On Saturday, June 3rd (that black Saturday which was not quite so black as it was painted) he received an urgent call, as if he was a doctor, to attend the oldest and least movable inhabitant in the acuteness of her distress. Town Majors are good for anything; though I suppose I oughtn't to mention it, I knew of one who assisted single-handed at a birth, mother and son both doing well notwithstanding interim bombardment. They are at anybody's disposal for any purpose; it is merely a question of first come first served. He went to the old lady's house; he found her in a paroxysm of tears over the news of the Naval disaster. For an hour he tried to comfort her, being limited to the methods of personal magnetism, in the absence of his interpreter and the scarcity of his French. She refused to take comfort; it was not sorrow for the gallant dead, but terror of the atrocious living which moved her. She was mortally afraid, she to whom salvoes of big guns were now matters of passing inconvenience. The English Navy had taken a knock; the War was therefore over and we had lost. There was no hope for any of us, and any moment the Bosch might be expected on her threshold, arriving presumably from the rear. The magnificence of the Army of France had been in vain; it was no use going on at Verdun. She was still weeping spasmodically when the better news arrived. Now, Charles, if that is how a French peasant took the first news, how do you suppose the German peasants are digesting the second and better version? Yours ever, HENRY. * * * * * [Illustration: _Shivering Tommy (to red-headed pal)._ "'URRY UP, GINGER, AND DIP YER 'EAD UNDER. IT'LL WARM THE WATER!"] * * * * * "Athens, Monday.--I learn in a well-informed quarter that the Allies are expected to communicate to the Greek Government almost immediately a further Note relative to the restrictions imposed on Greek sipping." _Provincial Paper._ At present, we understand, Greek sippers are strictly confined to Port. * * * * * THE NEWEST HOPE. Dear Betty, in the good old days, Before this Armageddon stunt, We floated down still water-ways Ensconced within a cushioned punt; With mingled terror and delight I felt the toils around me closing, Until one starry moonlit night, Discreetly veiled from vulgar sight, I found myself proposing. You heard my ravings with a smile, And then confessed you liked my cheek, But thought my nose denoted guile And feared my chin was rather weak; My character with fiendish glee You treated to a grim dissection, Then as a final _jeu d'esprit_ You cynically offered me A sisterly affection.