"There 'tis, Ma'am," she gasped breathlessly, plumping down her burden on the kitchen table. "An' now I'm goin'." "Going! Where?" "To KING GEORGE, God bless 'im. The poster ses 'e wants me." Her mistress shook a regretful head. "No, Tilda. It's not you and I he wants." Gloom unutterable descended upon Tilda as her mistress expounded the situation. "Men 'as all the luck," she jerked out. "I ain't surprised them Sufferajettes got sick o' things." A pause. "Still, I s'pose it ain't KING GEORGE'S fault. I'll 'elp 'im out as well as I can," she announced. It was a resolute Tilda who awaited her swain at the kitchen door that night. "Take off yer shoes," she said abruptly. Jem obeyed. "'Old up yer 'ead. Don't loll," came the sharp command. Jem drew himself up to attention, and Tilda manipulated an inch tape. "Sixty-three inches an' a bit. Twelves into sixty go five. Five feet three an' a scrap. You'll jest do," she said with a complacent nod. Jem, motionless, but turning a fine blush-rose under the touch of the busy fingers, levelled an enquiring gaze at the preoccupied face. "I'm giving you to KING GEORGE," remarked Tilda. "I'm sorry you ain't taller, but he'll understand I've done the best I can for 'im," she added with a little sigh. "But--but--" faltered Jem. "There ain't no buts about it," broke in Tilda with swift asperity. "Think what you'd feel like if you was me." "Why, it's you a-sendin' me," protested Jem. "I won't go if you don't want me to leave yer." Tilda flung back her head with an impatient snort at man's obtuseness. "You don't s'pose I'm whinin' cos you're goin', do you?" she demanded. An abashed Jem diminished perceptibly. "Well, why then?" he asked humbly. "Cos I can't go, stoopid. It ain't fair." * * * * * A BENEFACTOR. Their blazon flashed across the sky Or ever the War began; In divers spots it struck the eye Of every passing man. Aloft the flickering words would run, Curtly commanding me To use the Soap of Such a One, Or swallow Someone's Tea. But oh, in London's sky to-day Such legends no man meets, And, as I go my cautious way By dark but decent streets, I think of him who bade depart These beacons' blatant din, And almost find it in my heart To bless Count ZEPPELIN. * * * * * "FIVE HOLES IN HULL. GLASGOW BEING REPAIRED IN RIO DE JANEIRO."--_Star._ More news for Germans: "Successful bombardment of British towns." * * * * * Illustration: _Cavalry Instructor._ "FROM WHERE DID YOU RECEIVE INSTRUCTIONS TO DISMOUNT, SIR?" _Raw Recruit._ "FROM HINDQUARTERS, SIR." * * * * * A SOLDIER'S SERVANT. Dear _Mr. Punch_,--I am only a dog, but as you have a dog of your own you will be able to sympathise with me and understand my feelings. If you don't, ask him and he will explain.