y chameleonic. Civilians summoned to the War Office pass from
confidence to abasement, and from abasement to megalomania in the space of
half an hour.

Turkey, it appears, has sent an urgent appeal to Berlin for funds. The
disaster to the _Goeben_ can be endured, since the Sultan can now
declare a foreshore claim, and do a little salvage profiteering; but
Palestine is another matter. Since General Allenby's advance "running"
expenses have swallowed up a formidable total. The War is teaching us many
things, including geography. We are taking a lively interest in the
Ukraine, and the newspapers daily add to our stock of interesting
knowledge. Apropos of General Allenby's entry into Jerusalem, we learn that
"the predominance of the tar brush in the streets added to the brightness
of the scene," and in connection with his return to Cairo, that "the
MacCabean Boy Scouts" took part in the reception--presumably the Cadet
Corps of the Jordan Highlanders. But the most reassuring news comes from
the enemy Press. "It is simply a miracle," says the _Cologne Gazette_,
"that the Germans have so loyally stood by their leaders," and for once we
are wholly in agreement with our German contemporary.

If Mr. Punch may exert his privilege of turning abruptly to grave from gay,
the claim may be allowed on behalf of the youngest generation, already
remembered in the chronicle of last month.

CHILDREN OF CONSOLATION

By the red road of storm and stress
Their fathers' footsteps trod,
They come, a cloud of witnesses,
The messengers of God.

Cradled upon some radiant gleam,
Like living hopes they lie,
The rainbow beauty of a dream
Against a stormy sky.

Before the tears of love were dried,
Or anguish comfort knew,
The gates of home were opened wide
To let the pilgrims through.

Pledges of faith, divinely fair,
From peaceful worlds above
Against the onslaught of despair
They hold the fort of love.

[Illustration:

THE CIVILIAN AND THE WAR OFFICE

I am bidden to the War Office.

I depart for it.

I approach it.

I enter.

I am not observed.

I am still not observed.

I am observed.

I am spoken to (and still live).

I continue to be spoken to.

I am spoken to quite nicely.

I am shaken hands with.

I take my leave.]

_February, 1918_.

"Watchman, what of the night?" The hours pass amid the clash of rumours and
discordant voices--optimist, pessimist, pacif