At home we have to note the steady set of the tide of public opinion in favour of Food Control. The name of the Dictator is not yet declared, but the announcement cannot be long postponed. Whoever he may be, he is not to be envied. We have also to note the steady growth on every side of Government bungalows--the haunts (if some critics are to be believed) of the Great Uncombed, even of the Hidden Hand. The men of forty-one were not wanted last March. Mr. Lloyd George tells us that they are wanted now, or it would mean the loss of two Army Corps. The Germans, by the way, appear to be arriving at a just conception of their relative value. Lord Newton has informed the Lords that the enemy is prepared to release 600 English civilian prisoners in return for some 4,000 to 7,000 Germans. Parliament has developed a new grievance: Ministers have confided to Pressmen information denied to M.P.'s. And a cruel wrong has been done to Erin, according to Mr. Dillon, by the application of Greenwich time to Ireland, by which that country has been compelled to surrender its precious privilege of being twenty-five minutes behind the times. The injustice is so bitter that it has reconciled Mr. Dillon and Mr. Healy. The Premier has hinted that if the House insisted on having fuller information than it receives at present another Secret Session might be held. When one considers the vital problems on which Parliament now concentrates its energies--the supply of cocaine to dentists, the withholding of pictures of the Tanks, etc.--one feels that there should be a Secret Session at least once a week. Indeed, if the House were to sit permanently with closed doors, unobserved and unreported, the country might be all the better for it. [Illustration: A STRAIN ON THE AFFECTIONS NORWEGIAN (to Swede): "What--you here, too. I thought you were a friend of Germany?" SWEDE: "I was."] It is the fashion in some quarters to make out that fathers do not realise the sacrifice made by their sons, but complacently acquiesce in it while they sit comfortably at home over the fire. Mr. Punch has not met these fathers. The fathers--and still more the mothers--that he knows recognise only too well the unpayable nature of their debt. They held, against the storms of fate, In war's tremendous game, A little land inviolate Within a world of flame. They looked on scarred and ruined lands, On shell-wrecked fields forlorn, And gave to us, with open hands, Full fields of yellow corn; The silence wrought in wood and stone Whose aisles our fathers trod; The pines that stand apart, alone, Like sentinels of God. With generous hands they paid the price, Unconscious of the cost, But we must gauge the sacrifice By all that they have lost. The joy of young adventurous ways, Of keen and undimmed sight, The eager tramp through sunny days, The dreamless sleep of night,