But we, well-armed in every pore Against the tricks you mean to try on, Will stick it out through slush and slime, And bide, as best we may, our time Till General Mars begins to roar Just like a British lion. And ere his exit, like a lamb, The sloppy mess shall all be tidied, And (since I can't believe that K. Has said that things won't move till May) We shall step out, as SHEM and HAM Did when the flood subsided. Spring! Ah, to what a sanguine view Thoughts of the vernal prime provoke us! Yet never in my whole career Can I recall a single year When I so much looked forward to The advent of the crocus. For with the Spring, when youth is free To execute its inward yearning, Like to a lark (or other bird) The soul of Thomas shall be stirred, And to Berlin I hope to see The young man's fancy turning. O.S. * * * * * A FORCED MARCH. Petherby recommended route-marching; said he used to suffer from sensations of repletion after heavy meals, just as I did, but, after a series of Saturday afternoons spent in route-marching through our picturesque hill country (Herne, Brixton, Denmark and so forth), the distressing symptoms completely vanished, and he now felt as right as a trivet. I hadn't a ghost of a notion what a trivet was, nor yet what degree of rectitude was expected of it; but I nevertheless determined to try the route-march cure. Bismuth and pepsin should henceforth be drugs in the market as far as I was concerned. The only doubt in my mind was whether, technically speaking, I could perform a route-march all by myself. Somehow I thought etiquette demanded the presence of a band, or at any rate a drum and fife _obbligato_. But Petherby thought not, and declared it would prove just as effective rendered as a solo. "Besides," he added, "if you want music to invigorate you, you can whistle or hum. Moreover, you can switch the music on or off at will." I resolved to start the treatment the following Saturday afternoon, and certainly should have done so but for the weather, which was very moist. If there's one thing I hate more than dyspepsia it's rheumatism. The next Saturday was fine--fine for a Saturday, that is; but a well-meant gift of tickets for a _matinée_, which it would have been churlish of me to refuse, robbed me of my prospective enjoyment. However, Saturday of the week after was also fine. Nothing stood in the way of my pleasurable tramp, and I determined to route-march home from the City. I spent two hours in ill-concealed impatience--the marker told me he had never seen me put up such a poor game--waiting to see if the weather would change. But as at the expiration of that time it had apparently got stuck I decided to risk it.