Volume 153 — THREE DAUGHTERS OF FRANCE.

Château ——, France.

To M. PUNCH.

CHER MONSIEUR,—Shall I write to you of the toil, the fatigues which my sisters and I must endure at the hands of our country's Allies, without kindling in your breast that flame of chivalry which is the common glory of our two races? C'est incroyable.

Let us then to my complaint.

We lived for many years, my two sisters and I, in the service of our dear master, who owned a beautiful château in the North of France.

Our duties were simple—to entertain the guests of M. le Vicomte after dinner on those evenings upon which he gathered his friends around him.

For the rest we lived in the ease which his kind generosity knew how to provide. We loved our own particular boudoir, with its books, its pictures, its comfortable fauteuils and its soft green cushions.

Oh, Monsieur, it makes me to weep when I think of my beautiful sisters—the one with her laughing rosy cheeks, the other pale as ivory, save for one little black spot, which no man surely could call a blemish.

Those were happy days. Often we kissed, my sisters and I, for very joy.

Then it came—this terrible War. M. le Vicomte was called away in the cause of la belle France; but we would not desert our home. One day, we said, it shall be as of old.

And as the months went by it was whispered that the English would make of our château a house of rest for their officers who were recovering themselves of their wounds. And we were glad, for we promised ourselves to entertain our brave Allies. Thus might we too serve la patrie.

They came. Mon Dieu! Is it now a hundred years that we hurry to and fro in their service? A House of Rest! Ma foi! Morning, noon and night they come, these countrymen of yours. Never can we rest. Hither and thither do they drive us. No longer are our cushions soft and caressing; the cloth upon our table is stained, and see—here is a hole.

Ah, it is cruel! Our beauty is decayed. The cheeks of my poor sister, that once were so rosy, have lost their colour and our figures their rounded grace.

We are loyal, Monsieur, and, though we are no longer pleasing to look upon, we do not grudge our service. But we beg of you, kind M. Punch, to procure for us a respite from our labours, that we may recover something of our former lustre. Thus shall you merit the undying gratitude and your countrymen regain the devoted services of what were at one time three of France's fairest billiard-balls.

Agréez, cher Monsieur, etc., etc.

First Actor (in khaki, to second ditto). "HULLO, OLD BOY—WORKING?"

Second Actor. "YES, OLD CHAP, AND HAIG HAS BOOKED ME FOR THE AUTUMN TOO."

The Fatal Embrace.

"There is a good story of how at an election meeting in Cork a few years ago, when he was a candidate, one of a crowd of working women pushed her way into a brake from which he was addressing a throng in the market square and suddenly put her arm round his neck and killed him."—Times of India.

"At the Port Elizabeth Town Council meeting, Mr. Mackay asked could nothing be done to the seats at Homewood? The resin was oozing out of them. He had had a valuable pair of pants completely ruined, and the same thing might happen to any lady."—South African Paper.

Our trousered Amazons must not be discouraged.

"PRISONER, WHEN ARRESTED, CLUNG TO THE RAILINGS."

"PRISONER, WHEN ARRESTED, CLUNG TO THE RAILINGS."