ery devoted themselves chiefly to their guns. All that day our
infantry stood in the trenches, and the smoke from the enemy's shrapnel
made fantastic shapes against the leaden grey of the Northern sky. While
I sat writing a young officer rushed in. He had kindly returned from the
firing line especially to tell me of a little incident he had witnessed
there. A private, hailing from Rotherhithe, calmly lit a cigarette amid
the hail of bullets, took two or three draws, and then threw it away,
growling, "These 'ere French cigarettes taste like bloomin' German
cartridges." An incident typical of many that occur in a single day.

This brings us to the 2nd. All day long the Germans, from their
entrenched position, have replied to our fire, but without any
noticeable consequences. The prisoners who are brought in appear to be
glad of the rest and change. Out of gratitude one of them offered to
shave the Commander-in-Chief free of charge.

The battle continued on the 3rd. There was a touch of autumn in the air
and the wind had changed slightly. Amid the shrieking of shells and the
hum of bullets the bark of a distant farm dog could be heard distinctly.
And so from day to day the War goes on.

* * * * *

"The entire proceeds of yesterday's magnificent opening concert of
the season of the Sunday Concert Society at the Queen's Hall, are to
be divided equally between the Prince of Wales' Fund and the
National Relief Fund."--_Evening News._

And even if one gets an odd half-penny more than the other, nobody will
really mind.

* * * * *

BEATS.

(_By Special P.C. XXX._)

We have three, each with its nuances of attraction, its delicately
different disadvantages. They are known as the Oil Wharves, the
Generating Station, and the Sewage Station. A wise decree from Scotland
Yard leaves us uncertain up to the very last moment of each evening as
to which will be our allotted beat. A gambling element is thus provided
to stimulate us.

The Oil Wharves gloom on a _cul-de-sac_ of nocturnal emptiness. Scarcely
does a human footstep come to rouse the petroleum-sluggish echoes. A
padding pussy makes a note of cheery liveliness in the lukewarm monotony
of the night-watch.

But against that dreariness must be set the four wooden chairs which the
Oil Magnates (blessings upon them and upon their children's children!)
provide for our comfort. Technically, it may