_Mr. Wilson_ (_reaching out for the measure)._ Thank yer. This 'ere army-reforming's a dry job. Now as to the metherd of attack. When the regiment goes out field-firing the henemy's a line of hearthenware pots, touched up on the sly by the markers with a dash of white; the captains count the telergraph posts up the range and give the exact distance; and the men goes 'opping along in line like crows on a ploughed field, the sergeantes a-naggin' 'em about the 'Ithe position and the coprils calling them back to pick up empty cartridge cases. Is that the wai, that you, George Smith, and you, Bill, and you, Pat, used ter creep up to the rabbit warrens when we used ter go out in the herly morning to assist the farmers to keep down the ground gime--poaching the colonel called it? No, we hexecuted wide turning movements and never showed no more than the tip of a nose. Let drill of attack alone, I say, and develop the sporting hinstinct of the private. _Omnes._ 'Ear, 'ear. _Mr. Wilson._ And this matter of mobility. Why, if you or me or any of us was on furlough at 'Ampstead or Margit, we was never off a 'orse's or a moke's back as long as the dibs lasted. Give us the brass, and we'll find the mobility. _Pte. W. Smith._ Why don't yer write to the Prime Minister, and give him your ideas? _Mr. Wilson._ I shall. A few hintelligent ex-privates in the Cabinet, a rise of pay for privates and two days' rabitting, and a trip to Margit every week would sive the British Army. * * * * * TRAMPS ["In spite of the demand for recruits, the number of tramps remain, undiminished."--_Daily Paper._] Why does not patriotic fire My all too torpid heart inspire With irresistible desire To seek the tented camp, sir, Where Glory, with her bronze V.C., Waits for the brave, perhaps for me? Because I much prefer to be A lazy, idle tramp, sir. I toil not, neither do I spin. For me, the laggard days begin Hours after all my kith and kin Are weary with their labours; The heat and burden of the day They bear, poor fools, as best they may, While I serenely smoke my clay And pity my poor neighbours. When Afric burns the trooper brown, By leafy lanes I loiter down Through Haslemere to Dorking town, Each Surrey nook exploring; Or 'neath a Berkshire hay-rick I At listless length do love to lie, And watch the river stealing by Between the hills of Goring. Why should I change these dear delights For toilsome days and sleepless nights, And red Bellona's bloody rites That bear the devil's stamp, sir? Let others hear the people cry "A hero he!"--I care not, I, So I may only live and die, A lazy, idle tramp, sir. * * * * * [Illustration: AT A COUNTRY HOUSE. "Well, my dear Admiral, and how did you sleep?"