That he was four months ago! AT length he's dumfounded (the month being May) By a sample of Ermyntrude's fun! "You will kindly get leave _over Christmas Day_, Or make haste and finish the But Christmas means presents, she bids him beware: "So what do you say to a son and heir? I'm thinking of giving you Hun!" WHAT, indeed, does the Ensign say? What does he sit and write? What do his heart-strings drone all day? What do they throb all night? What does he add to his piteous prayers?-- "Not for my own sake, Lord, but --_theirs_, See me safe through ..." THEY talk--and he writhes --"of our spirit out here, Our valour and all the rest! There's my poor, lonely, delicate dear, As brave as the very best! We stand or fall in a cheery crowd, And yet how often we grouse aloud! She faces _that_ with a jest!" HE has had no sleep for a day and a night; He has written her half a ream; He has Iain him down to wait for the light, And at last come sleep--and a dream. He's hopping on sticks up the studio stair: A telegraph-boy is waiting there, And--that is his darling's scream! HE picks her up in a tender storm-- But how does it come to pass That he cannot see his reflected form With hers in the studio glass? "What's wrong with that mir- ror?"' he cries. But only the Sergeant's voice replies: "Wake up, Sir! The Gas-- the Gas!" IS it a part of the dream of dread? What are the men about? Each one sticking a haunted head Into a spectral clout! Funny, the dearth of gibe and joke, When each one looks like a pig in a poke, Not omitting the snout!