There was a furious ring at the door, and when I opened it a small brown hand was thrust in, full of flags, whose pins must have been very prickly to hold, while he of the sailor suit addressed me eagerly. "Look! This sort's a penny. It's paper. And this sort's thruppence. It's real silk. Which'll you have?" The hand held two silk and four paper flags. I took a silk one, and the girl nodded approval. "I think," said she, "the silk ones will _wear_ better." While I found my purse the boy had a sudden idea, which he instantly communicated with the sincere intention of doing the best he could for me. Said he, "You'd better have the bofe. You'll want one for your--for the father." And then he had a brighter thought still. "And the childrens. This paper kind would do for them. It's no use buying _good_ ones for them, is it?" "No, they're sure to lose them," agreed Jill. "You see, they're rather loose on their pins," she added with commercial candour. "Else they wouldn't waggle properly," put in the boy hastily, in case I might be thinking this a defect. "I'll take the lot," said I, "if you can tell me what it's all for." "You c'n see," said Jack, "it's on the back of them," and he poked one round. "'For Woun-ded He-roes,'" he read out with pride and great deliberation. "_He_ can't read very well," said Jill, who was a wee bit jealous. "It doesn't mean dead. It only means wounded." But Jack smiled at me understandingly, refusing to argue with anything so small as Jill, and they departed, counting the spoil. At the gate Jack turned and came back. "If you have more than four children," he said earnestly, "I could bring you some more paper ones." I think they must have had a successful day. * * * * * "BAPTISMAL TROUSERS AND GOWNS FOR MINISTERS. Used throughout Wales for 40 years." _Baptist Times._ As the posters should have said, "It is worse than unpatriotic, it is bad form, to wear new clothes in war-time." * * * * * THE EPIGRAM. George and I had been discussing the prospect for elderly and slightly shop-soiled _littérateurs_ under present circumstances. The result was not wholly enlivening. "If I had a few hundreds clear," said George at last, "I'd give up Fleet Street and start a farm. I've always loved the country." "My dear George," I answered, speaking slowly, "for a man to take a farm because he loves the country is to make a master of what should remain a mistress." Just like that. Because I was going slowly I was able at the last moment to substitute the word "mistress" for "servant," which would have been merely banal. Not till then did I recognise the bright perfection of the completed remark. No wonder George stared enviously. "What's that out of?" he asked.