But now I am the Harbinger of Peace By special request. Imperial Germany, Sated with victory and a shortage of boiled potatoes, Implores me to save the Entente Powers from utter annihilation, And the prayer is echoed By Sir EDGAR SPEYER and the other neutrals. So my keys tap out the glad message Of friendship for all and trouble for none. I ask them what they are fighting about, And if it is really true that Belgium has been invaded, And propose that we should all get together and talk it over Nice and quietly over tea and muffins And away from all the nasty blood and noise. Thus I address them, And humane Germany Almost falls on my neck in her anxiety to comply with my request; But the stiff-necked Entente, With an old-fashioned obstinacy reminiscent of the LINCOLN person at his worst, Merely utter joint and several sentiments The substance and effect of which appear to be "Nix!" ALGOL. * * * * * [Illustration: _Bill_ (_coming to after a shell has hit his dug-out_). "HAVE I BEEN LONG UNCONSCIOUS, WILLIAM?" _William_. "OH, A GOODISH BIT, BILL." _Bill_. "WHAT DO YOU CALL A 'GOODISH BIT,' WILLIAM?" _William_. "WELL, A LONGISH TIME, BILL." _Bill_. "WELL, WHAT'S THAT WHITE ON THE HILL? IS IT SNOW OR DAISIES?"] * * * * * THE ONLY REGRET. ONCE UPON A TIME. Once upon a time a man lay dying. He was dying very much at his ease, for he had had enough of it all. None the less they brought a priest, who stretched his face a yard long and spoke from his elastic-sided boots. "This is a solemn moment," said the priest. "But sooner or later it comes to us all. You are fortunate in having all your faculties." The dying man smiled grimly. "Is there any wrong that you have done that you wish redressed?" the priest asked. "None that I can remember," said the dying man. "But you are sorry for such wrong as you have done?" "I don't know that I am," said the dying man. "I was a very poor hand at doing wrong. But there are some so-called good deeds that I could wish undone which are still bearing evil fruit." The priest looked pained. "But you would not hold that you have not been wicked?" he said. "Not conspicuously enough to worry about," replied the other. "Most of my excursions into what you would call wickedness were merely attempts to learn more about this wonderful world into which we are projected. It's largely a matter of temperament, and I've been more attracted by the gentle things than the desperate. Strange as you may think it, I die without fear." "But surely there are matters for regret in your life?" the priest, who was a conscientious man, inquired earnestly. "Ah!" said the dying man. "Regret? That's another matter. Have I no occasion for regret? Have I not? Have I not?"