* * * * *
_MENS CONSCIA MALI._
The lightning flashed and flickered, roared the thunder,
Down came the rain, and in the usual way
Pavilionward we sped to sit and wonder
Was this the end of play.
In scattered groups my comrades talked together,
Their disappointment faded bit by bit,
So soothing can it be to tell the weather
Just what you think of it.
But I--I sat aloof as one distressed by
A painful tendency to droop and wilt;
Though none suspected it, I was oppressed by
A conscience charged with guilt.
I watched the pitch become a sodden pulp, a
Morass, a sponge, a lake, a running stream,
What time a sad repentant _Mea culpa_
Was all my musing's theme.
Mine was the cricket sin too hard to pardon
In one whose age should carry greater sense;
On Friday night I'd watered all the garden,
Thus tempting Providence.
* * * * *
"Mr. ---- asserted that the Russian people would be permitted
'untrammelled to pork out their own salvation.'"--_Canadian Paper._
And why not the Irish people too?
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE MAN WHO WOULD GET TO THE SEASIDE.
TRAINS FULL.
CHARABANKS FULL.
AEROPLANES FULL.
THE LAST RESOURCE.
SEA, SAND AND HOTELS FULL.]
* * * * *