of sympathy for the slackness of trade
from which she _knew_ he must be suffering, and followed this up by an
order for two tons of the best Wallsend.

I think I am justified in advancing the theory that there are no flies
on dear Mabel.

* * * * *

OFF THE FALKLANDS, DECEMBER 8TH.

[_To an old nautical air, with Mr. Punch's loud congratulations to
Vice-Admiral Sir DOVETON STURDEE and his brave sailors_.]

Hardened steel are our ships;
Gallant tars are our men;
We never are wordy
(STURDEE, boys, STURDEE!),
But quietly conquer again and again.

* * * * *

FOR THE CHILDREN.

The Hon. Treasurer of the Hospital for Sick Children, Great Ormond
Street (where many Belgian children are being cared for) desires to
express his sincere thanks to _Mr. Punch's_ readers for their generous
response to the appeal for help which was recently made in these pages.

* * * * *

Illustration: THE SINEWS OF WAR.

PRIVATE ATKINS. "FOR WHAT WE HAVE RECEIVED--AND ARE GOING TO
RECEIVE--HERE'S TO THE A.S.C."

* * * * *

Illustration:

_Child_ (_much impressed by martial emblems opposite_). "MOTHER, IS THAT
A SOLDIER?"

_Mother._ "NO, DARLING."

_Child_. "WHY NOT?"

* * * * *

UNWRITTEN LETTERS TO THE KAISER.

No. X.

(_From Mrs. JAMES PROSSER, 25, Paradise Road, Brixton_.)

KAISER,--Jim's gone. I don't know if you'll like to hear it, him being a
good fighter. I'd warrant him to take the shine out of any two Germans I
ever met. They're big men, the Germans, but they mostly run to fat after
their _premmer jewness_, as the Belgian lady over the way said last week
when we was a-talking about 'em. I don't know what she meant, but she
didn't look as if it was anything in the way of a compliment. That's why
I've wrote it down here.

Anyhow, Jim's gone. I saw him off with a lot of others, and they was all
singing and shouting as loud as their lungs would let 'em--not drink,
mind you, so don't you run away with that notion, but just high spirits
and health and happiness. First it was "Tipperary," and that made me
feel so mournful I had to give Jim a good old hug, and the little un
pulling at my dress all the time and calling out, "Let me have a go at
him, Mother," and "Don't give 'em all to Mother, Dad; keep half-a-dozen
for me," just