"But now I've struck an ideal spot

Where pleasure never cloys. Just list to the advantages

This choice retreat enjoys

The rent is free, no board to pay,
No land or income taxes,
And on my tail no middleman
Nor fat man fatter waxes.

If I should say I need some clothes,
Some one will just 'take action;'
No tailors' bills can worry me
And drive me to distraction.

The scenery is glorious,

The sunsets are cyclonic:
The atmosphere's so full of iron
It acts as quite a tonic.

And should you doubt if there can be
A spot which so excels,

Let me whisper-it is ANZAC!

Anzac by the Dardanelles."

It is the artist among the Anzacs, however, who catches most readily the humorous side of life in the trenches. We present on the preceding page a group of such pictures from "The Anzac Book."

We conclude our review of this product of the soldier's pen and pencil with a sketch "Anzac type:"

of an

When 'Enessy came over the water and first sees the Turkish trenches, 'e says: "Strike me pink! But where's them Turks they talk about?"

Says I: "They're right there behind them sandbags, old cock! And don't you forget it, neither!"

"And don't they come out and show themselves?" 'e asks.

"Wot for?" says I.

Why, for us blokes to shoot at, of course!" 'e says.

One mornin' early while we was standin' to arms 'e lights up a bumper, so I tells 'im not to let the officer cop 'im or there'd be trouble. Just then along comes the bloomin' officer; so 'Enessy sticks 'is lighted bumper down south into 'is overcoat pocket, and 'olds it there out

It was when we came out of the firin'-line for a week's spell that 'Enessy met 'is Waterloo. 'E was detailed for guard down at the drinkin' water, and 'e was to take all his nap and camp down there. The first night, when 'e was doin' 'is shift 'e sees a dark shape movin' along and challenged it three times, but never gets no So 'e ups with 'is gun and lets fly. When the corporal rushes along to know what the blazes was the matter, 'Enessy ups and tells 'im, so they goes forward together pretty careful, and soon they sees a black heap lyin' on the sand ahead of them. Gor blime ! If 'Enessy 'adn't gone and shot one of them poor little Indian donkeys which 'ad strayed along the beach. Well, 'e was chaffed pretty considerable by 'is cobbers,' and got fairly sick of hearin' about it.

Next night when 'e was doin' 'is shift again, 'e sees another black shape movin' along the beach, so thinkin' 'is cobbers were 'avin' a joke with 'im, 'e picks up a big stick and goes forward with it. 'E 'ad gone about twenty yards, when suddenly there was a flash and a report, and 'Enessy drops down with a bullet through 'is chest. Strike me pink! A real Abdul 'ad come up this time, and it was no bloomin' donkey, neither! 'Enessy was 'it pretty bad, but 'e grabs 'is rifle and lets fly, and one more bloomin' Abdul 'ad gone to join 'is Prophet. Next day 'Enessy was taken away on a 'ospital ship, but that was near three months ago. I 'ear that the blighter is back on the beach, now, and you will be able to see him yourself when 'e comes back to the squadron. But strike me! 'E's a bloomin' dag!

AR

From the Italian War Zone, June, 1916.

T Ravenna one sees the war from an entirely new angle, for the ancient city stands apart from the world, as it were, having no reason-no modern reason for existing at all, except for the honor, loveliness, and history eternalized into its stones fifteen centuries ago.

Hence it is that all good men and true, and not merely poets and artists, must think of its suffering injury much in the way they would feel if a priceless collection of ancient manuscripts and early illuminated missals were put to fire and sword.

To realize how barbarous are the methods of warfare of the Teutons, to become convinced that Austrian air-raiders do not hesitate to attack with premeditation and malice the greatest works of art, one must see Ravenna to-day.

There is nothing martial about this somber old city, although it is in the war zone; it has no great defensive system against air attacks, such, for example, as Venice possesses. There are no notable and unusual crowds of soldiers on its streets and piazzas, as in a hundred other towns. It remains, though in the war zone, the peaceful city of early Christian artperhaps the most perfect example extant.

As one turns from its quiet, almost deserted streets, and comes suddenly face to face with the havoc made by Austrian shells to the Basilica of Sant' Apollinare Nuovo, the sense which grips the spirit is that humanity, and not merely an architectural treasure, has been ruthlessly injured and violated. Corrado Ricci, Director-General of Fine Arts, and the great expert on the art of Ravenna, pronounced the judgment of civilization, I think, when he said, of the damage done to this venerable edifice: "It has stood for fifteen hundred years, and has looked upon hordes of barbarians sweeping down the highways at its feet, struggling fiercely and perpetrating furious outrages. It has come through the centuries almost unscathed to our day, the only stamp left by history being the glorious marks of its great age. It remained for those nations who until yesterday assumed to be leaders of civilization to strike it right

Stricken on its brow! One reddens with shame looking at that battered façade, and bows almost in reverence at the glorious bits of carvings being painfully gathered from masses of débris.

Inside the basilica, the sixth-century mosaics on the walls of the nave and the remains of half of the interesting ceiling of 1611 show with even more poignant contrast the damage done to the ancient building.

Yet as I look on and contemplate human savagery I become conscious of a feeling akin to joyousness driving away my anger; I notice men busy all about me, in and out of the church, earnest, active, cheerful, I see a great work of rescue going on a work to which the Italians have bravely set their heart and hand.

In the sunny, gardened cloisters adjoining the basilica artisans are sawing, carving, piecing all sorts of stout timbers and delicate boards; in the interior of the church engineers on a huge scaffolding are directing the repair and restoration of the ceiling and the superstructures. In a room apart skillful hands are piecing together the shattered mosaics, lest future generations may miss the loveliness of the venerable church in its completeness. There are workmen even on the stately round campanile, the Directors of Fine Arts having decided that this was an acceptable time to restore the great steeple to its primitive lines. Except for the space roped off where the artisans are at work, the church is open to worship. Here, fittingly, the soldiers' mass is said every Sunday morning, a soldier-priest celebrating it, while officers and men join in singing to the Lord of Hosts. At the side of the high altar, facing the great wound of the home of God, hangs the flag of Italy, a black sash at the staff-head commemorating the soldiers who have died for the safety of their native land.

As we walk up and down the cloisters, chatting with the artisans, the sacristan's wife, spying us, leaves her washing and comes up to greet my wife. She hasn't seen forestieri for ever so long, and she has