}
{ over-all above her dressing-gown. }
{ "A handkerchief, dearest," she murmured. "I was afraid
{ "Your sandwiches, old thing," she gasped. "I believe
you'd forgotten { to take one;" } and she held out in her
{ about 'em;" }
{ white delicately--manicured hand a silk handkerchief
{ none-too-clean hand an untidy brown-paper parcel which
{ of palest mauve, exquisitely scented. }
{ contained his luncheon (Restaurant strike). }
NOTE TO INTENDING AUTHORS.--This is not supposed to be a complete
story, but just gives you the idea.
* * * * *
AT PARIS PLAGE.
Oft have I begged the high gods for a boon,
That they would bear me from the Flanders slosh
Back to a desert _not_ made by the Bosch,
The sunny Egypt that I left too soon.
O silvery nights beneath an Eastern moon!
O shirt-sleeved days! O small infrequent wash!
O once again to see the nigger "nosh"
The camel, rudely grunting (out of tune)!
Loudly I called; the high gods hearkened not
Till came the signal and the big guns ceased;
But then they brought me to this sea-kissed spot,
Heeded my prayer and gave me back at least
One of the pleasures that of old I knew,
For here once more there's sand within the stew.
* * * * *
[Illustration: GIVING HIM ROPE?
GERMAN CRIMINAL (_to Allied Police_).
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