But only this morn I decided Exactly the thing I preferred To call back the prodigies I did When the call for fatigue men was heard; Though my life is again a civilian's, Martial glories shall come back to view If I buy from these derelict millions A rum jar or two. Though the spirit's long since been a "goner," Though the uttermost heel-tap be drained, I will give them a place of high honour, Well knowing that once they contained My solace when seasons were rotten, When the cold put my courage to flight, Or the sergeant, perchance, had forgotten To kiss me good-night. In a world that is apt to be trying, When things are inclined to go ill And I'm sitting despondently sighing, Perhaps they will comfort me still; At the sight of these humble mementoes It may be once more I shall know From the crown of my head to my ten toes That radiant glow. * * * * * Journalistic Candour. "CHANCES MISSED. By _The Daily Mail_ correspondent recently in France."--_Daily Mail._ * * * * * "'The Trojan Person in Pink' will fill the bill at the Haymarket."--_Evening Paper._ Is this intended for a description of the lady to whom Paris gave the golden apple? * * * * * [Illustration: THE WORM TURNS. A JUGGLER'S COMIC ASSISTANT REFUSES TO MUFF HIS TRICKS.] * * * * * PRESENCE OF MIND. Proud is not the word for me When I hear my 8-h.p. Latest model motor-bike, Having dodged the latest strike, Is awaiting me complete At the garage down the street. Joyfully I take my way (And a cheque-book too to pay The two hundred odd they thought it Right to charge the man who bought it). Still, it is a lovely creature, Up-to-date in every feature, _And_ a side-car, painted carmine-- Joy! to think they really _are_ mine! Time is short; I don't lose much in Starting, and I let the clutch in; Lest I should accelerate Passing through the garage-gate, Feeling certain as to what'll Happen, I shut off the throttle, When--my heart begins to beat-- I'm propelled across the street In a way I never reckoned, Gathering speed at every second. Frantic, I apply the brake, Realising my mistake With my last remaining wit: _I've not shut, but opened it!_ In another instant I Hit the curb and start to fly. Aeronautic friends of mine Say that flying is divine; Now I've tried it I confess Few things interest me less, Still, I own that in a sense It is an experience. These and other thoughts are there As I whistle through the air, And continue till I stop In an ironmonger's shop (Kept by Mr. Horne, a kind Soul, but deaf and very blind). Still--I mention this with pride, For it shows how well I ride-- I have left the bike outside. * * * * *