That tired drowsy feeling;
Warm sun, soft breeze and no near human being,
Hearing only far and vivid sounds
Reminding one of other worlds.

What mystic meaning hides
Behind this bliss of solitude and silence?
What charm is held by plain green grass
And flowers wild, to make one so
Enchanted, so enthralled as if this quiet solitude
Brings to one the real, true meaning of those words
To be content?

The "Whatd'yermercallit's" a word for the young,
Expressing a name on the tip of one's tongue,
Whence it comes, nobody knows,
Perhaps it was 'cause of a cold in the nose;
No schoolboy expression's more frequently heard,
Than a "Whatd'yermercallit" for any old word.

You hear it so often, it 'comes part of you,
And it's hard to refrain from using it too;
Your friend has a cousin, "Oh, what is his name?"
"Ole Whatd'yermercallit," will do all the same.
So there is just one of the times it is used,
Never missed out and never abused.

S. Leach (IIA)

THE COWBOY'S FRIENDS

A Cowboy has three friends,
He uses them one by one,
Without them he is hopeless,
His horse, his rope and his gun.

He uses his horse all the time,
At home or on the trail,
He knows when speed's required,
His horse will never fail.

He uses his rope all day,
When branding time comes round,
To catch the frightened, squealing steers,
And lay them on the ground.

His gun is perhaps the least used,
But important all the same,
If he couldn't handle his forty-five,
A grave would bear his name.

These are the cowboy's pals,
He uses them till he ends,
Without them he's no good,
He must not leave his friends.

The Coalmen of the country had gone on strike,
Thus the bumblies coalshed was rather light,
And so without a murmur and without a moan,
The bumblies built a coalmine of their very own.

Not a pony had they, only one old goat,
To prevent intruders at once they dug a moat,
A poor and humble goat was all they could afford,
To pull the tiny soapbox with its precious hoard.

When the dwindling money had all gone from the till,
And the quantity of coal had fallen down to nil,
Without a single murmur and without a single moan,
The bumblies left the coalmine, left it all alone.

THE WAY THE WORLD GOES ROUND

The farmer sells a load of wheat.
And all the world grows fair and sweet,
He hums a couple of cheerful tunes,
And pays the grocer for his prunes.

The grocer who was in the blues,
Now buys his wife a pair of shoes,
The bill, the cobbler thinks God sent,
So runs to pay it on the rent.

Next day the rent man hands the bill,
To Dr. Eakins for a pill,
And Dr. Eakins tells his frau,
That business is improving now,

And cheers her up and says "My dear,
You've been quite feeble for a year.
I'm thinking you should have a rest.
You'd better take a trip out West."

So in a couple of days the frau,
Is on the farm of Jacob How,
To Farmer How she pays her board,
Who takes the bill and says, "Good-Lord,

Now here's a thing that can't be beat.
This is the bill I got for wheat."
So he hums a couple of cheerful tunes,
And goes and buys a lot more prunes.

Our R.A.F. is building fast,
With 'planes as quick as sound.
Take the Fairey Delta 2,
Diving t'wards the ground.

One sees the Hunter cleave the air,
It features swept-back wing,
And as for manoeuvrability,
This is the very king.

Another swept-back is the Swift,
But this is not so fast,
Now it's used for ground-attack,
- High-flying days have past.

A very fast night-fighter is
The Javelin Mark one,
This 'plane features delta-wing,
Its speed? Mach I.
In contrast, slow, the Meteor
Is seen 'most everywhere,
Its climbing rate is fairly fast,
- The "terror of the air."

These are but few of our best 'planes,
(Of course there are some more),
The Midge, the Gnat, the P1-A.
To come - THE COMET FOUR.

Lessons are things that boys abhor,
They ought to be against the law,
Why are such things allowed to be?
Latin! French! and Geometry!

Hic! Esse! Poterat!
What's the good of learning that?
How I wish for a long, long rest,
From the Latin language-insana est,

Speaking French is almost as bad,
Surely French people must be mad,
Reciting pouvoir, je peux, etc.,
And saying things like la fenêtre.

Geometry's as nuts as it could be,
With its lines and points and its Q.E.D.,
Pythagoras and Euclid all schoolboys scorn,
Men like these should never be born.

History I find a terrible bore,
Except when we're learning about a war,
But knowing kings and all their dates,
That's what every normal schoolboy hates.

Maths, Geography, and others still,
Do their best our joy to kill,
But still we're happy, we'll be gay,
For drawing near is the holiday.