=TO MR. BALFOUR ON HIS RETURN.=
Our hearts go out with all our ships that plough the deadly sea,
But the ship that brought us safely back the only ARTHUR B.
Was freighted with good wishes in a very high degree.
There are heaps of politicians who can hustle and can shriek,
And some, though very strong in lung, in brains are very weak,
But A.J.B.'s equipment is admittedly unique.
His manners are delightful, and the workings of his mind
Have never shown the slightest trace of self-esteem behind;
Nor has he had at any time a private axe to grind.
For forty years and upwards he has graced the public scene
Without becoming sterilized or stiffened by routine;
He still retains his freshness and his brain is just as keen.
His credit was not shipwrecked on the fatal Irish reef;
He has always been a loyal and a sympathetic chief;
And he has also written _The Foundations of Belief_.
As leader of the Mission to our cousins and Allies,
We learn with satisfaction, but without the least surprise,
That he proved the very cynosure of Transatlantic eyes.
For the special brand of statesman _plus_ aristocratic sage,
Like the model king-philosopher described in PLATO'S page,
Is uncommonly attractive in a democratic age.
"BALFOUR Must Go!" was once the cry of those who deemed him slack,
But now there's not a single scribe of that unruly pack
Who is not glad in every sense that BALFOUR has come back.
And as for his "successor"--the Napoleonic peer
Whose functions are restricted to a purely business sphere--
We must try to bear his absence in a spirit of good cheer.
* * * * *
=THE INFANTICIDE.=
From an economic point of view it was inexcusable. I can only hope
that the affair will never reach the ear of the new FOOD-CONTROLLER.
The chief culprit was undoubtedly Joan minor--I only became an
accomplice after the fact--and I can scarcely believe that even a
Food-Controller could be very angry with Joan minor. For one thing she
really is so very minor. And then there's her manner; in face of it
severity, as I have found, is out of the question. Even Joan major,
who has been known to rout our charlady in single combat, finds it
irresistible. Indeed when I taxed her with having a hand in the crime
she secured an acquittal on the plea of duress.
Ever since Joan minor arrived at years of understanding the weeks
preceding the great day have been fraught with a mystery in which I
have no share. Earnest conversations which break off guiltily the
moment I enter the room; strained whisperings and now and again little
uncontrollable giggles of ecstatic anticipation from Joan minor--these
are the signs that I have learned to look for, and, being well versed
in my part, to ignore with a sublime unconsciousness which should make
my fortune in a melodrama of stage asides. And then, on the morning of
my birthday, the solemn ceremonial of revelation, I would come in to
breakfast, to find a parcel lying by my plate. At first I would not
see it. In a tense and unnatural silence Joan minor would follow me
with her eyes while I opened the window a few inches, closed it again,
stroked the cat and generally behaved as though sitting down at table
was the last thing I intended. Then, when I did take my place, "The
post is early to-day," I would say, pushing the parcel carelessly on
one side as I took up the paper, while Joan minor hid her face in Joan
major's blouse lest her feelings should betray her into premature
speech. And at last I would open it, and my amazement and delight
would know no bounds. There was very little acting needed for that. It
is no small thing to be spirited back to the age when birthdays really
matter.
And so this year it was with a feeling of having been cheated that I
left the house for the office, where, in company with other old fogies
and girl clerks, I do my unambitious bit towards downing the Hun. The
premonitory symptoms had seemed to me unusually acute, but the morning
had brought no parcel. My years weighed on my shoulders again, and I
am afraid I was more than a little tart with my typist.
I was kept late for dinner, and when I entered the room I found Joan
minor sitting in her place, her eyes bright with expectation. Beside
my place was a covered muffin dish. There was no dallying with the
pleasure this time, for I had suddenly become young again, and could
not have waited had I tried. I lifted the cover, and there, about the
size of a well-nourished pea, lay the first-fruit of Joan minor's
peculiar and personal allotment, prepared, planted and dug by Joan
minor's own hands, a veritable and unmistakable potato.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Official of Lady War-workers' Bureau_. "WHAT SORT OF
WORK DO YOU FEEL FITTED FOR?"
_Applicant_. "I DON'T QUITE KNOW, BUT I WANT TO WEAR THESE CLOTHES."]
* * * * *
Our Official Pessimists.