lk of your career);
For rumour says this bloody war will last
Until the Hohenzollerns get the boot;
And through my brain the bright idea has passed
That you had better do an early scoot.

Were it not wise, dear WILLIAM, ere the day
When Revolution goes for crowns and things,
To cut your loss betimes and come this way
And start a coterie of Exiled Kings?
You might (the choice of safe retreats is poor)
Do worse than join me in this happy land,
And spend your last phase, careless, if obscure,
With your devoted TINO hand-in-hand.

O. S.

* * * * *

MONSIEUR JOSEPH.

On the day that I left hospital, with a month's sick leave in hand, I
went to dine at my favourite Soho restaurant, the Mazarin, which I
always liked because it provided an excellent meal for an extremely
modest sum. But this evening my steps turned towards the old place
because I wanted a word with Monsieur Joseph, the head-waiter.

I found him the same genial soul as ever, though a shade stouter perhaps
and greyer at the temples, and I flatter myself that it was with a smile
of genuine pleasure that he led me to my old table in a corner of the
room.

When the crowd of diners had thinned he came to me for a chat.

"It is indeed a pleasure to see M'sieur after so long a time," said he,
"for, alas, there are so many others of our old clients who will not
ever return."

I told him that I too was glad to be sitting in the comparative quiet of
the Mazarin, and asked him how he fared.

Joseph smiled. "I 'ave a surprise for M'sieur," he said--"yes, a great
surprise. There are ten, fifteen years that I work in thees place, and
in four more weeks _le patron_ will retire and I become the proprietor.
Oh, it is bee-utiful," he continued, clasping his hands rapturously, "to
think that in so leetle time I, who came to London a poor waiter, shall
be _patron_ of one of its finest restaurants."

I offered him my warmest congratulations. If ever a man deserved success
it was he, and it was good to see the look of pleasure on his face as I
told him so.

"And now," said I presently, "I also have a surprise for you, Joseph."

He laughed. "Eh bien, M'sieur, it is your turn to take my breath away."

"My last billet in France, before being wounded," I told him, "was in a
Picardy village called Flechinelle."

He raised his hands. "Mon Dieu," he cried, "it is my own village!"

"More than that," I