Around Olympus' foot I'd roam (Not being really fond of climbing), Absorb romance and carry home Increased facility at rhyming; Those hallowed haunts of many a god That nowadays we only read of Would give my Pegasus the prod He not unseldom stood in need of. That was in Peace. And then the War Sent me to learn within a hutment What martial duties held in store And what a sergeant-major's "Tut" meant; Thence to the trenches, thence a rest, A route-march to a wayside station, With (every single soldier guessed) Greece as our "unknown destination." I saw Olympus wrapped in snow, The clouds at rest upon its summit, But did I thrill or long to throw My hands athwart the lyre and strum it? Gazing, I felt no soulful throb, I only felt the body's inner Cravings and said, "I 'll bet a bob It's bully once again for dinner." * * * * * "Ex-King Constantino has bought a magnificent chateau called Chartreuse, situated near Thun Castle. It belonged to Baron von Zadlitz, a German officer, who is now in the field, and has been empty since the beginning of the war."--_Evening Paper_. Well, he will be able to fill himself up on the proceeds. * * * * * [Illustration: THE LEAVE-WANGLER.] * * * * * [Illustration] _Father._ "WHAT CLASS DID THEY PUT YOU IN COMING ACROSS?" _Tommy._ "C 6." * * * * * HAY FEVER. That is the twenty-seventh time to-day! What is the use of Nobbs's Nasal Spray? What use my aunt's "unfailing" recipes? There _is_ no anodyne for this disease-- Thirty, I think! Another hanky, please-- A-tish-oo! The world is gay; the bee bestrides the rose; But I blaspheme and madly blow my nose. For shame, O world! for shame, the heartless bee! Your sweetest blooms are misery to me; And as for that condemned acacia-tree-- A-tish-oo! Oh, could I roam, contented like the sheep, In sunlit fields where, as it is, I weep; Oh, to be fashioned like the lower classes, Who simply revel in the longest grasses, While I sit lachrymose with coloured glasses-- A-tish-oo! Fain would I spend my summers high in air; At least there are no privet-hedges there. But even then I have no doubt the smell From slopes celestial of asphodel Would fill the firmament and give me hell-- A-tish-oo! They tell me 'tis the man of intellect The baneful seeds especially affect; And I that sneeze one million times a year-- I ought to have a notable career, Though, at the price, an earldom would be dear-- A-tish-oo! Gladly, indeed, to some less gifted swain Would I concede my fine but fatal brain, Could I like him but sniff the jasmine spray Or couch unmoved within a mile of hay, And not explode in this exhausting way-- A-tish-oo!