* * * * * "NAVAL APPOINTMENTS. "ROYAL NAVAL RESERVE. "Mr. J.R. MACDONALD entered as Skipper (temp.)"--_The Times._ If this is how the Government hopes to get the Member for Leicester to Petrograd there is still the difficulty of enlisting a crew (temp.) * * * * * "Successful raids were carried out by us during the night east of Lagnicourt (two or three metres south of Bullecourt)."--_Evening Times and Echo._ For the sake of precision we could have wished that the measurement had been worked out to inches. * * * * * "Thousands on foot and in every kind of vehicle visited the grisly relic. A Sunday school teacher marched the girls of her class to the place. Some 80ft. of her nose-end is stuck aslant in the air."--_Daily Mail._ Not every woman is so well-equipped for showing contempt of the enemy. * * * * * "Wanted, Coachman-Chauffeur, 'Over-land' Car (Protestant), over military age."--_Londonderry Sentinel._ Whatever its religion a car of this age must be almost past praying for. * * * * * "The sort of women who literally make ducks and drakes of their duty as the family administrator."--_Spectator._ Having regard to the high price of poultry might not the new Food-Controller get these women to explain how they do it? * * * * * THE BUFFER'S VINDICATION. I haven't fought, I haven't dug, I've worn no special caps, Too little has my country, sure, had from me; _But_ I've never talked of "strafe-ing" anyone for any lapse, And I've never called a fighting man a "Tommy." * * * * * [Illustration: _Old Soldier_ (_trying to "swing the lead"_). "WELL, SIR, I CAN'T NEITHER EAT, SLEEP NOR DRINK, SIR." _M.O._ (_in a spasm of enthusiasm_). "MY GOOD MAN! THE ARMY WANTS A BATTALION LIKE YOU!"] * * * * * THE WATCH DOGS. LXII. MY DEAR CHARLES,--I've become so artful these days in disguising identities under assumed names that I'm hanged if I can remember myself which of my people is which. Still I daresay your own memory isn't too good, so we'll call him Ross this time, and trust to luck that that is what we called him last time. He is that one of my friends and fellow sinners who was plugging along nicely at the Bar in 1914, and was just about to take silk, when he changed his mind, came to France and got mixed up in what he calls "this vulgar brawl on the Continent." After nearly three years of systematic warfare in the second line he has at last achieved the rank of full lieutenant, which is not so bad for a growing lad of forty-five; and is running one of those complicated but fascinating side-shows which, to oblige Their Exigencies, we have to label Queer Trades, and leave at that.