"Yes, Macedonia," snapped the Staff Officer. "Balkans, isn't it? Something to do with Salonika?" "Macedonia!" I repeated, still mystified. "Yes, yes--Macedonia," he snapped, obviously suspecting me of trying to obtain a week's leave on false pretences. "Here it is, in black and white, 'so pleased that you are willing to come over to Macedonia and help us.' I don't understand this at all." He handed me the letter. Then I realised what was amiss. My friend had not reckoned with the War Office. They call a spade a spade in Whitehall (unless they refer to it as "shovels, one.") "Oh," said I, "I see. Yes, Macedonia. Slight misunderstanding. It's written from Ireland all right. There's the Irish Command stamp on it. 'Come over to Macedonia and help us.' Biblical phrase. St. PAUL, you know. Just a figure of speech. My friend meant it metaphorically." "The devil he did," barked the Staff man. "Then why the blazes didn't he say so?" Of course, why didn't he say so? Very stupid of him. One can't be too literal in dealing with the War Office, that notorious fount of clear and orderly diction. My plan nearly went West, and I was nearly sent East. It was only the Headquarters' stamp that turned the scale in my favour. It was lucky for my friend that I ultimately got leave to help him in his educational duties. Cleanly he is himself sadly lacking in the very rudiments of official culture. * * * * * [Illustration: _Magistrate_. "BUT WHAT WERE YOU DOING TO ALLOW A MAN OF THE PRISONER'S PHYSIQUE TO GIVE YOU A BLACK EYE?" _Constable_. "ON THE MORNING OF TOOSDAY, THE FIRST OF APRIL, YOUR WORSHIP, I WAS ON DOOTY OUTSIDE THE 'DOOK OF WELLINGTON' PUBLIC-'OUSE, WHEN, AT THE INSTIGATION OF THE PRISONER, MY ATTENTION WAS DRAWN TO SOMETHIN' THAT WASN'T THERE. 'E THEN 'IT ME."] * * * * * THE LETTERS THAT COUNT. ["Meanwhile one sighs for the letters which do not exist."--C.K.S., in "_The Sphere_."] I never have felt any hunger, Apart from my shortage of gold, For the spoils of the autograph-monger, The screeds of the sages of old; By envy unvexed and unsmitten I study the connoisseur's list, But I sigh for the letters unwritten, Or those that no longer exist. The notes, for example, that Hector Despatched to his Andromache, When, tied to a troublesome sector, He couldn't get home to his tea; Or the messages CÆSAR kept sending To pacify QUEEN CLEOPAT, When, simply from fear of offending The mob, he avoided her flat. But even more impetus giving, More apt to inspire and refresh, Are the letters addressed to the living By writers no more in the flesh-- The epistles to WILCOX from SHELLEY, From LANDOR to Mrs. JOHN LANE, From SWIFT to Miss MARIE CORELLI, From POPE to Sir THOMAS HALL CAINE;