You're kind enough to bid me spend The "week-end" at your country seat, You offer tennis and a friend You feel I'm sure to like to meet. I hope you will not think me rude-- You're very kind to ask me down-- But if the simple truth be told, I much prefer to stay in town. You tell me that the ground is bare, And only gets by slow degrees Recovered from our Arctic spell, That leafless still are all the trees. Well, here, in spite of smoke and soot, And all the bustle and the hum Of men and things, we don't await The Spring--because the Spring has come. Each morning as I go to work I take my 'bus to Marble Arch, And thence amid a wealth of flowers, And air perfumed with odours, march To Hyde Park Corner. Tell me where-- I honestly should like to know-- The much belauded "country" can Produce a comparable show? Our grass is green, though yours is brown. On every tree the lovely bud Is bursting into lovelier leaf, The Spring runs madly in one's blood. To leave such joys I can't consent, Too great a struggle it would be, But just to show you don't resent These lines--come up and stay with me! * * * * * HOW (OF COURSE) IT IS NOT DONE. (_Imaginary Sketch of impossible Incident._) SCENE--_Editor's Room._ TIME--_Within measurable distance of publication._ Editor _discovered in consultation with his_ Chief Sub. _Editor._ We can't find room for everything. _Chief Sub._ Quite so, Sir; still it seems a pity to slaughter this telegram from the front. _Editor._ Does it make very much? _Chief Sub._ No, Sir. If you will allow me, I will run through it. (_Reads._) "Yesterday the Loamshire Regiment, headed by its Commander, Colonel SNOOKS, made one of the gallantest charges on record." _Editor._ Sure it was SNOOKS? _Chief Sub._ Oh yes. We verified it in the _Army List_. SNOOKS went out with the Second Battalion when they were ordered to the front. (_Continues reading._) "The soldiers dashed forward over the Tam-Tam river, and up the steep sides of the Yah-Yah mountains, carrying all before them." _Editor._ Sure of those names? _Chief Sub._ Yes, Sir; verified them on the map. (_Resumes reading._) "Nothing could withstand the rain of lead and the row of steel. The Chutnese attempted to use their 'pungarees'--a rude sort of pruning knife--but without the slightest effect. Uttering their weird yells of 'Tomata, tomata,' and beating their drum-like vessels known over here as 'bang-wangs,' they faltered, floundered and fled." _Editor._ Sure that those names are correct? _Chief Sub._ Quite, Sir. We verified the local colouring with MOKE'S _Six Months in Chutney on the top of a Camel_. _Editor._ Very good. Is there much more? _Chief Sub._ About a third of a column, describing the taking of the native village, the storming of the stockade, and the bivouac by moonlight after the victory at Pennavilla.