Fancy Tommy "reposing"! Campbell, may I inform you that Thomas neither poses nor reposes, which suggests the soft, rounded limbs of a Grecian maiden on a bed of rose-leaves. Tommy likes his mouth open, and often prefers to lie on his stomach with his legs wide apart. Reposing! My hat! What an awful swank the man was with his knocking off work because of the night-cloud, and what with his reposing on a pallet of straw. Why he didn't go in for a convertible four-legged wheelbarrow bedstead puzzles me. Tommy lies on the "good 'ole dirt" if it's hot, and otherwise screws himself up into his blanket, head and all. I hear Graoul asking his pal, "O, Halgie, koindly porse erlong may pallet hof straarw hat wance." "Roight yer hare! 'Ere, Toenails, pallit-er strore is forwerd--hand the quilt halso." _At the dead of night a sweet vision I saw, And thrice ere the morning I dreamed it again--_ Kindly eliminate "dreamed" and substitute "saw," then re-read it. Don't laugh! Why shouldn't he "see" it the second and even the third time also? Tommy sees lots of things--at times. _I dreamed from the battlefield's dreadful array Far, far, I had roamed on a desolate track. It was springtime and summer arose on the way-- To the home of my fathers that welcomed me back--_ Tommy wouldn't dream of dreaming such a thing. As for the "home of my fathers," the shape of the idea would give him a fit. "Bit o' skirt more like it." _Stay, stay with us, thou art weary and worn; And fain was the war beaten soldier to stay-- But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away--_ "D'ye 'ear this, Spud?" says Tommy Toenails. "The voice in 'is dreeamin' hear melted." "Bit o' wax, more like," says Spud. "I say a flea an' charnce it," adds Tooting Tom. "Hand," says Spud, "wen 'e hawoke 'e got anuther stomikful o' sorrer. Marrid man, too. Gawd 'elp 'im." We pass on. Let us take that dear little hymn lots of us learned at our mother's knee-- "_There is a green hill far away Without a city wall._" How I used to wonder what a green hill could possibly want _with_ a city wall. Ah! the dear doubts of childhood! I shall be told that "without" meant "beyond." Another doubt was about "Llewellyn and his Dog." How the siege has helped us to join hands with childhood once more. Surely I haven't thought of the lines for many years. They run-- "_The gallant hound the wolf had slain, To save Llewellyn's heir._"