ir country's anguish smiled.
Oblivion is by far the bitterest woe
England's professional revilers know,
Who joyously submit to be abhorred
But suffer grinding torments if ignored.
So let them live, renounced by their own sons,
And taste the amnesty that spares and shuns.

* * * * *

"Mrs. J.M. B---- (_nee_ Nurse ----), a son."--_Scotsman_.

Nurses, like poets, are born, not made.

* * * * *

THE PLAY'S THE THING.

Just outside Mrs. Ropes' drive gates there lies a famous and exclusive
golf course, and when she turned her house into a Convalescent Home
the secretary wrote offering the hospitality of the club to all
officers who might come under her care.

Nevertheless, when Haynes and I first arrived, we were both too
languid and feeble for any more exacting form of athletics than
spillikins and jigsaws, and it was some time before the M.O. gave
us permission to go on the links.

"And remember," he added, "gently to begin with. Stop at the
thirteenth hole."

* * * * *

"Of course," I said apologetically to Haynes as we neared the
club-house, "I was pretty putrid before the War, so I shall be simply
indescribable now."

"My dear chap, this isn't going to be a match. Keep your excuses till
we play serious golf. To-day's just a gentle knock round. Here we are.
I'll go and borrow some clubs; you get a couple of caddies."

Five minutes later he rejoined me, carrying two sets of clubs.

"Hallo!" he remarked in surprise. "I didn't know you'd brought your
family. Introduce me."

"Mabel," I said, "and Lucy--our caddies."

"Girls?"

"They have that appearance. Why not?"

"They'll cramp my style horribly; I like to be free."

"Can't you be free in French for once?"

"Most unsatisfying. Why didn't you get boys?"

"The caddy-master says (a) girls are better; (b) he has no boys; (c)
all the boys he has are booked by plutocrats with season tickets."

"Oh, all right. Here are your clubs--the pro. gave me the only two
sets he had available. You're a bit taller than I am, so I've given
you the long ones."

I looked at them critically.

"Doesn't a pair of stilts go with them?" I asked.

"Well, mine are worse. Just a bundle of toothpicks. Here, catch hold,
Lucy."

Mabel teed up for me. I selected a driver about the length of a
telegraph pole and swept my ball away. It stopped just short of the
firs