The Bishop of London discharges his duties in camp as the chaplain of the London Rifle Brigade very thoroughly. One morning a number of men were out scouting, and a recruit, very well up in his drill, took advantage of passing through a wood to loiter behind and have a surreptitious “smoke” behind a clump of trees. He was discovered by the bishop, who, as chaplain, is, of course, an officer of the regiment. The bishop gave the rifleman a good wigging as to his dereliction of duty, and reminded him that he ought really to be the bishop’s prisoner. The rifleman stood at the salute, and, expressing his penitence, the offense was overlooked. The rifleman, who stands well over six feet, in telling the story, says, “That’s the second time I have been personally addressed by the bishop. The first time was some ten years ago, when I was top boy in our parish church choir, and after a service the bishop patted me on the shoulder and commended me for my solo singing! I little thought then that the day would come when I should be his Lordship’s prisoner for my solo _smoking_.” NECESSARY PRECAUTION He was a very raw recruit, and was paying his first visit to the riding school. He was allotted a horse; but it was obvious, from the nervous way he handled the animal, that he had never been on horseback before. When the instructor came up the recruit pointed to the girth. “What’s it got that strap round it for?” he asked. “Ah!” exclaimed the instructor, with mock admiration, “Fancy you noticing that. You see, that horse has a terrible keen sense of humor, an’ he’s subject to sudden bursts of laughter at some of the recruits he gets; so we puts that band round him to keep him from bursting his sides.” STOPPING THE DONKEY He was instructing some recruits in the mysteries of marching movements. After explaining and illustrating his remarks several times he approached one recruit, looked at him silently for a couple of seconds, then demanded his name. “Fitzgerald, sorr,” was the answer. “Did you ever drive a donkey, Fitzgerald?” was his next inquiry. “Yes, sorr,” was the man’s reply. “What did you say when you wanted him to stop?” “Whoa.” The sergeant turned away and immediately put his squad in motion again. The men advanced a dozen yards or so, when he rasped out: “Squad, halt! Whoa, Fitzgerald!” ONE ON SCOTTY Some friends were in a restaurant the other day discussing the war, when a Scotsman at the next table remarked: “The Alleys are doing verra weel, ar-ren’t they?” One, thinking to be smart, said: “The Alleys! Whom do you mean?” “Why,” said the Scotsman, “the French and the Scotch, of course.” At this the friends roared with laughter. “Aye, you can laugh!” said the Scot. “But I saw my mistake as soon as I spoke. I should have said the Scotch and the French.” DEFYING THE KAISER