I shook my pen; he shifted his head a little and continued:-- "DEAR WIFE,--If you could see my shoulder dressed of a morning you would laugh. They cuts out little pieces of lint like a picture puzzle to fit the places, and I've got a regular map of Blighty all down my arm; but that's not so bad as my back, which I cannot see and which the wound is as long--" I blotted the sheet and turned over, and Private Brown eyed the space left for further cheerful communications. "Shall I leave this for you to finish?" I suggested, thinking of tender messages difficult to dictate. "Your fingers may be better after tea, or perhaps to-morrow morning." "That's all right, Miss. There's nothing more to put except my name, if you'll just say, "Good-bye, dear wife, hoping this finds you well as it leaves me at present." * * * * * FAIR WARNING. "A POPULAR CONCERT WILL BE HELL IN THE PORTEOUS HALL, On Friday, 2nd November."--_Scotch Paper_. * * * * * CURRAGH MEETING. Judea . . . . . . . . . . . E.M. Quirke 1 Elfterion . . . . . . . . . . . M. Wing 2 Tut Ttlddddddrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr aY Tut Tut . . . . . . . . . . . . J. Dines 3 _Provincial Paper_. From which it is to be inferred The angry printer backed the third. * * * * * [Illustration: "WELL, UPON MY WORD! AFTER ALL THE TROUBLE I HAD TO GET A QUARTER OF A POUND OF BUTTER, THE COOK'S SENT UP MARGARINE. I SHOULD HATE THE MAIDS TO GO SHORT, BUT I _DO_ THINK WE OUGHT TO _SHARE_ THINGS."] * * * * * THE ULTIMATE OUTRAGE. I had a favourite shirt for many moons, Soft, silken, soothing and of tenderest tone, Gossamer-light withal. The Subs., my peers, Envied the garment, ransacking the land To find a shirt its equal--all in vain. For, when we tired of shooting at the Hun And other Batteries clamoured for their share And we resigned positions at the front To dally for a space behind the line, To shed my war-worn vesture I was wont-- The G.S. boots, the puttees and the pants That mock at cut and mar the neatest leg, The battle-jacket with its elbows patched And bands of leather, round its hard-used cuffs, And, worst of all, the fuggy flannel shirt, Rough and uncouth, that suffocates the soul; And in their stead I donned habiliments Cadets might dream of--serges with a waist, And breeches cut by Blank (you know the man, Or dare not say you don't), long lustrous boots, And gloves canary-hued, bright primrose ties Undimmed by shadows of Sir FRANCIS LLOYD-- And, like a happy mood, I wore the shirt. It was a woven breeze, a melody Constrained by seams from melting in the air, A summer perfume tethered to a stud, The cool of evening cut to lit my form-- And I shall wear it now no more, no more!