupied."

"It's only partially official," said I, who had carefully collated the reports on the point. "It was semi-official from Amsterdam, official from Berlin, considered to emanate from a good source in Rome, and unofficially denied in Petrograd."

"It must be true," said my wife.

"You were always a good believer, dear," said I. "I doubt if I know any one who has believed as much in sheer quantity as you have since the war began. You know you swallowed that yarn about——"

"Don't you think," my wife broke in hastily (for she simply hates to be reminded of the Russians in England), "that we ought to have a sort of index to judge these rumours by?"

"I see," said I. "One hundred for absolute reliability. Nil for the perfect and utter lie."

The table which resulted was hung up beside the map for reference; I recommend it for general use.

We didn't put in my wife's other sister who lives on the East coast, because I don't like to hurt people's feelings. My wife hears from her frequently. Her average is about nineteen to one against, so that her proper place on the list would be bracketed with the story from Venice.

TREASURES IN STORE.

He is a great man in the Pantomime world. As he rose from his roll-top desk with the evident intention of kicking me, I hastened to explain that I was only a harmless reporter come to look at some of the new lyrics.

"Ah," said he, "that alters the case. I thought you were another topical songster. Now here's a clever little piece about the Navy."

I stretched out my hand for it.

"No," he said. "So much depends on intelligent expression and emphasis that I'd better read it to you. I think of calling this one 'The Battle of the Brine.'

"There it is;" and the Great Man fairly purred with satisfaction. "Une petite pièce de tout droit, isn't it?" he said. "I gave you a hint of the tune. It needs a stirring one."

"It does," said I, delighted to be able to agree with him on one point. "And you have other songs equally topical?"

He pointed to a bale in the corner that I had taken for a new carpet. "I've had a good few to choose from," he said. "I fancy this one is about the best. My leading low-comedian writes all his own lyrics—extraordinarily adequate little man. He opens briskly:—

"Yes," he gasped, "I thought that 'ud hit you. That's what I call a real live piece of work. Here's another—in the old-fashioned style. Not quite so much snap about it. But my fourth low-comedian thinks he can make it go. It's called, 'When Father Threw his Wages at the Cat.'

"Is that out of date?" said I. "If so, I like the old style best.'

He grunted. "It'll pass," he said; "but the other's the business."

"Well, give me pleasure first," said I. "As a true Briton I can always take it sadly."

BARBARA'S BIRTHDAY BEAR.

THE NEW REPORTING.

Our brave Tonburians kicked off against the wind and immediately assumed a strong offensive along the whole line, forcing the enemy to evacuate his positions. When we reached their Twenty-five it became clear, after a furious struggle, that a decision was inevitably about to be postponed on account of the unexpected strength of their defence. (One try to Haileybridge which was converted.)

After some fierce scrummaging in mid-field, in which we had all the best of it, it was found necessary, owing to strategic reasons, for our forces to occupy entirely new positions some thirty yards nearer to our own touchline. Thereafter there was nothing whatever to report. (Try to Haileybridge.)

When the game was resumed it soon became evident that the situation was developing according to our expectations. (A dropped goal to Haileybridge.)

Fighting continued, but there was no new development to report. (Two tries.)

At half-time the head-master heartily congratulated the Tonbury Fifteen upon the magnificent victories they were gaining against superior forces, and assured them that it would soon be over, and they would all be back in time for tea. He then conferred their caps upon the whole Fifteen and an extra tassel upon the Captain. It is understood that the school-house will be decorated with bunting.

The second half was largely a repetition of the first. We continued to keep up a powerful pressure all along the line, varied only by frequent occupation of new strategic lines, occasional postponements of decision, several stages of development according to anticipation, and some rapid re-grouping of our forces. The whistle found us pressing heavily, just outside the goal-line (the Tonbury one).

THE BERLIN CHRISTMAS SEASON.

Made from the finest Belgian church carved oak. A Prussian General writes: "This wood burns admirably. I speak from personal observation of experiments carried out under my orders."

An admirably suitable present for this year is a

Those we offer are calculated to be particularly popular, the little Imperial flags not being detachable but painted on to the map—at Paris, London, Petersburg, etc. Thus, whatever may be happening in the field, you may continue cheerful.

As many of our most exalted customers complain of the quality of these goods, considering them too crude and glaring in their effect, we have prepared, with the help of our Ambassador at Washington, a special glass which provides a less realistic reflection. Sold in various shapes—the Kaiser mirror, the Dernburg reflector, etc. Try one.

(We regret to announce that at the last moment our buyer writes that he is unable to procure the last-named article.)

TOPICAL GEOGRAPHY.

["Though the Falkland Islands are dreary and uninviting enough, they have added their quota to the gaiety of the world. It should not be forgotten that Miss Ellaline Terris is a native of Stanley, the capital of the islands."—Pall Mall Gazette.]

The town of Bonn, in Rhenish Prussia, which has recently been in evidence owing to the enterprise of French aviators, is the seat of a university, of an Old Catholic bishopric and a school of agriculture. But it owes its chief title to fame to the fact that it was the birthplace of Beethoven, the eminent composer. Beethoven was a man of a serious character, but thanks to the genius of Sir Herbert Beerbohm Tree, who impersonated the illustrious symphonist in one of his notable productions, he has contributed substantially to the general gaiety.

Scarborough's unhappy plight under the shells of the German Navy will not soon be forgotten, and the sympathies of us all are with the unfortunate townsfolk of the Northern resort. Brighton, however, which shares with Scarborough the claim to be called the Queen of Watering Places, is unharmed and no doubt will remain a favourite recreation ground for tired Londoners on Sunday, among whom that mirth-provoking comedian, Mr. George Graves, is often to be seen.

The strategical and political importance of Egypt has of late somewhat overshadowed its picturesque aspect. But Memphis, Luxor, the Pyramids are still names to conjure with, as anyone will readily admit who recalls the wonderful stage pictures in Bella Donna, in which the rôle of good genius was sustained with such consummate skill and sympathy by Sir George Alexander, whose smile is as irresistible as the sword of his Macedonian namesake.

Tokio, the capital of the Japanese Empire, has re-emerged into prominence owing to the celebrations over the fall of Tsingtau. But it must never be forgotten that Miss Gertie Millar's espièglerie has caused many critics to compare her with the famous Japanese actress, Madame Sada Yacco, who, so far as we know, was born at Tokio and is one of its brightest jewels.

All eyes have recently been turned towards Ypres, and every one not of Teutonic caste must regret the damage that has been wrought there by the War. The word Ypres, however, to many persons, is chiefly interesting as giving its name to the old tower at Rye, in Sussex, where Mr. Henry James, whose sprightly and fertile pen has added so much to the dubiety of nations, has long resided.

"Il verso di Shaeckspeare 'Rules, Britain, on the suaves.'"—Corriere delle Puglie.

Not Kipling's after all, you see.

TOO MUCH NOTICE.

I decided to go home by bus. My season-ticket had expired painlessly the previous day, and twice already that morning I had had to satisfy the curiosity of the railway officials as to my name and address. Although I had explained to them that I was on half-salary and promised to renew business relations with the company as soon as the War was over or Uncle Peter died—whichever event happened first—they simply would not listen to me, and hence my decision to adopt some other means of transport. I signalled to a bus to stop, and, as the driver, seeing my signal, at once put on his top speed, I just managed to fling myself on to the spring-board as the vehicle tore past.

I ran up to the first storey, and sat down in the front seat. Then I took out my cigarette-case and was about to light a cigarette when a printed notice caught my eye—

If the notice had been put a little less politely I should have ignored it; but I can refuse nothing to those who are kind to me, so I refrained from lighting up, and contented myself with looking round to see if there was a rear seat vacant. There wasn't. A cluster of happy, smoking faces confronted me. I turned round again, and wished I had learnt to take snuff.

"Cheer-o, Bert!" said a refined voice just behind my ear, and at the same moment a walking-stick playfully tapped the head of the young fellow sitting next to me. My neighbour faced about, kicked me on the shin, dug the point of his umbrella into my calf, knocked off my pince-nez with his newspaper, and spread himself over the back of the seat.

"'Allo, Alf!" he said. "Thought it must 've been you. Look 'ere, I want to see you——"

"Perhaps," I interrupted, "your friend would like to change places with me. Then you can scrutinise him at your ease—and mine."

"You're a sport," remarked Bert.

He spoke truly. Little did he guess he was addressing a Double-Blue—bowls and quoits. Alf and I changed places, and my attention at once became absorbed by a notice headed

I had just reached the exciting part when two girls arrived on the landing.

"There aren't two together; we shall have to divide," I heard one say.

"Excuse me," I said, rising. "Don't divide. I'll get into a single seat if you care to take this double one."

I was rewarded with the now almost obsolete formula of "Thank you," and moved a seat further back. Here I found some fresh reading material provided for me in the shape of a notice to the effect that

When I had probed its beauties to the utmost depth I again turned round to see if there was a vacant seat among the smokers. To my joy I saw one. Quickly I rose and hastened to secure it, but at the same moment the bus turned a sharp corner and I sustained a violent blow on the back of my head which left me half-stunned.

The conductor, who had just appeared on deck to collect fares, helped me to my feet. Then he rounded on me.

"Why don't you read the notices?" he said by way of peroration. "Then it wouldn't've 'appened."

"The notices?" I repeated, handing him my fare. "I've done nothing else but read notices ever since I got on this wretched reading-room. I know where I may smoke and where I may not. I know that I must beware of pickpockets, and I know that I mustn't waggle my arms over the side-rails. Further, I have read Mr. Pinkerton's personal assurance that his Pills are the Best. If I'd had more time I daresay I should have worked my passage to the notice you refer to. I haven't reached it yet."

"Look 'ere," said the conductor, thrusting me into the vacant smoker's seat and pointing with what I at first took to be a saveloy, but which upon closer inspection proved to be his fore-finger, "what does that say?—

There nar. Some of you blokes never look any farther than the end of your noses."

"Then if I had your nose," I retorted, "I should need a telescope to see even as far as that."

I was much disappointed that, just as I got to the caustic part, the exigencies of his profession demanded that he should punch six tickets in rapid succession. My repartee was consequently drowned amid a perfect carillon of bells. But meanwhile I had found another notice—

It was a friendly and sensible notice, for, to tell the truth, I was beginning to feel afraid of a bus that carried so much free literature. It could not hope to be a thoroughly reliable bus and a library at the same time. I therefore determined to forfeit several divisions of my ticket, and give my "season" one more chance. I got up and struck the bell once. As the driver didn't know it was just an ordinary passenger that struck it he pulled up immediately. I had got halfway down the staircase when somebody—it must have been that offensive conductor—- gave the game away, for the bus jerked badly and started off again at a rare pace. So did I. But as I flew through the air I could not help catching a fleeting glimpse of a final advisory notice—

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

I am sorry that I cannot now be the first to call King Albert's Book (Hodder and Stoughton) The Golden Book. But, since this term has already been applied, I can only applaud it. I suppose never in the history of books has such a one as this been put together, just as never in the line of kings has monarch received, under such circumstances, so rare a tribute. If in the Belgian heart, from ruler to refugee, there is room for more pride than should of right be there already, surely these pages, voicing the homage of all that counts in the world to-day, will bring it. We are all King Albert's men now, and in this book we have a welcome chance of proving our fealty. You will observe that I say nothing about the volume as commercial value for the three shillings that it costs to buy. One glance at the list of those who contribute (a kind of international supplement to Who's Who) is all that is needed to satisfy you on this point. The Daily Telegraph is primarily responsible for gathering together a greater assembly of the names that matter than was ever collected between covers. To the proprietors, to Mr. Hall Caine, who edits the book, and to the printers (especially for the illustrations in colour, which are triumphs of reproduction) I can only offer my thanks and congratulatory good wishes. Certainly, The Daily Telegraph Belgian Fund, to which will go the entire proceeds of the sale, deserves well the shillings that this splendid effort will bring to it. King Albert's Book is indeed a noble tribute to nobility—one that for every sake will become an historic souvenir of the Great Days. And (if I may confess the secret wickedness of my heart as I read) how I should love to see the Berlin Press notices!

When Mr. Theodore Roosevelt stated on page 25 of Through the Brazilian Wilderness (Murray) that his was not a hunting-trip, but a scientific expedition, I winked solemnly, so often have I read books in which science is used as an excuse for a slaughter that to the unbloodthirsty seems to be more than a little indiscriminate. Now, however, there is nothing to do but to withdraw that wink and to say that Mr. Roosevelt and his companions killed only for the sake of food and specimens, though on one very exciting occasion a man called Julio displayed a most unwholesome desire to slay anybody or anything. This renegade's lust for murder was merely a side-show, but it serves vividly to illustrate the dangers and risks that the travellers took as they fought their way along the River of Doubt. No escape is possible from the buoyancy of Mr. Roosevelt's style; as frankly as any schoolboy enjoying a holiday he revelled in the ups and downs of his adventures; and if his enthusiasm for the important work that he was helping to accomplish occasionally leads him to relate trivialities, and also prevents him from advancing a few kilometres without adding up the total number he has travelled, the essential fact remains that his tale of exploit and exploration is told with a joie de vivre that carries everything before it. Among the many discoveries that he made is one from which time has taken away any cause for surprise. "There was," he says, "a German lieutenant with the Paraguayan officers—one of several German officers who are now engaged in helping the Paraguayans with their army." Through the Brazilian Wilderness is packed with wonderfully good photographs, two of which introduce us to a game played by the Parecis Indians, of which the initial rule requires the "kicker-off" to lie flat on the ground and butt the ball with his head. One wonders if Brazil's future battles will be won in the playing fields of the Parecis.

The opening lines of the Preface to Sir Charles Villiers Stanford's book of reminiscences contain so good a story that I cannot forbear to quote them. The tale concerns the famous conductor Hans von Buelow, who (says Sir Charles) was once taking the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra through a rehearsal at which some ladies had been invited to be present. They indulged in whisperings and chatterings which greatly disturbed the players. Buelow turned round and said, "Ladies, we are not here to save the Capitol, but to make music." Pretty neat that for a Prussian! It is an example of the many excellent tales to be found in Pages from an Unwritten Diary (Arnold). Some of the best of them concern this same Buelow, and have done much to disprove my personal belief in the non-existence of German humour. But throughout his book Sir Charles is the best of good company. Whether he is chatting about Royalty—there is a rather moving little anecdote of Queen Victoria and Tennyson that was new to me—or telling again the often-told history of the Cambridge Greek Plays and the A.D.C., he has a happy pen for a point, and even the chestnuts inevitable in such a collection are served with a flavour of originality. I must be allowed to quote one more of von Buelow's good things. A gushing lady at a musical party begged for an introduction to the great man. Which being given, "Oh, Monsieur von Bülow," she said, "vous connaissez Monsieur Wagner, n'est-ce pas?" Bowing, and without a shade of surprise, Buelow answered at once, "Mais oui, Madame; c'est le mari de ma femme!" A great man!

I am quite prepared to accept Mr. Lindsay Bashford's Cupid in the Car (Chapman and Hall) as a nice unpretentious diary of a motor-tour on and about the Franco-German Frontier, ingeniously done into novel form and wholesomely seasoned with adventure and the arrangement of marriages shortly to take place. And I distinctly like his taciturn paragon of a chauffeur, Eugene—a nephew of Enery Straker the voluble, as I should judge from a certain family resemblance and, by the way, much too intelligent to murder his French phrases in the hopeless manner which the author, none too scrupulous in these little touches, suggests. But whether Mr. Bashford hasn't spoilt an enthusiastic travel book without producing quite a plausible novel—a defect of tactics rather than of capacity—and whether the book doesn't show too many signs of the hustle and vibration of the car are questions that intrude themselves; and certainly one has a right to jib at the Preface, which seems to suggest that the novel, written before war broke out, was to enlighten the public, by a sugar-coated method, as to the general terrain of the conflict inevitable at some future date, so that we might "better picture the work our loved ones were doing at the Front." If this were indeed so, then it was distinctly untactful that the only British officer who appears should be a tosh-talking General obviously too fond of his food. The fact is that the topical preface is being overdone these days.

My only complaint against The Flute of Arcady (Stanley Paul) is that Miss Kate Horn, who wrote it, seems somewhat to have disregarded the classic advice of Mr. Curdle to Nicholas Nickleby in the matter of observing the unities. It struck me, indeed, that she had begun it as a Cinderella-tale and then found that there wasn't enough of this to go round. Thus the early chapters roused my sympathetic interest for Charlotte Clairvaux (the bullied companion of the hateful cat, Mrs. Menzies) and her admiring suitor, Dr. Shuckford. I felt deeply for poor Charlotte, and longed for the moment when the doctor, who was eminently desirable, would fold her in his manly arms. But this moment came confusingly early, in the third chapter, and left us with three-quarters of the book to fill up. So Charlotte, for no reason—that I could see—but this of space, refuses her Shuckford, and off go she and Mrs. Menzies to Versailles, where they meet a good number of pleasantly-drawn people, and encounter a variety of adventures, some amusing, some merely farcical. Without doubt Miss Horn has a pretty wit, but I admired its exercise far more in character than incident. There is, for example, a delightful new version of Mrs. Malaprop in the lady whose ambition it was "to live in a mayonnaise in a good part of London." I loved her, and the terrible French infant, and the nuns, and the old countess and the other Versailles folk. But of the incidents, fantastic adventures with elephants and such, one sometimes feels that their humour is, as the author says of M. de Lafontaine's smile, a thing that seemed to be jerked out by machinery. Yet I am bound to confess that it made me laugh. So why grumble?