hay wisp, "he wishes he was back in the county Kildare, he does
so, the dear knows. Pegeen, too, if she would be hearin' the houn's
shoutin' out on her from the kennels beyond in Jigginstown she'd dhrop
down dead wid the pleasure wid'in her, an' that's the thrue word,"
says he, presenting the chestnut lady with a grimy army biscuit. "Och
musha, the poor foolish cratures," he says and sighs.

However, Summer has arrived, and by the sound of his cheery whistle at
early stables shrilling "Flannigan's Wedding," I understand that the
horses are settling down once more and we can proceed with the battle.

If my groom and countryman is not an advocate of war as a winter sport
our Mr. MacTavish, on the other hand, is of the directly opposite
opinion. "War," he murmured dreamily to me yesterday as we lay on our
backs beneath a spreading parasol of apple-blossom and watched our
troop-horses making pigs of themselves in the young clover--"war!
don't mention the word to me. Maidenhead, Canader, cushions,
cigarettes, only girl in the world doing all the heavy
paddle-work--that's the game in the good ole summertime. Call round
again about October and I'll attend to your old war." It is fortunate
that these gentlemen do not adorn any higher positions than those of
private soldier and second-lieutenant, else, between them, they would
stop the War altogether and we should all be out of jobs.

PATLANDER.

* * * * *

COMMERCIAL CANDOUR.

"---- & Co.

The Leading Jewellery House.
Grand Assortment of Cut Glass."
_Advt. in Chinese Paper_.

* * * * *

[Illustration: THE ROAD TO RUIN.]

* * * * *

[Illustration: SIDELIGHTS ON THE GREAT FOOD PROBLEM.

THE SOCIETY FOR THE DISCOVERY OF NEW WAR FOODS TEST THEIR LATEST
DISH.]

* * * * *

PICCADILLY.

_Gay shops, stately palaces, bustle and breeze,_
_The whirring of wheels and the murmur of trees;_
_By night or by day, whether noisy or stilly,_
_Whatever my mood is--I love Piccadilly._

Thus carolled FRED LOCKER, just sixty years back,
In a year ('57) when the outlook was black,
And even to-day the war-weariest Willie
Recovers his spirits in dear Piccadilly.

We haven't the belles with their Gainsborough hats,
Or the Regency bucks with their wondrous cravats,
But now that the weather no longer is chil