It is full of Pictures of the War, but you can do without them. It has punctual literary judgments of astounding finality by "C.K.S.," but they can wait. Do anything in reason, but don't buy _The Sphere_. The depreciation, you observe, is not always quite whole-heartedly done. But it must be remembered that the habit of self-praise cannot be broken down in a minute, and this is only a beginning. * * * * * PAN PIPES. In the green spaces of the listening trees Pan sits at ease, Watching with lazy eyes Little blue butterflies That flicker sidelong in the fitful breeze; While on his pipe he plays Quaint trills, and roundelays With dropping cadences; And shy red squirrels rub against his knees. And, thro' the city's tumult and the beat Of hurrying feet, Those whom the god loves hear Pan's pipe, insistent, clear; Echoes of elfin laughter, high and sweet; Catch in the sparrows' cries Those tinkling melodies That sing where brooklets meet, And the wood's glamour colours the grey street. =A LOCAL FOOD-CONTROLLER.= "No partner for you this evening, Sir," said the Inspector. "Mr. Tibbits has just telephoned through that he has rheumatism badly again." I know Tibbits' rheumatism. I also know he plays off his heat in the club billiard handicap to-night. I can imagine him writhing round the table. Still I remember the first rule of the force--under no circumstances give another policeman away. "You'll have to take Dartmouth Street by yourself, Sir," continues the Inspector. "What's it like?" "Bit of a street market. All right--just tact and keep them moving." I reach Dartmouth Street. It is a thronged smelly thoroughfare. I pass along modestly, hoping that every one will ignore me. But a gentleman who is selling fish detects me and calls "'Ere, Boss, move this ole geezer on." "What's the trouble?" I inquire. The old geezer turns rapidly on me. "'Ere 'e's gone and sold me two 'errings for tuppence 'alfpenny which was that salt my 'usband went near mad, what with the pubs bein' shut all afternoon, an' now 'e's popped the fender jus' to get rid of 'is thirst." "I told you to soak 'em in three waters," says the fishmonger. "'Ow much beer is my 'usband to soak 'imself in--tell me that?" It is time for tact. I whisper in the lady's ear, "Come along--don't argue with a man like that. He's beneath you." She comes away. I am triumphant. But she turns round and cries, "This gentleman as _is_ a gentleman says I ain't to lower meself by talkin' to a 'ound like you." I move on. I doubt if the fishmonger will be pleased by the lady's representation of my few words, and I make a mental note to keep away from his stall. All at once another lady, who for some obscure reason is carrying a bucket, grips me by the arm.