Proud Mother (taking her first walk with her son since he put his uniform on). "You seem to have made quite a nice lot of new friends already, my boy."
A COMMON ENEMY.
Uncle Henry is such a bloodthirsty person when properly roused that it seems a pity he is too old for service. However, rumours of German spies in our neighbourhood set him bristling.
"I expect they are after my maps," he said. "I hope so. If I catch one I'll kill him. I neither give quarter nor expect it." I have great confidence in Uncle Henry, and his words made me feel much safer.
This morning I was arranging the flowers in the drawing-room, when all at once I heard sounds of a scuffle from the library where a few minutes ago I had left Uncle quietly reading the paper. The library window slammed to, so did the door, there were thumps on the wall, heavy footsteps stamping, staggering, slipping round the polished floor.
My heart stood still, and I went and hid behind the window curtains. Then came a crash, the sound of breaking glass, a groan in Uncle's voice, more struggling, furniture overturned, heavy fall and a sickening series of thuds.
A few minutes' deathly silence followed; then the drawing-room door burst open, and there stood Uncle, pale, panting, dishevelled, his coat half off, a hard, cruel glint in his eyes and blood on his hands.
"I've killed him," he panted. "He put up a good fight, but I killed him."
"Oh!" I gasped. "What has happened?"
"He came in at the window—didn't see me—went straight over to the big map on the wall. I ought to have got him there, only I missed—but I stuck to it—nearly wrecked the room before I finished him."
"Oh, Uncle," I cried, "shall I telephone for the police?"
"What for?" he said.
I shuddered.
"To—to—take the body."
He gave a savage laugh.
"There's nothing of him left, only a smear on the carpet."
"But his clothes, Uncle. They must still be there."
"He wasn't wearing any," he replied.
I gasped.
"Then ho did you know he was a German?"
"He wasn't a German. He was English—an enemy to his own country—a common poisoner—a plague spot—a traitor of the most insidious sort!"
"Oh, Uncle Henry," I cried, "what have you don? Who is it you have killed?"
"A fly," he said, simply.
Honesty its own reward.
"Lost, Lady's Gold Watch in Wristlet, in vicinity of Drumcondra Road, Botanic Road and Richmond Road. Finder rewarded by bringing same to 10, Drumcondra Road."
Dublin Evening Mail.
From a notice of an impending route-march:—
"The far-famed village of Moulton, as termed by Whyte-Melville, lies 2,875 miles due north of Northampton from St. Matthew's, and can be reached by the 'softest' pedestrian without the penalty of blistered heels or stiff joints."
Northampton Daily Chronicle.
This is a high tribute to the excellence of the local manufactures.
"A guard of honour of officers, with crossed swords, was drawn up at the church. The bride was driven away by the commanding officer of the 17th Royal Fusiliers."
Southern Daily Mail.
We are glad to say that the lady refused to be daunted by this unchivalrous behaviour on the part of the C.O., and that after a counter-attack the marriage duly took place.
