_Assistant (after attempting to fit the soulful-eyed dog with a muzzle and narrowly escaping being bitten)._ There, that's enough for _me_, Mum. Jest take that dawg out at once, please. _Owner of the dog (which, having gained its point, affects an air of innocent detachment)._ I shall do nothing of the kind. It was the brutal way you took hold of her. The _gentlest_ creature! Why, I've _had_ her three years! _Assistant._ I don't care if you've 'ad her a century. They're all angels as come 'ere; but I ain't going to 'ave _my_ thumb bit by no angels, so will you kindly walk out? _Owner._ Without a muzzle? Never! _Assistant._ Then I shall 'ave to call in a constable to make you. I'm not bound to sell you nothing. _Owner (with spirit). Call_ a constable then! _I_ don't care. Here I stay till I get that muzzle. _Assistant (giving up his idea of calling a constable)._ Then I should advise you to take a chair, Mum, as we don't close till seven. _Owner (retreating with dignity)._ All _I_ can say is that I call it perfectly disgraceful. I shall certainly report your conduct; and I only hope you won't sell a single other muzzle to-day! _Assistant._ If I didn't I could bear up. _(To a lady with an elderly Blenheim)_ If it's a muzzle, Mum-- _The Owner of the Blenheim_. That's just what I want to know. _Must_ he have a muzzle? You see, he's got no teeth, so he couldn't possibly bite anyone--now, _could_ he? _Assistant. I_ dunno, Mum. You take 'im to see the Board of Agriculture. _They'll_ give you an opinion on 'im. _(To Staff Officer who approaches)_ Sorry, Sir, but our stock of muzzles-- _Staff Officer._ All I want is a new leather band for this wrist-watch. Got one? _Assistant (with joy)._ Thank 'eaven I _'ave_! Gaw bless the Army! F.A. * * * * * [Illustration: _Helen's elder Sister._ "YOU KNOW, ALL THE STARS ARE WORLDS LIKE OURS." _Helen._ "WELL, I SHOULDN'T LIKE TO LIVE ON ONE--IT WOULD BE SO HORRID WHEN IT TWINKLED."] * * * * * THE REVOLT. There is a cupboard underneath the stair Where moth and rust hold undisputed sway, And here is hid my old civilian wear, And my wife sits and plays with it all day, Since Peace is imminent and, I'm advised, Even the bard may be demobilised. She is a woman who was clearly born To be the monarch of a helpless male; And when she says, "This overcoat is torn," "These flannel trousers are beyond the pale," "You can't be seen in any of those shirts," I acquiesce, but, goodness, how it hurts. For they are rich with memories of Peace, The soiled habiliments my lady loathes. I do not long for trousers with a crease; I _do not want_ another crowd of clothes-- Particularly as you have to pay Seventeen guineas for a suit to-day.