shed to the semblance of suet,
So say the familiars of Fate;
But they don't tell us who is to do it
Or mention the actual date;
Though the lords of the Circus assure us
His voice will be presently mute,
Yet the victim, pronounced _moriturus_,
Declines to salute.

All colours, from purple to yellow,
The oracles kill him in print,
But he turns not a hair, for the fellow
Is hopeless at taking a hint;
Apparently free from suspicion
And mindless of what it all means,
He careers on the road to perdition,
Ebullient with beans.

O.S.

* * * * *

"OUR INVINCIBLE NAVY."

In the article which appeared under the above title in the issue of _Punch_
for January 14th, the setting of the nautical episode, in which the subject
of the story conducted himself with so much aplomb and resourcefulness, was
derived from a personal experience related to the author; but Mr. Punch has
his assurance that _Reginald McTaggart_ was not intended even remotely to
represent any actual individual.

* * * * *

HIS FUTURE.

PART I.--THE PROPOSAL, 1920.

"About this boy of ours, my dear," said Gerald.

"Well, what about it?" said Margaret. "He weighed fourteen pounds and an
eighth this morning, and he's only four months and ten days old, you know."

"Is he? I mean, does he? Splendid. But what I was going to say was this: in
view of the present social and economic disturbances and the price of coal
and butter--"

"He doesn't need either of those yet, dear."

"--and the price of coal and butter, it behoves us, don't you think, to
very seriously consider (yes, I meant to split it)--to very seriously
consider Nat's future?"

"Oh, I've been doing that for ever so long, Gerald. Probably in a year or
two we shan't be able to get even a general or a char, so I'm going to
teach him all sorts of household jobs--as a great treat, of course. Washing
up the plates and dishes and laying fires--oh, and darning as well. He must
certainly mend his own socks, and yours too."

"Well, perhaps, if he has time. But I have a much better proposal to make
than that. My idea is that we should bring him up to be a miner."

"I thought children under twenty-one always were."

"Not minor, silly--miner."

"Well, what's the difference? Saying it twice doesn't help. And neither
does shouting," she added.

Gerald wrote it down.

"Oh, I _