all others. It is the one subject that the House of Commons seems to care
about. John Bull, who has invested a mint of money in other lands, realises
that it is high time that he put something into his own--in the shape of
Corn Bounties. Mr. Prothero, in moving the second reading of the Corn
Production Bill, while admitting that he had originally been opposed to
State interference with agriculture, showed all the zeal of the convert--to
the dismay of the hard-shell Free Traders.

The Food Controller asks us to curtail our consumption of bread by
one-fourth. Here, at least, non-combatants have an opportunity of showing
themselves to be as good patriots as the Germans and of earning the
epitaph: "Much as he loved the staff of life, he loved his country even
more."

[Illustration: "No, dear, I'm afraid we shan't be at the dance to-night.
Poor Herbert has got a touch of allotment feet."]

On the Western Front the German soldiers' opinion of "retirement according
to plan" may be expressed as "each for himself and the Devil take the
Hindenburg." One of them, recently taken prisoner, actually wrote, "When we
go to the Front we become the worst criminals." This generous attempt to
shield his superiors deserves to be appreciated, but it does not dispel the
belief that the worst criminals are still a good way behind the German
lines. The inspired German Press has now got to the point of asserting that
"there is no Hindenburg line." Well, that implies prophetic sense:

And if a British prophet may
Adopt their graphic present tense,
I would remark--and so forestall
A truth they'll never dare to trench on--
_There is no Hindenburg at all,
Or none worth mention_.

According to our Watch Dog correspondent, recent movements show that the
lawless German "has attained little by his destructiveness save the
discomfort of H.Q. Otherwise the War progresses as merrily as ever; more
merrily, perhaps, owing to the difficulties to be overcome. Soldiers love
difficulties to overcome. That is their business in life." This is the way
that young officers write "in the brief interludes snatched from hard
fighting and hard fatigues." Their letters "never pretend to be more than
the gay and cynical banter of those who bring to the perils of life at the
Front an incurable habit of humour, and they are typical of that brave
spirit, essentially English, that makes light of the worst that fate can
send." That is how one brave off