knowledgment of the Sultan's suzerainty, as recorded in the existing treaties, and an Egyptian attack on the British forces now in their country; (2) Egypt's separate and definite declaration of war against Turkey, and Egyptian assistance of the British, for the time being as an independent country; (3) the establishment of & British protectorate over an otherwise independent Egypt, freed by revolt from Turkey; (4) the British annexation of Egypt pure and simple; or (5) the incorporation of Egypt into the British Empire by mutual consent, as a sovereign state, with a degree of self-government somewhat more advanced than that which it now enjoys. The last-named solution appears likely to clear up Mohammed Ali's old problem in the most satisfactory manner, both for England and for Egypt; and it is to be hoped that it will speedily be adopted, in order that the irregularities of the present situation may be corrected. Ever since 1882,

England has so punctiliously regarded Egypt as being a province of the Turkish Empire, that it would be a pity for the Sultan's suzerainty to come to its inevitable end with a kind of dark and shuffling suggestion on our part that Mohammed Ali's Treaty with the Sultan has, in some indefinable way, ceased to hold good. It cannot be too emphatically stated that a war between England and Turkey does not abrogate a Treaty between Egypt and Turkey; for we have only a moral, and not a legal, right to concern ourselves at all with EgyptoTurkish affairs. Our position on the Nile, which did not require to be defined so long as our relations with Turkey were normal, now needs to be most carefully regularised, in order that no critic, forgetting how we have toiled for thirty-two years to bring prosperity to Egypt, may now declare that we have no right to defend this Turkish province against the incursion of its own overlord, the Sultan.

"WHAT for is the wee felly gaun' tae show us puctures?" Second Lieutenant Bobby Little, assisted by a sergeant and two unhandy privates, is engaged in propping a large and highly-coloured work of art, mounted on a rough wooden frame and supported on two unsteady legs, against the wall of the barrack-square. A half-platoon of A Company, seated upon an adjacent bank, chewing grass and enjoying the mellow autumn sunshine, regard the swaying masterpiece with frank curiosity. For the last fortnight they have been engaged in imbibing the science of musketry. They have learned to hold their rifles correctly, sitting, kneeling, standing, or lying; to bring their backsights and foresights into an undeviating straight line with the base of the bull'seye; and to press the trigger in the manner laid down in the Musketry Regulations-without wriggling the body or "pulling-off."

They have also learned to adjust their sights, to perform the loading motions rapidly and correctly, and to obey such simple commands as

yairds"-they are really about fifteen yards away, covered with confusion-"five roonds, fire!"

But as yet they have discharged no shots from their rifles. It has all been makebelieve, with dummy cartridges, and fictitious ranges, and snapping triggers. To be quite frank, they are getting just a little tired of musketry training -forgetting for the moment that a soldier who cannot use his rifle is merely an expense to his country and a free gift to the enemy. But the sight of Bobby Little's art gallery cheers them up. They contemplate the picture with childlike interest. It resembles nothing so much as one of those pleasing but imaginative posters by the display of which our Railway Companies seek to attract the tourist to the less remunerative portions of their systems.

"What for is the wee felly gaun' tae show us puctures?"

Thus Private Mucklewame. A pundit in the rear-rank answers him.

"Yon's Gairmany." "Gairmany ma auntie!" retorts Mucklewame. "There's no chumney - stalks in Gairmany."

"I wonder," remarks the dreamy voice of Private M'Leary, the humorist of the platoon, "did ever a Gairman buzzer pit the ba' through his ain goal in a fitba' match?"

This irrelevant reference to a regrettable incident of the previous Saturday afternoon is greeted with so much laughter that Bobby Little, who has at length fixed his picture in position, whips round.

"Less talking there!" he announces severely, 66 or I shall have to stand you all at attention!"

There is immediate silencethere is nothing the matter with Bobby's discipline-and the outraged M'Micking has to content himself with homicidal glare in the direc

tion of M'Leary, who is now hanging virtuously upon his officer's lips.

66

This," proceeds Bobby Little, "is what is known as a landscape target."

He indicates the picture, which, apparently overcome by so much public notice, promptly falls flat upon its face. A fatigue party under the sergeant hurries to its assistance.

"It is intended," resumes Bobby presently, "to teach you-us-to become familiar with various kinds of country, and to get into the habit of picking out conspicuous features of the landscape, and getting them by heart, ander-so on. I want you all to study this picture for three minutes. Then I shall face you about and ask you to describe it to me."

After three minutes of puckered brows and hard breathing the squad is turned to its rear, and the examination proceeds.

"Private Ness, what did you notice in the foreground of the picture?"

Private Ness gazes fiercely before him. He has noticed a good deal, but can remember nothing. Moreover, he has no very clear idea what a foreground may be.

"Private Mucklewame?" Again silence, while while the rotund Mucklewame perspires in the throes of mental exertion.

"Private Wemyss?
No answer.

"Private M Micking?" The "buzzer" smiles feebly, but says nothing.

-

"Well," desperately "Sergeant Angus! Tell them what you noticed in the foreground."

Sergeant Angus (floruit A.D. 1895) springs smartly to attention, and replies, with the instant obedience of the old soldier

"The sky, sirr."

"Not in the foreground, as a rule," replies Bobby Little gently. "About turn again, all of you, and we'll have another try."

In his next attempt Bobby abandons individual catechism. "Now," he begins, "what conspicuous objects do we notice on this target? In the foreIn the foreground I can see a low knoll. To the left I see a windmill. In the distance is a tall chimney. Half-right is a church. How would that church be marked on a map?”

No reply.

"Well," explains Bobby, anxious to parade a piece of knowledge which he only acquired himself a day or two ago, "churches are denoted in maps by a cross, mounted on a square or circle, according as the church has a square tower or a steeple. What has this church got?"

"A nock!" bellow the platoon, with stunning enthusiasm. (All but Private M'Micking, that is.)

"A clock, sir," translates the sergeant, sotto voce.

"A clock? All right: but what I wanted was a steeple. Then, farther away, we can observe a mine, a winding brook, and a house, with a wall in front of it. Who can see them?"

To judge by the collective expression of the audience, no one does. Bobby ploughs on. "Upon the skyline we notice -Squad, 'shun !”

Captain Wagstaffe has strolled up. He is second in command of A Company. Bobby explains to him modestly what he has been trying to do.

"Yes, I heard you," says Wagstaffe. "You take 8 breather, while I carry on for a bit. Squad, stand easy, and tell me what you can see on that target. Private Ness, show me a pit-head."

Private Ness steps briskly forward and lays a grubby forefinger on Bobby's "mine. "Private Mucklewame, show me a burn."

The brook is at once identified.

"Private M'Leary, shut your eyes and tell me what there is just to the right of the windmill."

"A wee knowe, sirr," replies M'Leary at once. Bobby recognises his "low knoll "—also the fact that it is no use endeavouring to instruct the unlettered until you have learned their language.

"Very good!" says Captain Wagstaffe. "Now we will go on to what is known as Description and Recognition of Targets. Supposing I had sent one of you forward into that landscape as a scout.-By the way, what is a scout?"

sirr, in short breeks," replies Mucklewame promptly.

"A procession is the very last thing a scout goes out in!" raps Wagstaffe. (It is plain to Mucklewame that the Captain has never been in Wishaw, but he does not argue the point.) "Private M'Micking, what is a scout?"

"A spy, sirr," replies the omniscient one.

"Well, that's better; but there's a big difference between the two. What is it?"

This is a poser. Several

men know the difference, but feel quite incapable of explaining it. The question runs down the front rank. Finally it is held up and disposed of by one Mearns (from Aberdeen).

"A spy, sirr, gets mair money than a scout."

"Does he?" asks Captain Wagstaffe, smiling. "Well, I am not in a position to say. But if he does, he earns it! Why?"

"Because if he gets catched he gets shot," volunteers a rear-rank man.

Right. Why is he shot?" This conundrum is too deep for the squad. The Captain has to answer it himself.

"Because he is not in uniform, and cannot therefore be treated as an ordinary prisoner of war. So never go scouting in your night-shirt, Mucklewame!"

The respectable Mucklewame blushes deeply at this outrageous suggestion, but Wagstaffe proceeds

"Now, supposing I sent you out scouting, and you discovered that over there-some

where in the middle of this
field" he lays a finger on the
field in question-"there was
a fold in the ground where a
machine-gun section was con-
cealed: what would you do
when you got back?"
"I would tell you, sirr,"
replied Private M'Micking
politely.

"Tell me what?"
"That they was there, sirr."
"Where?"

"In yon place."

"How would you indicate the position of the place?" "I would pint it oot with ma finger, sirr."

"Invisible objects half a mile away are not easily pointed out with the finger," Captain Wagstaffe mentions. "Private Ness, how would you describe it?"

"I would tak' you there, sirr."

"Thanks! But I doubt if either of us would come back! Private Wemyss?"

"I would say, sirr, that the place was west of the mansionhoose."

"There's a good deal of land west of that mansion-house, you know," expostulates the Captain. gently; "but we are getting on. Thompson?"

"I would say, sirr," replies Thompson, puckering his brow, "that it was in ablow they trees."

"It would be hard to indicate the exact trees you meant. Trees are too common. You try, Corporal King."

But Corporal King, who earned his stripes by reason of physical rather than intellectual attributes, can only contribute a lame reference to "a bit