"Mrs. J.M. B---- (_née_ Nurse ----), a son."--_Scotsman_.

Nurses, like poets, are born, not made.

* * * * *

THE PLAY'S THE THING.

Just outside Mrs. Ropes' drive gates there lies a famous and exclusive
golf course, and when she turned her house into a Convalescent Home
the secretary wrote offering the hospitality of the club to all
officers who might come under her care.

Nevertheless, when Haynes and I first arrived, we were both too
languid and feeble for any more exacting form of athletics than
spillikins and jigsaws, and it was some time before the M.O. gave
us permission to go on the links.

"And remember," he added, "gently to begin with. Stop at the
thirteenth hole."

* * * * *

"Of course," I said apologetically to Haynes as we neared the
club-house, "I was pretty putrid before the War, so I shall be simply
indescribable now."

"My dear chap, this isn't going to be a match. Keep your excuses till
we play serious golf. To-day's just a gentle knock round. Here we are.
I'll go and borrow some clubs; you get a couple of caddies."