Volume 156 — WAY OUT.
Reading edition
(Thoughts on leaving the Crystal Palace.)
A brigadier or two beside the portal To cry to me with anguish half disguised, "Hail and farewell, O brother! pomp is mortal"— Something, I fancied, something of this sort'll Happen to me when I'm demobilised. That was an error. Not a drum was sounded; No personage, no panoply, no pep; Only a single private who expounded My pathway out, and I went forth dumbfounded; Merely remembering to mind the step. Nothing spectacular and nothing solemn; No company of men that I might drill, And either tick 'em off or else extol 'em And give 'em "Facing left, advance in column," And leave 'em marching, marching onwards till They butted into something. Never a blooming Ultimate kit-inspection as I passed, Nor sound of Sergeant-majors' voices booming, Nor weary stance while aides-de-camp were fuming, Not even a practice fire-drill at the last. And that's the end. To-morrow I'll awaken To meet a world of doubtfulness and gloom, By orders and by Adjutants forsaken, And none to tell what action should be taken, If any, through what channels, and by whom. But dreams remain amidst the new disaster: There shall be visions when the firelight burns— Squads of recruits for ever doubling faster, Fresh clothing-issues from the Quartermaster And audit boards and absentee returns. I shall forget awhile civilian fashions And watch the P.T. merchants on the square, And polish tins and soothe the Colonel's passions, And mount the guard and go and see the rations And bid departed days be "as you were." And souvenirs! I know there are a number Who stuff their homes with memories of dread; The ancient hat-stand in the hall encumber With Pickelhaubes and delight to slumber With heaps of nasty nose-caps round their bed. Not I, the bard. When delicately suited I move again amid the mufti swarms, Since trophies from the Front may be disputed, I'll flaunt the only spoils that I have looted, My little library of Army forms.
EVOE.
"Rantzau's Insolent Act."
Under this heading The Daily Mail states that before entering the Trianon Palace Hotel to meet the Allies, Count BROCKDORFF-RANTZAU took "a last deliberate puff at his cigarette," and "dropped it on the steps, in the middle of a group of Allied officials." We understand that our contemporary feels that it would have been more in keeping with Germany's political and economic position had the Count humbly extinguished the cigarette and placed it in his waistcoat-pocket for future use.
"Spitable offices will be placed at the disposal of the German Peace delegates."—Evening Paper.
It is the truest hospitality to make provision for your guests' peculiarities.
First Reveller. "I SAY, WHAT STUNT IS THIS? A BIRTHDAY OR SOMETHING?"
Second ditto. "DUNNO; FANCY IT'S SOMEBODY'S RAG."
First ditto. "SHOULDN'T ONE SAY 'CHEERIO' TO THE BLIGHTER?"