Which made our country what it is;
The ravages we soon restore
By conies wrought or hoofs of mutton,
But centuries must pass before
A turnip-patch is fit to putt on.

What! Shall we sacrifice the scenes
On which our higher natures thrive
Just to provide the vulgar means
To keep our lower selves alive?
Better to starve (or, better still,
Up hands and kiss the Hun peace-makers)
Than suffer PROTHERO to till
The British golfer's holy acres.

O.S.

* * * * *

PERSONAL PARS FROM THE WESTERN FRONT.

(_With acknowledgments to some of our chatty contemporaries_.)

HAPPY C.-IN-C.--I saw the Commander-in-Chief to-day passing through the
little village of X in an open car. He was very quietly dressed in khaki,
with touches of scarlet on the hat and by the collar. I waved my hand to
him and he returned the salute. It is small acts like this which endear him
to all. I noticed that the Field-Marshal was not carrying his baton.
Doubtless he did not wish to spoil its pristine freshness with the mud of
the roads.