But not for us. If it were shown She organised the feast For _us_ to eat, one might agree About her virtue; but, you see, She does it for herself alone, The greedy little beast! So grasping is the little dear That every now and then She readjusts the ration scales By simply murdering the males, With many a base, malicious jeer At "idle gentlemen." Nor does a man of us cry "Shame!" Though every man would own If there is one high hope for which He labours on at fever-pitch It is not honour, wealth or fame-- He wants to be a drone. Why is it, then, we don't abhor This horrid little prude? Why don't we cast the foullest slur On such a Prussian character? Because, as I remarked before, _She manufactures food_. The world is full of beasts, my son, And I know two or three That any parent might employ To be a model for their boy, But take my word, we've overdone The insufferable bee. A. P. H. * * * * * Illustration: THE NEW POOR. "I REMEMBER THE TIME-- --WHEN I THOUGHT-- --I NEVER SHOULD RIDE IN A BUS-- --AND NOW-- --I AM ALMOST CERTAIN-- --I NEVER SHALL." * * * * * Illustration: CURE FOR INSOMNIA. MESMERISE YOURSELF. * * * * * THE CONSPIRATORS IV. MY DEAR CHARLES,--The other evening I was sitting at an open-air cafe whose coffee is better than its social reputation. To be exact it is a low haunt. I always go there and have a cup of coffee in a glass when I am wondering what to do next and feeling it is about time something was happening. One of my acquaintances came and sat down at my table. To confess the truth he has once been a pickpocket, the sort of professional who followed the trade in the old dull days of peace for the excitement it furnished. He has since served in the Foreign Legion, and says that now he cannot bring himself to return to his normal work, since by contrast it is so very tame. For a time he was stranded, but now the international conspiracy business provides him with just the sport he was looking for. After a little conversation about pocket-picking, as it used to be in the good old days, he asked me if I was interested in communist plots. I said I was interested in anything. He looked round the cafe to see that all was well, leant across the table and asked me if I was not _particularly_ interested in communist plots. "Yes," I whispered, "as long as it's a plot I'm interested in it, even though it is a communist one."