y wonderful?" said the gods in Olympus to each other_.

"_But haven't you made a mistake?" asked the very young god. "Porkins
lives in England, not Essenland_."

"_Wait a moment," said the others.)_

* * * * *

In the capital of Borovia the leader-writer of the "Borovian Patriot" got
to work. "How does Borovia stand?" he asked. "If Essenland occupies
Ruritania, can any thinking man in Borovia feel safe with the enemy at
his gates?" (The Borovian peasant, earning five marks a week, would have
felt no less safe than usual, but then he could hardly be described as a
thinking man.) "It is vital to the prestige of Borovia that the integrity
of Ruritania should be preserved. Otherwise we may resign ourselves at
once to the prospect of becoming a fifth-rate power in the eyes of
Europe." And in a speech, gravely applauded by all parties, the Borovian
Chancellor said the same thing. So the Imperial Army was mobilized and,
amidst a wonderful display of patriotic enthusiasm by those who were
remaining behind, the Borovian troops marched to the front....

_("And there you are," said the gods in Olympus.

"But even now--" began the very young god doubtfully.

"Silly, isn't Felicia the ally of Essenland; isn't Marksland the ally of
Borovia; isn't England the ally of the ally of the ally of the Country
which holds the balance of power between Marksland and Felicia?"

"But if any of them thought the whole thing stupid or unjust or--"

"Their prestige," said the gods gravely, trying not to laugh.

"Oh, I see," said the very young god.)_

* * * * *

And when a year later the hundred-thousandth English mother woke up to
read that her boy had been shot, I am afraid she shed foolish tears and
thought that the world had come to an end.

Poor short-sighted creature! She didn't realize that Porkins, who had
marched round in ninety-six the day before, was now thoroughly braced up.

_("What babies they all are," said the very young god.)_

GOLD BRAID

Same old crossing, same old boat,
Same old dust round Rouen way,
Same old narsty one-franc note,
Same old "Mercy, sivvoo play";
Same old scramble up the line,
Same old 'orse-box, same old stror,
Same old weather, wet or fine,
Same old blooming War.

_Ho Lor, it isn't a dream,
It's just as it used to be, every bit;
Same old whistle and same old bang,
And me out again to be 'it._

'Twas up by Loos