"
Mr. Jones sank back resignedly. His glory had gone, his book had gone.
Once again he settled himself in his corner to sleep--perchance to
dream.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "JACKY, DEAR, YOUR HANDS ARE FRIGHTFULLY DIRTY."
"NOT 'FRIGHTFULLY,' MUMMY. A LOT OF THAT'S SHADING."]
* * * * *
STRANGE BEHAVIOUR OF THE GERMAN ENVOYS.
"Five minutes later the German plenipotentiaries reappeared,
dived into Allied representatives, emerged, jumped into their
car and drove off."--_Dublin Evening Mail_.
* * * * *
CHANT ROYAL OF CRICKET.
When earth awakes as from some dreadful night
And doffs her melancholy mourning state,
When May buds burst in blossom and requite
Our weary eyes for Winter's tedious wait,
Then the pale bard takes down his dusty lyre
And strikes the thing with more than usual fire.
Myself, compacted of an earthier clay,
I oil my bats and greasy homage pay
To Cricket, who, with emblems of his court,
Stumps, pads, bails, gloves, begins his Summer sway.
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