The KAISER has announced his intention of eating his Christmas dinner in London. We trust that Mr. MCKENNA and his men will see to it that His Majesty will, anyhow, find no mince pies here. [NOTE.--"Mince pies" should be pronounced "mean spies." This greatly improves the paragraph.] * * * According to one report which reaches us the KAISER is now beginning to quibble. He has pointed out that, when he said he would eat his Christmas dinner at Buckingham Palace, he did not mention which Christmas. * * * * * TO THE ENEMY, ON HIS ACHIEVEMENT. Now wanes the third moon since your conquering host Was to have laid our weakling army low, And walked through France at will. For that loud boast What have you got to show? A bomb that chipped a tower of Notre Dame, Leaving its mark like trippers' knives that scar The haunts of beauty--that's the best _reclame_ You have achieved so far. Paris, that through her humbled Triumph-Arch Was doomed to see you tread your fathers' tracks-- Paris, your goal, now lies a six days' march Behind your homing backs. Pressed to the borders where you lately passed Bulging with insolence and fat with pride, You stake your all upon a desperate cast To stem the gathering tide. Eastward the Russian draws you to his fold, Content, on his own ground, to bide his day, Out of whose toils not many feet of old Found the returning way. And still along the seas our watchers keep Their grip upon your throat with bands of steel, While that Armada, which should rake the deep, Skulks in its hole at Kiel. So stands your record--stay, I cry you grace-- I wronged you. There is Belgium, where your sword Has bled to death a free and gallant race Whose life you held in ward; Where on your trail the smoking land lies bare Of hearth and homestead, and the dead babe clings About its murdered mother's breast--ah, there, Yes, you have done great things! O. S. * * * * * TOMMY BROWN, RECRUITING SERGEANT. Tommy Brown had been moved up into Form II., lest he should take root in Form I. He had been recommended personally by the master of Form I. to Mr. Smith, the guardian deity of Form II., as "the absolute limit." After a year of Tommy, Mr. Smith had begun to mention him in his prayers, not so much for Tommy's good as for his own deliverance--mentally including him in the category of plague, pestilence, famine and sudden death. Though the pervading note of Mr. Smith's report upon Tommy was gloom, deep gloom, he must have had some dim hopes of him, for, at the end of the Summer Term, he had placed his hand upon Tommy's head and said, "Never mind, my boy, we shall make a man of you some day." A new term had begun; Tommy Brown had mobilised two days late, but he was in time for Mr. Smith's lecture on "The War, boys."