"Turnouts. Odd colour miniature pony, 36in. high, used to children, coming 5 years, and Swiss governess and brown harness; can be seen any time, a miniature lot; £25."--_The Bazaar, Exchange and Mart_. It may be right to turn out aliens, but is not this rather hard on the miniature Swiss Governess? * * * * * From an auctioneer's advertisement: "Grandfather Clocks, and other Arms and Armour."--_Manchester Guardian_. In these days even our oldest clocks are expected to strike for their country. * * * * * "Herr Harden says:-- "'The aim of our enemies is-- Democracy; The right of nations to self-government; An honest, and not merely a specious, diminution of arguments.'" --_Provincial Paper_. So far as this last aim is concerned the German Government appears to agree with the Allies, for it has just suppressed Herr HARDEN's journal. * * * * * DAVID. The War brought about no more awful clash of personalities than when it threw David and myself into the same dug-out. Myself, I am the normal man--the man who wishes he were dead when he is called in the morning and who swears at his servant (1) for calling him; (2) for not calling him. My batman has learnt, after three years of war, to subdue feet which were intended by nature to be thunderous. His method of calling me is the result of careful training. If I am to wake at 7 A.M. he flings himself flat on his face outside my dug-out at 6 A.M. and wriggles snake-like towards my boots. He extracts these painlessly from under last night's salvage dump of tin-hats, gas-masks and deflated underclothes, noses out my jacket, detects my Sam Browne, and in awful silence bears these to the outer air, where he emits, like a whale, the breath which he has been holding for the last ten minutes. And meanwhile I sleep. At 6.55 A.M. he brings back boots, belt and jacket. This time he breathes. He walks softly, but he walks. He places the boots down firmly. He begins to make little noises. He purrs and coughs and scratches his chin, and very gradually the air of the dug-out begins to vibrate with life. It is like _Peer Gynt_--the "Morning" thing on the gramophone, you know; he clinks a toothbrush against a mug, he pours out water. It is all gradual, _crescendo_; and meanwhile I am awakening. At 7 A.M., not being a perfect artist, he generally has to drop something; but by that time I am only pretending to be asleep, and I growl at him, ask him why he didn't call me an hour ago, and then fall asleep again. I get up at eight o'clock and dress in silence. If my batman speaks to me I cut myself, throw the razor at him, and completely break down. In short, as I say, I am the normal man.