"Let's have a scrap of paper," said I, "a contract that we can all sign, and then we can put down the exceptions to the rule."
Henry was already hard at work with a a sheet of foolscap.
"... not to exchange, give, receive or swap in celebration of Christmas, 1914, any gift, donation, subscription, contribution, grant, token or emblem within the family and its connections: and further not to permit any gift, donation, subscription, contribution, grant, token or emblem to emanate from any member of the family to such as are outside."
"Good so far," said I.
The following recipients to be excepted," Henry went on,
"(1) All Hospitals; (2) Belgians; (3) His Majesty's Forces———"
"(4) The Poor and Needy," suggested Eileen.
"(5) The Aged and Infirm," said I. "I only want to get in Great-aunt Amelia. She mustn't be allowed to draw a blank."
"That's true," said Henry; "we'll fix the age limit at ninety-one. That'll bring her in."
"(6) Children of such tender age that they are unable to realise the national emergency," said Mrs. Sidney.
"Quite so," said Henry. "What would you suggest as the age limit? Three?"
"Four," said Laura simultaneously.
"I should like to suggest five," said I, "to bring in Kathleen."
"Let's make it seven," said Mrs. Henry. "I can hardly believe that Peter realises, you know."
"Stop a bit." said I. "If you take in Peter you can't possibly leave out Tom. Make it eight-and-a-half."
"That seems a little hard on Alice, doesn't it?" said Eileen.
"Any advance on eight-and-a-hali?" called Henry from the writing-desk. And from that moment the discussion assumed the character of an auction, Laura finally running it up to thirteen (which brings in the twins) to the general satisfaction.
When the contract was signed, witnessed and posted on its way to the other signatories there was a general sense of relief that Christmas would not be very different from usual after all. Henry growled a good dea. But we know our Reverend Henry: he will do his duty when the time comes.
Voice from below. "For 'eaven's sake, mum, get back. The fire-escape will be 'ere in five minutes."
Endangered Female. "Five minutes? Then throw me back my knitting."
"The Prince of Wales noticed a private in his own regiment, the Grenadier Guards, who is six foot inches in height. He is six feet inches in height."—Scotsman.
It sounds silly, but the writer evidently means it.
At this old willow-pattern plate
And junks of long-forgotten date
That anchor off Pagoda Isle;
Who kiss their hands (three miles away)
To dainty beauties of Cathay
Beside those un-foreshortened lakes.
Their topsy-turvy world, you say,
Is out of all perspective? Nay,
'Tis we who look at life askew.
In our humdrum philosophy;
But, could we change, who would not be
A suitor for those azure eyes?
Piloting some flat-bottomed barge—
A size too small, or else too large—
On this old willow-pattern plate?
"The 'Figaro' publishes a telegram from Petrograd which contradicts the German annonncement that Lodz is occupied by the Kermans."—Lancashire Evening Post.
And quite right too.
