Volume 147 — THE TRAITOR.

"Down with the Teutons!" rose the people's cry; "Who said that England's honour was for sale?" Myself, I hunted out the local spy, Tore down his pole and cast him into jail. "An English barber now," said I, "or none! This thatch shall never fall before a Hun!" And all was well until that fateful morn When, truss'd for shearing in a stranger's shop, "Be careful, please," I said, "I want it shorn Close round the ears, but leave it long on top;" And, thrilling with a pleasant pride of race, I watched the fellow's homely British face. An optimist he was. "Those German brutes, They'll get wot for. You mark my words," he said, And dragged great chunks of hair out by the roots, Forgetting mine was not a German head. "Oh, yes, they'll get it in the neck," said he And gaily emphasized his prophecy. Ah me, that ruthless Britisher! He scored His parallel entrenchments round and round My quivering scalp. "Invade us 'ere?" he roared; "Not bloomin' likely! Not on British ground!" His nimble scissors left a row of scars To point the prowess of our gallant Tars. I bore it without movement, save a start Induc'd by one shrewd gash behind the ear. With silent fortitude I watch'd him part The ruin on my skull. And then a tear, A fat, round tear, well'd up from either eye— O traitorous tribute to the local spy!