But hard as nails and level-headed,
And in his soul the proper sort
Of dogged pluck was deeply bedded;
To join the ranks he almost ran,
But saw the weedy supersede him;
Though he was every inch a man,
His country didn't need him.
On wall and window, cab and cart;
How impotent they made him feel!
He tried once more, though sick at heart.
In vain! He saw the sergeants smirk;
He argued, but they wouldn't heed him;
So sullenly trudged back to work—
His country didn't need him.
Again he goes to join the ranks;
Though yesterday he tried and failed
To-day they welcome him with thanks.
Apparently he's just as small,
But, since his size no more impedes him,
In spirit he is six foot tall—
Because his country needs him.
We seek information of the present whereabouts of Prince ——— of ———.
Some few weeks ago the news came that he was carried wounded into a Brussels hospital, with a velvet mask over his face, so that none might recognise him. The Prince was visited in hospital by a tall man, also heavily masked, but not so heavily as to conceal a pair of soaring moustaches, freshly waxed. None dared speculate as to Who this Visitor might be. The hush was tremendous. The Visitor silently pinned on the patient a specimen of the Iron Cross and as silently left.
It was the 37000th Iron Cross bestowed since the outbreak of war.
At the autopsy it was proved conclusively that the bullet inside the Prince was of German origin.
After the post-mortem the Prince was luckily captured by the Belgians, and held at Antwerp as hostage for the good behaviour of the German troops occupying Brussels.
When the fall of Antwerp became imminent the Prince was secretly removed to England. A fortnight ago he was seen in a motor-car driving round Battersea Park, accompanied and guarded by an English officer.
The Prince wore his saxe-blue full-dress tunic, his corn-gold moustache and his rather stout face, and was looking considerably depressed.
Since that date no word has come of him. The Censor seems to have rigidly suppressed all evidence of his movements.
Is the Prince kept prisoner on a trawler sweeping the North Sea for mines? Has he escaped in the German submarine which ventured up the Thames as far as the lower end of Fleet Street? Or is he interned in the searchlight apparatus at Charing Cross to insure it against attack by Zeppelins?
We seek exact information.
T. B. D.
Officer's Steward. "Will you take your bath, Sir, before or after haction?"
"As regards the quality of this beverage, he said he was at a loss to know on what grounds they called it coffee."—Daily Mail.
Coffee grounds, no doubt.
Journalistic Candour.
"There comes a time when no responsible organ of public opinion can keep silence without sacrificing the tacit obligation under which it lies to its readers."—The Globe.
We are glad to note that in the same article there is a subsequent and reassuring reference to our contemporary's "well-deserved reputation for straightforwardness and accuracy."
The author of Secrets of the German War Office writes of the German Foreign Minister's "atrocious taste in waistcoats":—
"The one he had on still sticks in my memory. It was a lurid peach-blossom creation, spotted with greed."
It is to guard against this that so many of his compatriots tuck their napkins in at their necks.
