"But fancy you not thinking of that!" Mrs. Blumenbach insisted.
"Yes, fancy. It's worry over the war. I'm not myself."
"Poor dear! You can't be," said his wife. "Well, what shall we do now?"
"It's all right," said Mr. Blumenbach. "I'll go to the British Museum to look out the B's in the Edinburgh Directory."
"Do, dear, do!" said his wife, and he hurried for his hat. "Just to think of you not thinking of that!" she repeated, as he bade her farewell.
"Yes, indeed!" he replied. "But it's the war, I'm sure. I'm sure it's the war."
Later in the day he returned, a potential Sir Julius Bannockburn.
Illustration: _Enthusiast_ (_explaining the situation_). "LET THIS 'ERE MEAT-AXE BE THE RUSSIANS A-COMIN' IN ON THE EAST; THE CARVIN'-KNIFE'S THE FRENCHIES ALONG 'ERE; OUR BOYS IS THE MUSTARD-POT; AND 'ERE'S THE GERMANS--THIS 'ERE PLATE O' TRIPE."
One touch of NIETZSCHE makes the whole world sin.
A double Dutch Agency circulates a report of a great patriotic concert recently held in Berlin. The programme, which is printed on a mere scrap of paper, was as follows:--
Will be held in the DISMANTLED BRITISH EMBASSY.
SELECTION: "Hail, Smiling Marne." _Band of the Imperial Prussian Guard._
SONG: "Father, dear Father, come Home with me now." _Words and music by the GERMAN CROWN PRINCE._
BANJO RECITAL: "The Sally of our Ally." _Words and music by the Emperor FRANCIS JOSEPH._
CHORUS: "Forty Years On." _Setting arranged by Count VON MOLTKE the Second._
SONG: "Oft in the Stilly Night." _Words and music by COUNT ZEPPELIN, composer of "What does little Birdie say?"_
RECITAL: "The Blue Carpathian Mountains." _The Viennese Orchestra._
HUMOROUS SONG: "The Bonny Bonny Banks." _Arranged by the Imperial Minister of Finance._
SONG: "And Nobody cares for Me!" _Respectfully dedicated to the GERMAN EMPEROR._
GRAND PATRIOTIC CHORUS (in which the audience is requested to join):
"PRUSSIA EXPECTS THAT EVERY MAN THIS DAY WILL GRAB HIS BOOTY."
Illustration: "GREAT SCOTT! I MUST DO SOMETHING. DASHED IF I DON'T GET SOME MORE FLAGS FOR THE OLD JIGGER!"
There's mist in the hollows, There's gold on the tree, And South go the swallows Away over sea.
They home in our steeple That climbs in the wind, And, parson and people, We welcome 'em kind.