I met my Colonel at a hop Jazzing in his goloshes, With a dress-tie pert on a cricket-shirt That had shrunk in various washes; And my Major was doing the Donkey-Drop Between a couple of rippers-- Yet his pink-and-white pyjama-top If anything seemed a shade _de trop_, And his faultless coat hardly echoed the note Of his worsted bedroom slippers. But the world long since went off its chump, And the cry of the man from France is, "I simply refuse to let shirts and shoes Prevent me from going to dances. I'll take the shine out of collar and pump, And their wearers _will_ look silly When I once begin the Giraffe-Galump, The Chicken-Run and the Jaguar-Jump, The Wombat-Walk and the Buffalo-Bump, With a chamois vest on my manly chest, And football-boots and the smartest of suits They can cut in Piccadilly." * * * * * THE GRAND TRUNK LINE. "The following are some alternative routes which could be used by people going home this evening from the City or West End:-- "Clapham Common.--By Elephant, trams and 'buses."--_Evening News_. LOCAL COLOUR. I ran upstairs after lunch to-day to see old Harris. He has the flat over mine, you know. In addition to this Harris is an author. Sometimes he even gets money for it. "Doin' a bit of work to-day, Harris?" I remarked casually. "I'm doing a little flying story," he informed me with dignity. "Oh, yes," I agreed carelessly, then woke up and stared hard. "Flying?" I repeated. "But what the--I mean, what do you know about flying, anyway?" Brutality is the only thing with Harris. He was very hurt. He gasped and glared at me in a most annoyed manner. "I know a pretty good lot," he announced with some asperity. "I've talked to dozens of pilots about it and I've read books on flying--and the newspapers--" "And don't forget you once passed Hendon in the train too, old son," I soothed him. "I'd no idea you were so well up in it. Sorry I spoke. Let's see it; may I?" Harris picked up a couple of sheets of paper from the desk and, coughing imposingly, proceeded to read out his masterpiece:-- "Lionel Marchant came slowly out of the hangar, drawing on his long fur gloves and studying his maps with an intent and keen face. "His machine, a single-seater scout of the latest type, was just being wheeled out and now stood glistening in the bright autumn sunshine, which danced on the shining brasswork and threw deep shadows on the grass beneath. "The airman swung lightly into his seat; a final word or two with his commanding officer and he flung over the levers and gave a sharp turn to the starting handle. "The powerful engine in front of him woke into life deafeningly and, waving away the mechanics holding the wings, he pressed the clutch pedal and moved slowly forward.