A PITIFUL POSE
TEUTON CROCODILE: "I do so feel for the poor British wounded. I only wish we could do more for them."
"We Germans will preserve our conception of Christian duty towards the sick and wounded" --From recent remarks of the Kaiser reported by a German correspondent.)

Now that the Food Controller has got into his stride, the nation has begun to realise the huge debt it owes to his firmness and organising ability, and is proportionately concerned to hear of his breakdown from overwork. The queues have disappeared, supplies are adequate, and there are no complaints of class-favouritism.

BOBBY (at the conclusion of dinner): "Mother, I don't know how it is, but I never seem to get that--that--nice sick feeling nowadays."

It is remarkable how the British soldier will pick up languages, or at least learn to interpret them. Only last week an American corporal stopped a British Sergeant and said: "Say, Steve, can you put me wise where I can barge into a boiled-shirt biscuit-juggler who would get me some eats?" And the Sergeant at once directed him to a cafÉ. The training of the new armies, to judge by the example depicted by our artist, affords fresh proof of the saying that love is a liberal education.

The situation on the Parliamentary Front has been fairly quiet. The popular pastime of asking when the promised Home Rule Bill is to be introduced is no longer met by suitably varied but invariably evasive replies. The Government has now frankly admitted that the policy of running Home Rule and Conscription in double harness has been abandoned, and expects better things from the new pair: Firm Government and Voluntary Recruiting. But sceptics are unconvinced that the Government will abandon the leniency prompted by "the insane view of creating an atmosphere in which something incomprehensible is to occur."

MISTRESS (as the new troops go by): "Which of them is your cousin?"
NURSEMAID (unguardedly): "I don't know yet, ma'am."

The lavish and, in many cases, inexplicable distribution of the Order of the British Empire bids fair to add a peculiar lustre to the undecorated. The War has produced no stranger paradox than the case of the gentleman who within the space of seven days was sentenced to six months' imprisonment for a breach of the Defence of the Realm regulations and recommended for the O.B.E. on account of good services to the country. The fact that the recommendation was withdrawn hardly justified the assumption of a Pacificist Member that a sentence under the Defence of the Realm Act was regarded as the higher honour of the two.

There is one thing, however, that war at its worst cannot do. It cannot make an Englishman forgo that peculiar and blessed birthright which enables him to overthrow the Giant Despair with the weapon of whimsical humour--in other words, to write, as a young officer has written for Mr. Punch, such a set of verses as the following in June, 1918:

THE BEST SMELL OF ALL

When noses first were carved for men
Of varied width and height,
Strange smells and sweet were fashioned then
That all might know delight--
Smells for the hooked, the snub, the fine,
The pug, the gross, the small,
A smell for each, and one divine
Last smell to soothe them all.
The baccy smell, the smell of peat,
The rough gruff smell of tweed,
The rain smell on a dusty street
Are all good smells indeed;
The sea smell smelt through resinous trees,
The smell of burning wood,
The saintly smell of dairies--these
Are all rich smells and good.
And good the smell the nose receives
From new-baked loaves, from hops,
From churches, from decaying leaves,
From pinks, from grocers' shops;
And smells of rare and fine bouquet
Proceed, the world allows,
From petrol, roses, cellars, hay,
Scrubbed planks, hot gin and cows.
But there's a smell that doth excel
All other smells by far,
Even the tawny stable smell
Or the boisterous smell of tar;
A smell stupendous, past compare,
The king of smells, the prize,
That smell which floods the startled air
When home-cured bacon fries!
All other smells, whate'er their worth,
Though dear and richly prized,
Are earthy smells and of the earth,
Are smells disparadised;
But when that smell of smells awakes
From ham of perfect cure,
It lifts the heart to heaven and makes
The doom of Satan sure.
How good to sit at twilight's close
In a warm inn and feel
That marvellous smell caress the nose
With promise of a meal!
How good when bell for breakfast rings
To pause, while tripping down,
And snuff and snuff till Fancy brings
All Arcady to Town!
But best, when day's first glimmerings break
Through curtains half withdrawn,
To lie and smell it, scarce awake,
In some great farm at dawn;
Cocks crow, the milkmaid clanks the pails,
The housemaid bangs the stairs;
And BACON suddenly assails
The nostrils unawares.
Noses of varied width and height
Doth kindly Heaven bestow,
And choice of smells for our delight,
That all some joy may know;
Noses and smells for all the race
That on this earth do dwell,
And for a final act of grace
The astounding bacon smell.

But the War has its drawbacks, and owing to its unexpected prolongation there is a rumour that Mr. H.G. Wells will readjust his ideas on the subject quarterly instead of twice a week as before.