"Well, anyhow, he says that all political writers are worthless sycophants. You might begin on that." "I will," I cried. "But craven anonymity is not my part. My name shall stand forth boldly. Fate's linger points the way. How do you spell 'sycophant'? The type has gone a bit dizzy over it." And I plunged into the fray. "Sir," I began; and there followed 2,000 words of closely-woven argument, down to "I remain, Sir, your obedient Servant." I read it through carefully, looked up "sycophant" in the dictionary, and wrote it all out again. Then I showed it to Enid. "Why have you spelt 'sycophant' like that?" she asked. "I----" "No, 'y.'" "It _is_ a 'y.'" "Oh!" (Pause.) "What about the offer? Mr. Lethos says that ninetenths of what is written nowadays is only worth the ink and paper." "The offer," I reminded her, "will come later." "Oh! I just thought---- You might get rid of those articles on 'Happiness in the Home' at cost price. They're running up to quite a lot in stamps." I posted the letter to the Editor. Next morning I seized the paper nervously. There was my name at the end of a column and a half. I had begun. I sat down to wait for the next step. It came with the mid-day post in a letter from Saxby, who is--or was--my friend. "Good old Tibbles," it ran; "I knew some juggins would rise, whatever I wrote. But fancy landing you!--Yours ever, BEEFERS." Now how _can_ a man save his country on a thing like that? * * * * * SMILES AND LAUGHTER. On days of gloom and sadness, When nothing brings relief, When men are moved to madness And women groan with grief; Though growing daily dafter, I might, as once I did, Have cheered myself with laughter, But laughter is forbid. If I should treat of CARSON, His guns and rataplan, It's something worse than arson To smile at such a man; Since chaff would make his pulse stir-- And this he cannot brook-- The more he talks of Ulster The solemner we look. Then, should I meet a CECIL, (Lord ROBERT or Lord HUGH), His manifest distress'll Be very sad to view Unless I'm in a proper, A gloomy frame of mind, And put a heavy stopper On mirth of any kind. Next POUTSEA brings his quota For giving me delight, Who wants to punish BOTHA By living in his sight; Or, foiled of such a strife-time, Decides to have a blow And spend a briny lifetime In sailing to and fro. And SEDDON, who gave greetings To those deported nine, Invited them to meetings And asked them out to dine, And begged of them and prayed them To be no longer banned, But hardly could persuade them To leave the ship and land. These two, the gloom beguiling, Might make me greatly dare, Might set my face a-smiling And win my soul from care; The feted and the feeders Might well provoke some chaff; But no--they're Labour Leaders, And so we mustn't laugh.