I have sounded my churchwardens on the subject, but without reaping any benefit from the advice given. "Do you see any harm in selling them simply as paper?" I asked one of them, a Mr. Bloggs. "Not a rap! Not a rap! Get rid of 'em!" was his reply. Naturally I felt hurt. It was not so much what he said as the way he said it. The mere mention of my sermons always seems to make him irritable. Why I cannot imagine. My dear wife advises me to send them down to the schoolhouse. The children, she thinks, might use the backs (I write on one side of the paper only) for their sums. But I fear such an expedient might give rise to a spirit of irreverence. Would Your Grace hold me greatly to blame were I to raffle them at our next rummage sale? I feel sure they would fetch a good price. Only yesterday Miss Tabitha Gingham remarked to her sister, Miss Mary, "We had a good long sermon from the Rector this morning." I was passing behind their laurel hedge at the moment, and could not fail to overhear this meed of praise. Miss Tabitha is, I should explain, very hard to please, and if _she_ thinks them good there must be others in the parish of the same opinion. I might be able to raise quite a nice sum for our local Seed Potato Committee by a Spring raffle of my longer and more elaborate compositions. And since everybody is beginning to take a modern view of Bonus Bonds I do not think that a raffle for such a purpose need arouse serious opposition. Trusting that Your Grace will be able to give me your considered opinion in this matter, which is arousing so much attention at the present time, I am, Your Grace's humble and obedient Servant, LAURENCE LONGWIND. * * * * * [Illustration: _Resident at Boarding House_ (_to waiter_). "DO YOU CALL THIS STUFF MARGARINE OR MARJARINE?" _Mike._ "SURE, SORR, IT'S HERSELF WOULD SLING ME OUT IF I CALLED IT ANNYTHING BUT BUTTHER."] * * * * * FORE AND AFT. The A.S.C.'s a nobleman; 'e rides a motor-car, 'E is not forced to 'ump a pack, as we footsloggers are; 'E drives 'is lorry through the towns and 'alts for fags and beer; We infantry, we does without, there ain't no shops up 'ere; And then for splashin' us with mud 'e draws six bob a day, For the further away from the line you go the 'igher your rate of pay. My shirt is rather chatty and my socks 'ud make you larf; It's just a week o' Sundays since they sent us for a barf; But them that 'as the cushy jobs they lives in style and state, With a basin in their bedrooms and their dinners on a plate; For 'tis a law o' nachur with the bloomin' infantry-- The nearer up to the line you go the dirtier will you be.