Volume 156 — THE DISCIPLINARIAN.

Saluting is rapidly becoming a thing of the past, even among British-born soldiers. Dating from the Armistice, it has lapsed more and more, until now it is practically extinct.

Now I regard this as serious. I have ever been a stickler for discipline, and consequently I dislike it when men pass by—not, like the Levite, on the other side—but close to me without so much as a click of the eyeballs.

So I decided that I as a disciplinarian would make a stand against it; I would keep my eyes open for any particularly flagrant case. When I found it I intended to let myself go. I promised myself an agreeable ten minutes—or longer, if I got properly worked up.

My chance came the other day. I was strolling down Regent Street when three N.C.O.'s, including a sergeant, passed me. They did not salute. I might have been a civilian for all the notice they took of me. Ha! my hour had come.

Turning, I hastened after them.

"Sergeant, a word."

They stopped and the Sergeant asked if I was speaking to him.

"Have you ever heard of the little word 'Sir,' Sergeant?" I asked severely.

"Evidently not. However I pass over that. But a moment ago you went by me without saluting. Deliberately—inexcusably. I was as close to you as I am now."

"But how—" began the Sergeant.

"Not a word," I cut him short. "Not a word. You know perfectly well that you have neglected your duty grossly. Now tell me. Is it your own idea to drop saluting, or has Mr. CHURCHILL had a word in your ear?" (Sarcasm is my strong point.)

"But look here—" said the Sergeant, rather red in the face.

"Do not interrupt," I thundered, warming to my work. "How, I ask, do you expect the ordinary soldier to salute when you slink past officers—you, who ought to be a shining example? Now I am going to report—"

Something in the Sergeant's eye, which seemed to be travelling over my person generally, made me suddenly glance down at myself, and it was then that, horror-struck, I realised that I was wearing for the first time my new ten-guinea suit.

As I faded away the Sergeant clicked his heels and saluted smartly.

The Struggle for Life.

"Lady will exchange clothing, self, little girl, for farm butter, eggs, jam."—The Lady.

Infuriated Italian (who has recently purchased a British Army horse). "FAIR WORDS DID I SPEAK HIM, SAYING, 'PEDRO, AVANTI PIANISSIMO,' AND—BEHOLD!"