Most impressive and pathetic was the anguish of the toad When he found the name _Lissaueri_ had on him been bestowed; And a fine man-eating tiger said he'd sooner feed with SHAW Than allow the title _Treitschkei_ to desecrate his jaw. But this memorable meeting was not destined to disperse Without a tragedy too great for humble human verse; For, on hearing that _Wilhelmi_ had to his name been tied, The skunk, in desperation, committed suicide. * * * * * Count REVENTLOW in the _Deutsche Tageszeitung_:-- "It is an established fact that when our airships were, in order to fly to the fortified place of Great Yarmouth, merely flying over other places or cities, they were shot at from these places. It may be assumed with certainty that these shots, which were aimed at the airships from below, hit them, and probably they wounded or even killed occupants of the airships. This involves an English franc-tireur attack, ruthlessly carried out in defiance of International Law and in the darkness of the night, upon the German airships, which, without the smallest hostile action, wanted to fly away over these places.... The airship is a recognised weapon of war, and yet people in England seem to demand that it shall regard itself as fair game for the murders performed by a fanatical civil population, and shall not have the right to defend itself." By the offer of a princely salary, _Mr. Punch_ has tried to tempt Count REVENTLOW to join the staff in Bouverie Street. In vain. As the chief humorist of Central Europe he feels that his services are indispensable to the Fatherland. * * * * * [Illustration: "OH, MOTHER! HOW I WISH I WAS AN ANGEL!" "DARLING! WHAT MAKES YOU SAY THAT?" "OH, BECAUSE THEN, MOTHER, I COULD DROP BOMBS ON THE GERMANS."] * * * * * OVERWORK. The poets having indicated that they were going to take a few moments off, the words were free to stand at ease also. They did so with a great sigh of relief, especially one whom I recognised by his intense weariness and also by the martial glow on his features, his muddied and torn clothes and the bandage round his head. "You're 'war,'" I said, crossing over to speak to him. "Yes," he replied, "I'm 'war,' and I'm very tired." "They're sweating you?" I asked. "Horribly," he replied. "In whatever they're writing about just now, both poets and song-writers, they drag me in, and they will end lines with me. Just to occur somewhere and be done with I shouldn't so much mind; but they feel in honour bound to provide me with a rhyme. Still," he added meditatively, "there are compensations." "How?" I asked.