You don't think this is particularly funny; well, no more did the sixteen. But it was a very, very happy luncheon. Remember that we have subsisted on ration beef and ration everything else for some months, and you will believe me when I tell you that, upon seeing a menu in French (our dear allies!), opening with _crème_ and concluding with _Jacques_, we told the waiter to remove the programme and give us the foodstuffs. "Start at the beginning," said the C.O., "and keep on at it till you reach the end. Then stop." "Stop, Sir?" I asked. "Ay, stop," said he, "and begin all over again" ... and so when we got to the last liqueur, I held it up and said, "Sir, if I may, your very good health," meaning thereby that I forgave him not only all the harsh things he has said to me in the past, but even all the harsher things he proposes to say to me in the future. From the monotony of training we have only occasional relief in the actual, as for instance when we are kept out of bed all night, Zepping. But this is a poor game, Charles; there is not nearly enough sport in it to satisfy the desires of a company of enthusiasts, armed with a rifle and a hundred rounds of ball ammunition apiece. We feel that the officer of the day, who inspects the shooting party at 9.30 P.M. and then sends it off about its business, is trifling with tragic matter when he tells us: "Now, remember; no hens!" Yours ever, HENRY. * * * * * [Illustration: LESSONS FROM THE NATURAL WORLD. _The Shirker._ "NICE BIRD! SAY 'POLLY SCRATCH A POLL!'" _The Bird._ "JOHNNY, GET YOUR GUN!"] * * * * * "The battle that has been raging for several months has now ended in a distinct triumph for the high-necked corsage." _Tatler._ Good. Now we can devote our attention to the other war on the Continent. * * * * * [Illustration: _Village Wit_ (_to victim of ill-timed revelry_). "WOTCHER, WILLIAM? HOW WAS JOFFER WHEN YOU LEFT?"] * * * * * OXFORD IN WAR TIME. Who that beheld her robed in May Could guess the change that six months later Has brought such wondrous disarray Upon his _alma mater?_ Distracted by a world-wide strife, The calm routine of study ceases; And Oxford's academic life Is broken all to pieces. No more the intellectual youth Feeds on perpetual paradoxes; No longer in the quest of truth The mental compass boxes. Gone are the old luxurious days When, always craving something subtler, To BERGSON'S metaphysic maze He turned from SAMUEL BUTLER. Linked by the brotherhood of arms All jarring coteries are blended; Mere cleverness no longer charms; The cult of Blues is ended.