Aide-de-Camp to Grand Duke Nicholas—“We have just captured a motor-car containing a German of very high rank. We think it is the Kaiser.” Grand Duke—“For heaven’s sake release him at once. He is our best asset in the field. He always gives the wrong instructions and interferes at the wrong moment.” ARMORED CANADIAN SOLDIERS Like knights of old, the Canadian troops for the front are equipped with armor. It is in the form of a spade, to be carried on the back when not in use, to be used for digging trenches when not wanted for protective purposes, and to act as a shield and rifle-rest when the fighting begins. There is an oval hole in the middle of the blade of the spade. Through this hole the soldier pokes his rifle, just as the archers in the old days used narrow niches in the walls of a castle. Although the spade weighs only four pounds, and can be carried on marches with ease, it is practically bullet-proof. For hours at Valcartier Camp Sergeant Hawkins, the King’s prize-winner, potted at the spades with his rifle, but it was not until he shot at 200 yards with Mark 7 ammunition that the spades were damaged at all. Then they were only cracked. Bullets just shattered against the shields and fell back, shapeless. A company of the 1st Royal Montreal Regiment fired volleys at the spades, without piercing them. TRYING HARD TO GET BY A recruit, well known for his “strategy” when seeking a holiday, went to the doctor and asked for a note, as he said he was ill. The doctor could not find anything wrong with him, but gave him a note, and just marked a stroke where the nature of complaint should be. He went to the chief officer with the note and asked for leave. The officer took the note, looked at it, and then said (for he looked puzzled): “What is this you are suffering from? I can’t tell.” Then our friend took the note, looked at it, and confidently replied: “Can’t you see, sir, that it’s a stroke I’m suffering from?” ONLY ONE ROCK At a certain British club the other day the possibility of providing soldiers with some form of bullet-proof protection was being discussed. “Those bullet-proof shields are an insult to Tommy’s’ dignity, gentlemen,” inveighed a retired military man, whose oft-boasted achievements no living person had ever seen recorded. “What do they want with such feminine accessories? When I was out in India my force faced a galling fire for two hours, and there was no shelter but a little rock for miles; yet though hundreds fell on every side of me, I came off without a scratch.” “That’s an argument in favor of shields,” quietly commented a fellow-clubman. “If there had been more rocks some of the men might have escaped too.” SOUNDS LIKE A TOWN Fogarty (a moderate drinker): “I’ll bet ye th’ Rooshians are beginnin’ t’ feel th’ loss iv vodka.” Flaherty (warmly): “Don’t ye lose any slape over it. Mar-rk me wur-ruds, they’ll retake it agin before long!” THE BISHOP’S PRISONER