It is in these circumstances that I confidently fall back upon the Middle-Class Mother. After all, who was always the chief financial support of my wartime enterprises? The Middle-Class Mother. It was to her heart that the cry of the Croat, the moan of the Montenegrin, the ululation of the Yugo-Slav made its most effective entry. It was she who lavished her husband's pay or profits on the entrancing vision of the Countess of Bustover as Britannia or of Lady Aaronson as England's Girlhood. So I have determined that she shall now have a show to herself, and we shall see whether she will subscribe to her own charity as wholeheartedly as she did to those of our suffering Allies. Without a doubt the Middle-Class Mother is a very deserving institution and has done extremely good work in the past, which I regret that the space at my disposal does not permit me to particularise. I must perforce content myself with announcing that on her behalf a grand Zoological Fancy Dress Ball will be held next month at Valhalla, which will be converted for the occasion into a realistic representation of a Bear Garden. I myself am appearing as Queen of the Polar Bears, and by way of augmenting the takings I propose to sell hugs at a guinea per head. The whole of the proceeds, after the expenses have been deducted, will go to the Middle-Class Mothers' Mutual Criticism Society, an animated body of which I have the privilege to be founder and hon. president. * * * * * MAIDEN'S BOWER ROCKS, SCILLY. It was an earl's daughter, she lived in a tower (Ding-dong, ding-a-dong-dey), And she was as fair as the loveliest flower That nods in the girdle of May. The floor of her bower was strewn with green rushes; Full many knights' banners hung waving above; And round her young minstrels stood singing like thrushes Brave ballads of lovers and love, Dove-- Wooings and cooings of love. But over their harping and over their singing, When twilight came mantled in lilac and grey, Would sound the sweet clangour of chapel-bells ringing "Ding-dong, ding-a-dong-dey," From over the hills and away. It was an earl's daughter, she lived in a tower (Ding-dong, ding-a-dong-dey), But the salt sea arose in a terrible hour And smothered her singing in spray. It changed her to rock, and she lies in her chamber, Her faithful stone minstrels all crouched by her side; Above her, weed banners of crimson and amber Wave slow in the sweep of the tide, Glide Hither and yon on the tide. Yet down through the fathoms of twilit green water Where eerie lights glimmer and strange shadows sway, The steamer bells ring to the earl's little daughter, "Ding-dong, ding-a-dong-dey," Ring out and sail on and away. PATLANDER. * * * * * [Illustration: MANNERS AND MODES.