E-text prepared by Malcolm Farmer, David King, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (https://www.pgdp.net) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 22602-h.htm or 22602-h.zip: (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/2/6/0/22602/22602-h/22602-h.htm) or (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/2/6/0/22602/22602-h.zip) PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI VOL. 150 JANUARY 5, 1916. The Whitefriars Press. RESOLUTIONS. I will not breakfast in my bed With downy cushions at my head; That would be very wrong--and so Away the eggs and bacon go! I will not read in bed at night And burn the dear electric light; Nor buy another costly hat; Oh no! I'm much too good for that. But I will rise before the dawn And weed and cut and roll the lawn; My border I will plant with veg, Abundantly from hedge to hedge. And all the day I'll practise thrift And no more happily will drift In deeper debt, as once, alas! --But what an awful year I'll pass. * * * * * The Art of Sinking. "Altogether we sank one gunboat, five steamers (one of 3,000 tons), and 17 large sailing ships, three trains, and one railway embankment."--_Manchester Guardian._ * * * * * Very Light Marching Order. From a notice issued to recruits for the New Zealand Expeditionary Force:-- "You should report wearing a pair of serviceable boots, and bring with you your toilet outfit--no additional clothing is required." * * * * * "In a conversation with members of the Press Mr. Ford said now was the time for peace on the basis of the _status quo anti bellum_." _Scotch Paper._ He always spells it that way. * * * * * AN ILL-USED AUTHOR. "I gather, Sir," remarked my fellow-traveller, after I had put away the writing-block on which I had been jotting down the outline of an article, "that you are a literary man, like myself?" We were the only occupants of a compartment in a L. & N. W. R. carriage. I had been too absorbed till then to notice his appearance, but I now observed that he had rather unkempt hair, luminous eyes, and a soft hat. "Oh, well," I admitted, "I write." "But I take it that, whatever you write, it is not _poetry_," he said. What led him to this inference I cannot say, but I had to confess that it was correct. "Still, even though you are not a Poet yourself, I hope," he said, "you can feel some sympathy for one who has been so infamously treated as I have." I replied that I hoped so too.