Remarks.—(7.30 P.M.).—Another day has passed, another day's duty has been done. Nothing apparently has happened outside the ordinary routine of the ship. One keen-eyed young officer has succeeded another on the bridge, with tired lines on a face grey beneath the great brown hood of his duffle—a face so youthful, yet with the knowledge of the command of men writ plain thereon. The propellers have swirled faithfully and unceasingly; the good ship in consequence has cleft the passive waves. But who knows what hideous lurking peril of mine or torpedo we have not survived, what baleful eye has not glowered at us, itself unseen, and retired again to its foul underworld, baulked of its thirsted prey?
III.
OF THE EDITOR OF THE DAILY YAP, ON OBSERVING THAT HIS SPECIAL CORRESPONDENT IS A RETIRED LIEUT., R.N., WHO SENDS HIM THE FOLLOWING ACCOUNT OF A PUSH:—
Time: 6.0 A.M. Course: (approx.) E. Distance run: 1-1/2 m. Wind: S.W. Force: 6. State of land: 5 (rough, owing to craters). Weather: R. Therm.: 35°. Bar.: 28·89. Remarks: Objectives attained. Observation hampered by weather.
BIG GAME SHOOTING.
"Angus Bowser, the popular feed merchant of Dartmouth, shot his mouse on Thanksgiving Day. With a couple of friends he left in auto about 1 o'clock Monday afternoon for Bowser's Station. The party was in the woods for about two hours when the mouse was sighted."—Canadian Paper.
We hope Mr. ROOSEVELT will not be jealous.
Extracts from a recent novel:—