The Junior Subaltern will give an exhibition of stunt saluting.

* * * * *

TO MY DRESS SUIT.

Old friend, well met! I've longed for this reunion;
You've been the lodestar of this storm-tossed ship
In those long hours which poets call Communion
With one's own Soul, and common folk the Pip.

The foe might rage, the Brigadier might bluster.
Was I down-hearted? No! My spirit soared
And dreamt of you and me with blended lustre
Gracing some well-spread and convivial board.

And what if now you fit askew where erstwhile
Fair lines bewrayed a figure not too svelte?
What if your shoulder-seams are like to burst, while
A sad hiatus shows beneath the belt?

As April fills the buds to shapely beauty,
As cooks fill Robert with plum-cake and tea,
So, it may be, a diet rich and fruity
May fill the gap that sunders you from me.

And if it fail, as I'm a, living sinner
I'll save you from the gaze of scornful eyes.
They say that Bolsheviks don't dress for dinner;