"But will Denmark undertake the mandate?" we asked doubtfully.
"Why not? They have Iceland already, and there is only one letter different."
Scooting thoughtfully away, we went to visit Mr. T. P. O'CONNOR, feeling sure he would have some light to throw on the situation. We found him overjoyed with the proposal.
"Ireland and Denmark are simply made for each other," he pointed out; "both are butter-producing countries and, welded together, they will form one homogeneous and indissoluble pat. Peace will reign in Ireland from marge to marge."
Mr. DEVLIN was less optimistic. The rule of Dublin Castle under OLAF TRYGVESSON was, he declared, not a whit better than the rule of Dublin Castle to-day. It was true that TURGES the Dane was King of All Ireland in 815, but it was not until that chieftain had been very rightly and carefully killed by MELACHLIN that the Golden Age of Ireland began. He was doubtful whether Mr. EDMUND DE VALERA would consent to be a toparch under Danish suzerainty. As for himself, he held by the Home Rule Bill of 1914 or, failing that, BRIAN BORU.
When we asked Sir EDWARD CARSON how he viewed the prospect of becoming a Scandinavian jarl, he adopted a morose expression reminding us not a little of the "moody Dane."
"If the PRIME MINISTER'S proposal becomes law," he said firmly, "I shall have no alternative but to hand over Ulster to Holland."
We scooted slowly back to the office, forced to the conclusion that the Irish Question is not settled even yet.
Shall I ever see again In the human head a brain Like the article that fills That interior of Bill's?
Never a day can pass but he Makes some great discovery; His inventions are so many That you cannot think of any Realm of science, wit or skill That is not enriched by Bill.
To relieve the awful strain Of possessing such a brain William always used to play Eighteen holes each Saturday. But he scarce could see at all, And he often lost his ball, Plus his temper and his pelf, So he made a ball himself, Which, if it should chance to roam Out of sight, played "Home, Sweet Home" On a small euphonium he Had inserted in its tummy.
Next he wrought with cunning hand Round its waist an endless band, An ingenious affair Such as tanks delight to wear; And, inside, a little motor Started every time you smote or Even when you topped your shot; And, once started, it would not Stop, for if it came within Half a furlong of the pin, Then it was designed to roll Straight and true towards the hole. This is scarcely strange, because It was bound by Nature's laws, And a magnet was the force (Hidden 'neath its skin, of course) Which, thought he, would make it feel Drawn towards a pin of steel.