"Read!" again we shouted, as Mother came and took the paper gently from him. "When you're all quiet, children," she began, devouring the words before her. _Quiet!_ Even the canary held its breath while Mother read that wonderful paragraph. It was a long one, and every word of it a tribute to our magnificent Chris, who had organised a small volunteer party, attacked a strong point, and captured fifteen of the enemy and a machine-gun, for which gallant act he had been awarded the M.C. With lingering pride she went through it a second time, and only then did we see that she was staring at the paper, proudly and fiercely, through the handle of the hen-house key! * * * * * [Illustration: _First A.B. (indicating old tramp steamer in ballast)_. "THANK 'EAVENS WE AIN'T GOT PROPELLERS WHAT STICK OUT LIKE THAT ON THIS 'ERE JUNK, BILL." _Second A.B._ "WHAT ARE YOU GROUSING ABOUT NOW?" _First A.B._ "WHY, THE BLOOMIN' FIRST-LOOTENANT WOULD MAKE US POLISH THE BLINKIN' THING."] * * * * * THE MUSICAL CRITIC'S ORDEAL. [Mr. CYRIL SCOTT, the musical composer, in his recently published volume on _The Philosophy of Modernism in its connection with Music_, states that the criterion of lofty music, the method of gauging the spiritual value of art, "is only possible to him who has awakened the latent faculties of the pineal gland and the pituitary body."] Lately I've been reading CYRIL SCOTT'S Book on Music, modern and unmuzzled, And, though solving many toughish knots, By one statement I am sadly puzzled, Namely, that if we would understand What divides the noble from the shoddy We must cultivate "the pineal gland," Also "the pituitary body." But unfortunately SCOTT refrains (Hence my present painful agitation) From elucidating how one gains This desiderated consummation. Must I fly to silken Samarcand, Or explore the distant Irrawaddy For the culture of my pineal gland And of my pituitary body? Is the object gained by force of will Or some drastic vegetarian diet? Does it mean a compound radium pill Causing vast upheaval and disquiet? Do I need some special "Hidden Hand," Or the very strongest whisky toddy To arouse my dormant pineal gland, My unused pituitary body? Should I read the works of Mr. YEATS, Or the lays of WILCOX (ELLA WHEELER)? Must I visit the United States And consult the newest occult "healer"? Is the tragedy of IBSEN'S _Brand_ Or the humour of _Poor Pillycoddy_ Better feeding for my pineal gland And for my pituitary body? Vain the subtle art of HENRY JAMES, Vain the wealth of ROTHSCHILDS or of MORGANS, If I fail to satisfy the claims Of these mystic and momentous organs; I'm no better than a grain of sand Or a simple common polypody, With an undeveloped pineal gland, An inert pituitary body.