An ancient castle crowns the hill That flanks our sunlit rockbound bay, Where, in the spacious days of old, Stout ALBUQUERQUE set his hold Dealing in slaves and silks and gold From Hormuz to Cathay. The Dom has passed, the Arab rules; Yet still there fronts the morning light Erect upon the crumbling wall The mast of some great Amiral, A trophy of the Portingall In some forgotten fight. The wind blows damp, the sun shines hot, And ever on the Eastern shore, Faint envoys from the far monsoon, There in the gap the breakers croon Their old unchanging rhythmic rune (The noise is such a bore). And week by week to climb that hill The SULTAN sends some sweating knave To scan the misty deep and hail With hoisted nag the smoky trail That means (hurrah!) the English mail, So we still rule the wave! Hurrah!--and yet what tales of woe! My home exposed to Zeppelin shocks, The long-drawn agony of strife, The daily toll of precious life, And a sad screed from my poor wife Of babes with chicken-pox. All this it brings--yet brings therewith That which may help us bear and grin. "Boy, when you hear the boat's keel scrunch, Ask the mail officer to lunch; But give me time to peep at _Punch_ Before you let him in." * * * * * LONDON'S LITTLE SUNBEAMS. THE TAXI-MEN. What (writes a returned traveller) has happened to London's taxi-drivers? When I went away, not more than three months ago, they occasionally stopped when they were hailed and were not invariably unwilling to convey one hither and there. But now ... With flags defiantly up, they move disdainfully along, and no one can lure them aside. Where on these occasions are they going? How do they make a living if the flag never comes down? Are they always on their way to lunch, even late at night? Are they always out of petrol? I can understand and admire the independence that follows upon overwork; but when was their overwork done? The only tenable theory that I have evolved is that Lord NORTHCLIFFE (whose concurrent rise to absolutism is another phenomenon of my absence) has engaged them all to patrol the streets in his service. Sometimes, however, a taxi-driver, breaking free from this bondage, answers a hail; but even then all is not necessarily easy. This is the kind of thing:-- _You_. I want to go to Bedford Gardens. _The Sunbeam_ (_indignantly_). Where's that? _You_. In Kensington. _The Sunbeam_. That's too far. I've got another job at half-past four (_or_ My petrol's run out). _You_. If I gave you an extra shilling could you just manage it? _The Sunbeam_ (_scowling_). All right. Jump in. This that follows also happens so frequently as to be practically the rule and not the exception:-- _You_. 12, Lexham Gardens. _The Sunbeam_. 12, Leicester Gardens. _You_. No; LEXHAM. _The Sunbeam_. 12, Lexham Road? _You_ (_shouting_). No; Lexham GARDENS!