With us he yelled "Haven't any; go to Barlow's shop around the corner," to the Tommies who trod on one another's heels to get copies of the paper from us who had not got them. With us he consigned the Dutch compositor to aeons of boiling torment for the trouble his errors gave us. With us he entertained Lord Stanley, who now came, out of kindness, at noon every day, to save us the trouble of sending our proof-sheets over to him at his office. And from us he insisted upon taking all the "Tommy poetry," as we called it, that came to the office. When we derided much of it as outrageous twaddle, he praised its quality. On this day, I remember, we were belittling a particular poem that he was reading, and he called out, "Why, that is splendid stuff! Listen to these lines--'Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves: Britons never, never, never shall be slaves!'" The reader will not find this particular poem in this book, though it was put in THE FRIEND by our distinguished poetry editor. * * * * * THE FRIEND. (_Edited by the War Correspondents with Lord Roberts' Force._) SATURDAY, MARCH 24, 1900. FABLES FOR THE STAFF.[2] [Footnote 2: Copyrighted in England and America; used here by Mr. Kipling's leave.] KING LOG AND KING STORK. BY RUDYARD KIPLING. I. Certain Boers, having blown up a Bridge, departed in the Face of the British Army, which, arriving at that dynamited Place, made Outcry to the Gods, saying, "Oh, Jupiter, these Ruffians have blocked the Traffic, and we are vastly incommoded. Is there Anything worse than the Boer?" This being reported to the Railway Authorities, they caused a Railway Staff Officer to be sent to that Bridge with Instructions to facilitate Matters by all means in his Power. Later on They picked up What was left of the British Army in those parts--one dusty Shovelful, and its Lamentations were louder than before. "Ungrateful Wretches," said the Military Authorities; "what would you now have?" And the Remnant of the British with one Accord answered, "Give us back the Boer!" * * * * * COMMANDEERING. Our hero was a Tommy, with a conscience free from care. And such an open countenance that when he breathed the air He used up all the atmosphere--so little went to spare. You could hardly say he breathed,--he commandeered it. For, nowadays, you'll notice when a man is "on the make," And other people's property is anxious for to take, We never use such words as steal, or "collar," "pinch," or "shake:" The fashion is to say he "commandeers" it. And our simple-minded hero used to grumble at his lot; Said he, "This commandeerin's just a little bit too hot. A fellow has to carry every blooming thing he's got, For whatever he lets fall they'll commandeer it."