"How sad and mad and bad it was," a theme for the moralist, the conscientious objector, the Army reformer, the social reformer, the statistician. Yet perhaps even their solemn faces might relax to-day at the sight of a long-legged Airedale puppy marching at the head of the battalion to which she has appointed herself mascot. * * * * * QUIS CUSTODIET? "Engineer desires position as Manager of Works Manager."--_The Aeroplane_. * * * * * "---- and Sons will sell by Auction four Shorthand and Jersey Cows." _Morning Paper_. As the FOOD CONTROLLER'S Department is said to be still short of clerks, he may like to bid for these accomplished creatures. * * * * * AT THE PLAY. "FELIX GETS A MONTH." This "whimsical comedy," made by Mr. LEON M. LION out of a novel by the late TOM GALLON, began in a distinctly intriguing mood. _Felix_ had an uncle, a sport, on whom he had once played a scurvy practical joke. This highly tolerant victim eventually cut up for a round million, which he left to nephew _Felix_ on condition that he should enter Umberminster as naked as the day he was born and earn his living therein for a full calendar month--a palpable posthumous hit to the old man. _Felix_ accordingly, equipped as laid down in the will, is left by the family solicitor in a wood, and, after a night and a day in hiding, appears shivering at the Mayor's parlour window, abstracts a rug for temporary relief, and prevails upon the maid, a romantic little orphan (who had been reading about river-gods and mistakes _Felix_ for one), to borrow a suit of the Mayor's clothes--into which he gets in time to interview that worthy when he returns with his grim lady. "You'll get a month," says she with damnable iteration; and the resourceful _Felix_, with an eye to the whimsical will, whimsically suggests that justice would be better fulfilled by his putting in the month at the Mayor's house as odd-job man than by his being conveyed to the county jail. And the Mayor whimsically agrees. After that, I regret to say, honest whimsicality took wing, and the show became merely--shall we say?--eupeptic. And certainly a much more elaborate meal than my lord DEVONPORT allowed me would be required to induce a mood sufficiently tolerant to face without impatience the welter which followed. The three incredible people--mercenary virgin, heavy father and aimless smiling villain--that walked straight out of the Elephant and Castle into the Second Act were not, I suspect, any elaborate (and quite irrelevant) joke of the actor-author's at the expense of the transpontine method, but just queer puppets brought on to disentangle the complications, though I confess I half thought that the villain, Mr. LAWRENCE LEYTON, was pulling our legs with a quite deliberate burlesque. On the whole I am afraid this play is but another wreck on that old snag of the dramatised novel.