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<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 153, Sept. 26, 1917, by Various</title>
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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 10663 ***</div>
<h1>The Project Gutenberg eBook, Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 153,
Sept. 26, 1917, by Various, Edited by Owen Seamen</h1>
<br />
<hr class="full" />
<h1>PUNCH,<br />
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.</h1>
<h2>Vol. 153.</h2>
<hr class="full" />
<h2>September 26, 1917.</h2>
<hr class="full" />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page215" id="page215"></a>[pg
215]</span>
<h2>CHARIVARIA.</h2>
<p>Three bandits have been executed in Mexico without a proper
trial or sentence. This, we understand, renders the executions null
and void.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>The campaign against the cabbage butterfly in this country has
reached such an alarming stage that cautious butterflies are now
going about in couples.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>After spending a one-pound Treasury note on cakes, chocolates,
fish and chips, biscuits, apples, bananas, damsons, cigarettes,
toffee, five bottles of ginger "pop" and a tin of salmon, a Chatham
boy told a policeman that he was not feeling well. It was thought
to be due to something the boy had been eating.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>Incidentally the boy desires us to point out that the trouble
was not that he had too much to eat but that there was not quite
enough boy to go round.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>"I read all English books," says Dr. HARDING in <i>The New York
Times</i>, "because they are all equally good." This looks
dangerously like a studied slight to Mr. H.G. WELLS.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>We understand that, owing to the paper shortage, future
exposures of German intrigues will only be announced on alternate
days.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>At the Kingston Red Cross Exhibition a potato was shown bearing
a remarkable likeness to the German CROWN PRINCE. By a curious
coincidence a report has recently been received that somewhere in
Germany they have a Crown Prince who bears an extraordinary
resemblance to a potato.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>Mystery still attaches to the authorship of <i>The Book of
Artemas</i>, but we have authority for saying that Lord SYDENHAM
does not remember having written it.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>At Neath Fair, the other day, a soldier just home from the Front
entered a lions' den. The lions bore up bravely.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>The question of body armour for the troops, it is stated, is
still under consideration by the authorities. This is not to be
confused with bully ARMOUR which has long been used to line the
inside of the troops.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>Mr. WALTER HOWARD O'BRIEN, of New York, has sent to Queen
Alexandra's Field Force Fund 1,719,000 cigarettes. Several British
small boys have decided to write and ask him if he has such a thing
as a cigarette picture to spare.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>Doctors in many parts of London are said to be raising their
fees. They should remember that there is such thing as curing the
goose that lays the golden eggs.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>The <i>Münchener Neueste Nachrichten</i> accuses the United
States of having stolen the cipher key of the LUXBURG despatches.
It is this sort of thing that is gradually convincing Germany that
it is beneath her dignity to fight with a nation like America.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>A fine porpoise has been seen disporting itself in the Thames
near Hampton Court. It is just as well to know that such things can
be seen almost as well with Government ale as with the stronger
brews.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>Another statue has been stolen from Berlin, but Londoners need
not be envious. Quite a lot of Americans will be in this country
shortly, and it is hoped that their well-known propensity for
souvenir-collecting may yet be diverted into useful channels.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>The Midland Dairy Farmers' Association have expressed themselves
as satisfied with the prices fixed for Winter milk. In other
agricultural quarters this action is regarded as a dangerous
precedent, the view being that no farmer should be satisfied about
anything.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>"My hopes of fortune have been dispelled by unremunerative
Government contracts," said a contractor at the Liverpool
Bankruptcy Court. It is good to read for once of the Government
getting the best of a bargain.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>"What is a bun?" asked the Willesden magistrate last week; which
only shows that with a little practice magistrates will get into
the way of doing these things almost as well as the High Court
judges.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>The <i>Frankfurter Zeitung</i> declares that "the Germany that
President Wilson wants to talk peace with will only be a Germany
beaten to its knees." Our own opinion is that it will be a Germany
beaten to a frazzle.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>There appears to be a great demand for small second-hand yachts.
The fact is connected, in well-informed circles, with the report
that <i>The Daily Mail</i> contemplates taking up the
anti-submarine question.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>Some solicitors have been helping to run the gas works of a
certain Corporation during a strike. While commending this action,
we admit that we can conceive of nothing more likely to undermine
the resolute patriotism of the man in the street than a gas bill
furnished by solicitor.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>Women are formally warned by the Ministry of Munitions against
using T.N.T. as a means of acquiring auburn hair. Any important
object striking the head—a chimney-pot or a bomb from an
enemy aeroplane—would be almost certain to cause an
explosion, with possible injury to the scalp.</p>
<hr />
<div class="figcenter" style="width:60%;"><a href=
"images/215.png"><img width="100%" src="images/215.png" alt=
"" /></a>
<p>"I'M COMING TO YOU WITH 'ARF A TON IN A MINUTE, SO DON'T FRET
YOURSELF, OLE PERISCOPE."</p>
</div>
<hr />
<h3>German Thoroughness Again.</h3>
<blockquote>
<p>"TO HOLD POTATO CROP.</p>
<p>"NEW GERMAN FOOD DICTATOR WILL CONSUME ALL
FOOD."—<i>Victoria Daily Times</i>.</p>
</blockquote>
<hr class="short" />
<blockquote>
<p>"An intelligent postal service has delivered those addressed to
1,000, Upper Grosvenor Street, W. 1, to the Ministry of Good at
Grosvenor House."—<i>Daily Mail</i>.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>This is the first we have heard of this Ministry.</p>
<hr />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page216" id="page216"></a>[pg
216]</span>
<h2>TO THE POTSDAM PACIFIST.</h2>
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p>Now for the fourth time since you broke your word,</p>
<p class="i2">And started hacking through, the seasons' cycle</p>
<p>Brings Autumn on; the goose, devoted bird,</p>
<p class="i2">Prepares her shrift against the mass of MICHAEL;</p>
<p class="i8">Earth takes the dead leaves' stain,</p>
<p>And Peace, that hardy annual, sprouts again.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>Yet why should <i>you</i> support the Papal Chair</p>
<p class="i2">In fostering this recurrent apparition?</p>
<p>Never (we gather) were your hopes more fair,</p>
<p class="i2">Your <i>moral</i> in a more superb condition;</p>
<p class="i8">Never did Victory's goal</p>
<p>Seem more adjacent to your sanguine soul.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>HINDENBURG holds your British foes in baulk</p>
<p class="i2">Prior to trampling them to pulp like vermin;</p>
<p>Russia is at your mercy—you can walk</p>
<p class="i2">Through her to-morrow if you so determine;</p>
<p class="i8">There is no France to fight—</p>
<p>Your gallant WILLIE'S blade has "bled her white."</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>In England (as exposed by trusty spies)</p>
<p class="i2">We are reduced to starve on dog and thistles;</p>
<p>London, with all her forts, in ashes lies;</p>
<p class="i2">Through Scarboro's breached redoubts the sea-wind
whistles:</p>
<p class="i8">And Margate, quite unmanned,</p>
<p>Would cause no trouble if you cared to land.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>Roumania is your granary, whence you draw</p>
<p class="i2">For loyal turns a constant cornucopia;</p>
<p>Belgium, quiescent under Culture's law,</p>
<p class="i2">Serves as a type of Teutonised Utopia;</p>
<p class="i8">And, as for U.S.A.,</p>
<p>They're scheduled to arrive behind The Day.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>Why, then, this talk of Peace? The victor's meed</p>
<p class="i2">Lies underneath your nose—why not continue?</p>
<p><i>Because humanity makes your bosom bleed</i>;</p>
<p class="i2">So, though you have a giant's strength within
you,</p>
<p class="i8">Your gentle heart would shrink</p>
<p>To use it like a giant—I don't think.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>O.S.</p>
</div>
</div>
<hr />
<h2>MISTAKEN CHARITY.</h2>
<p>Slip was riding a big chestnut mare down the street and humming
an accompaniment to the tune she was playing with her bit. He
pulled up when he saw me and, still humming, sat looking down at
me.</p>
<p>"Stables in ten minutes," I said. "You're heading the wrong
way."</p>
<p>"A dispensation, my lad," he replied. "I'm taking Miss Spangles
up on the hill to get her warm—'tis a nipping and an eager
air."</p>
<p>A man was coming across the road towards us. He was incredibly
old and stiff and the dirt of many weeks was upon him. He stood
before us and held out a battered yachting cap. "M'sieur," he said
plaintively.</p>
<p>Miss Spangles cocked an ear and began to derange the surface of
the road with a shapely foreleg. She was bored.</p>
<p>"Tell him," said Slip, "that I am poorer even than he is; that
this beautiful horse which he admires so much is the property of
the King of ENGLAND, and that my clothes are not yet paid for."</p>
<p>I passed this on.</p>
<p>"M'sieur," said the old man, holding the yachting cap a little
nearer.</p>
<p>"Give him a piece of money to buy soap with," said Slip. "Come
up, Topsy," and he trotted slowly on.</p>
<p>I gave the old man something for soap and went my way.</p>
<p>That night at dinner the Mandril, who loves argument better than
life, said <i>à propos</i> of nothing that any man who gave
to a beggar was a public menace and little better than a felon. He
was delighted to find every man's hand against him.</p>
<p>"RUSKIN," said Slip, "decrees that not only should one give to
beggars, but that one should give kindly and deliberately and not
as though the coin were red-hot."</p>
<p>The Mandril threw himself wildly into the argument. He told us
dreadful stories of beggars and their ways—of advertisements
he had seen in which the advertisers undertook to supply beggars
with emaciated children at so much per day. Children with visible
sores were in great demand, he said; nothing like a child to charm
money from the pockets of passers-by, etc., etc. Presently he grew
tired and changed the subject as rapidly as he had started it.</p>
<p>It was at lunch a few days later that the Mess waiter came in
with a worried look on his face.</p>
<p>"There is a man at the door, Sir," he said. "Me and Burler can't
make out what he wants, but he won't go away, not no'ow."</p>
<p>"What's he like?" I asked.</p>
<p>"Oh, he's old, Sir, and none too clean, and he's got a sack with
him."</p>
<p>"Stop," said Slip. "Now, Tailer, think carefully before you
answer my next question. Does he wear a yachting cap?"</p>
<p>"Yes, Sir," said Tailer, "that's it, Sir, 'e do wear a sort of
sea 'at, Sir."</p>
<p>"This is very terrible," said Slip. "Are we his sole means of
support? However—" and he drew a clean plate towards him and
put a franc on it. The plate went slowly round the table and
everyone subscribed. Stephen, who was immersed in a book on
Mayflies, put in ten francs under the impression that he was
subscribing towards the rent of the Mess. The Mandril appeared to
have quite forgotten his dislike of beggars.</p>
<p>Tailer took the plate out and returned with it empty. "He's
gone, Sir," he said.</p>
<p>"I'm glad for your sake, dear Mandril, that you have fallen in
with our views," said Slip.</p>
<p>"What!" shouted the Mandril. "I quite forgot. A
beggar!—the wretched impostor." He rushed to the window. An
old man had rounded the corner of the house and was crossing the
road on his way to a small café opposite.</p>
<p>"He's going to drink it," screamed the Mandril; "battery will
fire a salvo;" and he seized two oranges from the sideboard. The
first was a perfect shot and hit the target between the
shoulder-blades, and the second burst with fearful force against
the wall of the café. The victim turned and looked about him
in a dazed fashion and then disappeared.</p>
<p>That night I received a note from Monsieur Le Roux, hardware
merchant and incidentally our landlord, thanking me for sixteen
francs seventy-five centimes paid in advance to his workman, and
asking me to name a day on which he could call to mend our broken
stove.</p>
<hr />
<blockquote>
<p>"It is not a little pathetic to observe that a year ago, and
even two years ago, <i>The Daily Mail</i> was urging the Government
then in power to introduce compulsory rations. Thus on November 13,
1916, we said: 'Ministers should at once prepare the organisation
for a system of bread tickets. It took the diligent Germans six
months to get their system into action, and it will take our ...
officials quite as long. They ought to be getting to work on it
now, not putting it off.'"—<i>Daily Mail</i>.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>We dare not guess what was the suppressed adjective that <i>The
Daily Mail</i> applied to "our officials."</p>
<hr />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page217" id="page217"></a>[pg
217]</span>
<div class="figcenter" style="width:100%;"><a href=
"images/217.png"><img width="100%" src="images/217.png" alt=
"" /></a>
<h3>OUR UNEMPLOYED.</h3>
<p>WAR OFFICE BRASS HAT (<i>to Volunteer, "A" Class</i>). "AND MIND
YOU, IF YOU DON'T FULFIL YOUR OBLIGATIONS YOU'LL BE
COURT-MARTIALLED!"</p>
<p>MR. PUNCH. "THAT WON'T WORRY HIM. HIS TROUBLE IS THAT, WHEN HE
DOES FULFIL HIS OBLIGATIONS, YOU MAKE SO LITTLE USE OF HIM."</p>
</div>
<hr />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page218" id="page218"></a>[pg
218]</span>
<h2>SUGAR CONTROL.</h2>
<p>"Good evening, Sir," said Lord RHONDDA'S minion (the man who
does his dirty work), moistening his lips with a bit of pencil.
"You were allocated one hundredweight of sugar for jam-making in
respect of your soft fruit, I believe?"</p>
<p>"How <i>did</i> you guess?" I said. "I say, do tell me when the
War's going to end. Just between ourselves, you know."</p>
<p>"This being the case," he went on (evidently trying to change
the subject—no War Office secrets to be got out of
<i>him</i>, you notice), "I must request you to show me your
fruit-trees and also your jam cupboard."</p>
<p>"The latter," I said—for he had called just after
tea—"is rather full at present, but doing nicely, thanks. As
you observe, however, we think it wiser not to try to close the
bottom button of the door."</p>
<p>"Perhaps your wife—" suggested the man tentatively.</p>
<p>"My wife does her best, of course. She often says, 'Dearest, a
third pot of tea if you <i>like</i>, but I'm sure a third cup of
jam wouldn't be good for you.' By the way, don't you want to see
the tea-orchard too? The Cox's Orange Pekoes have done frightfully
well this year—the new blend, you know; or should I say
hybrid?"</p>
<p>At this moment my wife appeared, looking particularly charming
in a <i>mousseline de soie aux fines
herbes—anglicé</i>, a sprigged muslin. I seized her
hand and led her aside.</p>
<p>"Lord RHONDDA'S myrmidon is upon us!" I hissed. "'Tis for your
husband's life, child. Hold the minion of the law in
check—attract him; fascinate him; play him that little thing
on the piano—you know, 'Tum-ti-tum'—while I slope off
to the secret chamber, where my ancestor lay hid before—I
mean after—the Battle of Worcester. By the way, I hope it's
been dusted lately? Hush! if he sees us hold secret parlance I'm
lost."</p>
<p>"Alas!" said my wife, "the secret chamber is where we keep the
jam."</p>
<p>She smiled subtly at me and then winningly at the inspector as
she turned towards him.</p>
<p>"Step this way, please," she continued.</p>
<p>I caught the idea at once and, blessing the quick wit of woman,
followed in the victim's wake, ready to close the secret panel
behind him and leave him to a lingering death.</p>
<p>My wife slid open the trap, turning with a triumphant smile as
she did so, and I saw at once that the death of anyone shut up
inside would be a lot more lingering than I had imagined, for the
place seemed full of jam. I was surprised.</p>
<p>"Can I be going to eat all that?" I thought; and life seemed
suddenly a very beautiful thing.</p>
<p>The inspector ran a hungry eye over it all, and if he had tried
to clamber inside for a closer inspection I should not have given
him the quick push I had planned. I should have held him back by
his coat. My own way of testing the amount of jam which my wife had
made was not for the likes of him.</p>
<p>"About a hundred-and-fifty pounds," he said at last.</p>
<p>"Just a little over," nodded my wife.</p>
<p>"I tell you," I whispered, "this chap knows everything." Then
aloud, "I say, Sir, if you wouldn't mind putting me on to something
for the Cotsall Selling Plate. Simply," I added hastily, "in the
national interest, of course. Keeping up the breed of horses."</p>
<p>The inspector changed the subject again. "You were allocated one
hundredweight of sugar, I believe, Ma'am," he said.</p>
<p>"Oh, yes," replied my wife. "But you see some of our jam is
still sticking to the trees. Perhaps this gentleman would like to
see the orchard, Wenceslaus," she added, turning to me.</p>
<p>(Of course, you know, my Christian name isn't really Wenceslaus,
but we authors enjoy so little privacy nowadays that I must really
be allowed to leave it at that.)</p>
<p>So I took the inspector off to see the orchard, pausing on the
way at the strawberry bed.</p>
<p>"This," I explained, "was to have made up quite fifty pounds of
our allocation, but I'm afraid the crop failed this year. So that
must account for any little discrepancy in the weight of fruit." I
was very firm about this.</p>
<p>"Strawberries have done well enough elsewhere," said Nemesis
suspiciously. "I'm surprised that yours should have failed."</p>
<p>"When I say 'failed,'" I explained, "I mean 'failed to get as
far as the preserving pan.' I always retain an option on eating the
crop fresh."</p>
<p>The inspector frowned and was going to make a note of this, so I
tried to distract his attention.</p>
<p>"Do you know," I said, "a short time ago people persisted in
mistaking me for a brother of the Duke of Cotsall?"</p>
<p>"Why?" he asked—rather rudely.</p>
<p>"Because of the strawberry mark on my upper lip. Ah, I think
this is the orchard. There was a wealth of bloom here when I put in
my application."</p>
<p>"Applications were not made till the fruit was on the trees,"
said Lord RHONDDA'S minion, sharply. "Ah, there's a nice lot of
plums."</p>
<p>This seemed more satisfactory.</p>
<p>"Yes, isn't there?" I said enthusiastically. "Now I'm sure
<i>this</i> makes up the amount all right."</p>
<p>"Plums are stone fruit," he observed stonily, "and you were
allocated one hundredweight of sugar for your <i>soft</i> fruit, I
believe?"</p>
<p>One really gets very tired of people who go on harping on the
same thing over and over again.</p>
<p>"What about raspberries?" I inquired.</p>
<p>"Soft fruit, of course," said the inspector.</p>
<p>"But they contain stones," I urged. "Nasty little things wot
gits into the 'ollers of your teeth somethink cruel, as cook says.
Really, the Government ought to give us more careful instructions.
And what about the apples? Are pips stones?"</p>
<p>"Apples are not used for jam-making," he retorted.</p>
<p>"What!" I exclaimed. "Tell that to the—to the Army in
general! Plum-and-apple jam, my dear Sir! And that reminds me: a
jam composed of half <span class="pagenum"><a name="page219" id=
"page219"></a>[pg 219]</span> stone and half soft fruit—how
do we stand in respect to that?"</p>
<p>"Well, Sir," said the inspector, closing his notebook
grudgingly, "I don't think we need go into that. I think you've got
just about the requisite amount of soft fruit for the one
hundredweight of sugar which, I believe, you were allocated."</p>
<p>"There's still the rose garden," I said, "if you're not
satisfied."</p>
<p>"Been turning that into an orchard, have you?" he asked. "Very
patriotic, I'm sure."</p>
<p>"Well, I don't know," I said. "My wife wants to make
<i>pot-pourri</i> as usual, but what I say is, in these
days—and with all that sugar—it would surely be more
patriotic (as you say) to make <i>fleurs de Nice.</i>"</p>
<p>"It would be more patriotic perhaps," observed Lord RHONDDA'S
minion sententiously, "not to make jam at all."</p>
<p>"Ah!" I said. "Have a glass of beer before you go."</p>
<p>W.B.</p>
<hr />
<div class="figcenter" style="width:60%;"><a href=
"images/218.png"><img width="100%" src="images/218.png" alt=
"" /></a>
<h3>UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE.</h3>
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p><i>Chorus</i>. "HERE SHALL HE SEE</p>
<p class="i10">NO ENEMY</p>
<p>BUT WINTER AND ROUGH WEATHER."</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<hr />
<div class="figcenter" style="width:100%;"><a href=
"images/219.png"><img width="100%" src="images/219.png" alt=
"" /></a>
<p><i>Taxi-driver (who has forced lady-driver on to the
pavement).</i> "NOW, THEN, IF YOU WANT TO LOOK IN THE SHOP WINDOWS
WHY DON'T YOU TAKE A DAY OFF?"</p>
</div>
<hr />
<p>Headline in <i>The Yorkshire Daily Observer</i>:—</p>
<blockquote>"KAISER'S 1904 PLOTS"</blockquote>
<p>No doubt there were quite as many as that, but we should like to
know how our contemporary arrives at the exact number.</p>
<hr />
<h3>AN EXTRAORDINARY DAY.</h3>
<p>1. A Staff Officer came back from the line without having had a
narrow escape.</p>
<p>2. A General visited the line and expressed unqualified approval
of everything he saw.</p>
<p>3. A Quartermaster-Sergeant put <i>all</i> the contents of the
rum-jar into the tea.</p>
<p>4. A sniper fired at a Hun and reported a miss.</p>
<p>5. A bombing-party threw bombs into a sap without reporting
"shrieks and groans were heard, and it is thought that many
casualties were inflicted."</p>
<p>6. A Sergeant-Major complimented a new squad of recruits.</p>
<p>7. Somebody read an Intelligence Summary.</p>
<p>8. A very high official fired the first shot to open the new
rifle-range and failed to hit the bull.</p>
<blockquote>
<p>NOTE—(<i>a</i>) The Marker was not court-martialled for
spreading alarm and despondency in His Majesty's forces; but</p>
<p>(<i>b</i>) The quality of mercy was fearfully strained.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>9. A bombing-class came back from practice without a single
casualty.</p>
<p>10. A Subaltern got leave on compassionate grounds. He wanted to
be married.</p>
<p>11. A Corps Commander was punctual at an inspection. And</p>
<p>12. It did not rain on the day of the offensive.</p>
<p>Truly an extraordinary day. Shall we ever live to see it, I
wonder?</p>
<hr />
<h3>MORE SEX PROBLEMS</h3>
<blockquote>
<p>"For Sale.—Dark red Shorthorn Bulls, from two years
downwards, bred to milk for thirty years."—<i>Farmer's
Weekly</i>.</p>
<p>"For Sale by Auction, one Mare Colt."—<i>Kent and Sussex
Courier</i>.</p>
<p>"Then again the cockerel is a summer layer."—<i>Irish
Farming World</i>.</p>
</blockquote>
<hr class="short" />
<blockquote>"Sir Godfrey Baring, the sitting Liberal member, is not
standing again."—<i>Evening Paper</i>.</blockquote>
<p>If he's not going to sit or stand, he'll have to take it lying
down.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p>A Venetian boy-scout on the Lido</p>
<p>Had sighted a hostile torpedo,</p>
<p class="i2">So he cried, "Don't suppoge</p>
<p class="i2">You can blow up the Doge;</p>
<p>You must do without him—as we do."</p>
</div>
</div>
<hr class="short" />
<blockquote>
<p>"WEST OF ENGLAND.—To be Sold, a perfect gentleman's
Residence, in faultless condition and all modern improvements, and
a pedigree Stock Farm of 150 acres adjoining, with
possession."—<i>Daily Paper</i>.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>We hope the pedigree of the perfect gentleman is included as
well as that of the stock farm.</p>
<hr />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page220" id="page220"></a>[pg
220]</span>
<h2>PETHERTON AND THE RAG AUCTION.</h2>
<p>A letter I received last Friday gave me one of those welcome
excuses to get into closer touch with my neighbour, Petherton, than
our daily proximity might seem to connote. I wrote to him
thus:—</p>
<blockquote>
<p>DEAR MR. PETHERTON,—Miss Gore-Langley has written to me to
say that she is getting up a Rag Auction on behalf of the Belgian
Relief Fund, and not knowing you personally, and having probably
heard that I am connected by ties of kinship with you, she asked me
to approach you on the subject of any old clothes you may have to
spare in such a cause.</p>
<p>Of course I'm not suggesting you should allow yourself to be
denuded in the cause (like Lady GODIVA), but I daresay you have
some odds and ends stowed away that you would contribute; for
instance, that delightful old topper that you were wont to go to
church in before the War, and that used to cause a titter among the
choir—can't you get the moths to let you have it? Neckties,
again. Where are the tartans of '71? Surely there may be some bonny
stragglers left in your tie-bins. And who fears to talk of '98 and
its fancy waistcoats? All rancour about them has passed away, and
if you have any ring-straked or spotted survivors, no doubt they
would fetch <i>something</i> in a good cause. I hope you will see
what you can do for</p>
<p>Yours very truly,</p>
<p>HENRY J. FORDYCE.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Petherton's reply was brief. He wrote:—</p>
<blockquote>
<p>SIR—Had Miss Gore-Langley chosen a better channel for the
conveyance of her wishes I should have been only too pleased to do
what I could to help. As it is, I do not care to have anything to
do with the affair.</p>
<p>Yours faithfully,</p>
<p>FREDERICK PETHERTON.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>But he was better than his word, as I soon discovered. So I
wrote:—</p>
<blockquote>
<p>DEAR PETHERTON,—I have had such a treat to-day. I took one
or two things across to Miss Gore-Langley, who was unpacking your
noble contributions when I arrived. Talk about family histories;
your parcel spoke volumes.</p>
<p>I was frightfully interested in that brown bowler with the flat
brim, and those jam-pot collars. Parting with them must have been
such sweet sorrow.</p>
<p>I feel like bidding for some of your things, among which I also
noted an elegantly-worked pair of braces. With a little grafting on
to the remains of those I am now wearing, the result should be
something really serviceable. I don't mind confessing to you that I
simply can't bring my mind to buying any new wearing apparel just
now. I'd like the bowler too. It should help to keep the birds from
my vegetables, and incidentally the wolf from the door. And seeing
it fluttering in the breeze you would have a continual reminder of
your own salad days.</p>
<p>Surely the priceless family portrait in the Oxford oak frame got
into the parcel by mistake. I am expecting to acquire that for a
song, as it cannot be of interest except to one of the family, and
I should be glad to number it among my heirlooms.</p>
<p>Miss G.-L. is awfully braced with the haul, and asked me to
thank you, which is one of my objects in writing this.</p>
<p>Yours sincerely,</p>
<p>HARRY FORDYCE.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Petherton was breathing hard by this time, and let drive
with:—</p>
<blockquote>
<p>SIR,—It is like your confounded impertinence to overhaul
the few things I sent to Miss Gore-Langley, and had I known that
you would have had the opportunity of seeing what my wife insisted
on sending I should certainly not have permitted their
despatch.</p>
<p>I have already told you what I think of your ridiculous claims
to kinship with my family, and shall undoubtedly try to thwart any
impudent attempts you may make to acquire my discarded belongings.
The photograph you mention was of course accidentally included in
the parcel, and I am sending for it.</p>
<p>Yours faithfully,</p>
<p>FREDERICK PETHERTON.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>In the cause of charity I rushed over to the Dower House, and
pointed out to Miss Gore-Langley how she might swell the proceeds
of the sale. I then wrote thus to Petherton:—</p>
<blockquote>
<p>DEAR OLD MAN,—Thanks for your jolly letter. I'm sorry to
tell you that Miss G.-L. holds very strong views on the subject of
charitable donations, and you will have to go and bid for anything
you want back. I'm very keen on that photograph, if only for the
sake of your pose and the elastic-side boots you affected at that
period. Everyone here is quite excited at the idea of having Cousin
Fred's portrait among the family likenesses in the dining-room, and
its particular place on the wall is practically decided upon.</p>
<p>I shall probably let the braces go if necessary, but I shall
contest the ownership of the bowler up to a point.</p>
<p>Why not have your revenge by buying one or two of my things?
There is a choice pair of cotton socks, marked T.W., that I once
got from the laundry by mistake; they are much too large for me,
but should fit you nicely. There's a footbath too. It leaks a bit,
but your scientific knowledge will enable you to put it right. It's
a grand thing to have in the house, in case of a sudden rush of
blood to the head.</p>
<p>Cheerio!</p>
<p>Yours ever,</p>
<p>HARRY.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Petherton simply replied:—</p>
<blockquote>
<p>SIR,—It is, I know, absolutely useless to make an appeal
to you, and I shall simply outbid you for the portrait if possible;
if not, I shall adopt other measures to prevent your enjoying your
ill-mannered triumph.</p>
<p>Yours faithfully,</p>
<p>F. PETHERTON.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>The Auction was held last Wednesday. I didn't attend it, but got
Miss Gore-Langley to run up the price of the portrait as far as
seemed safe, on my behalf, which resulted in Mrs. Petherton getting
it for £5 15s. I got the hat, but Mrs. Petherton outbid my
agent for the braces.</p>
<blockquote>
<p>DEAR FREDDY (I wrote), Wasn't it a roaring success—the
Auction, I mean? I didn't manage to attend, but have heard glowing
accounts from its promoter.</p>
<p>The most insignificant things, I hear, went for big prices; one
patriotic lady, I'm told, even going to £5 15s. for a faded
photograph of a veteran in the clothes of a most uninteresting
sartorial period. It was in a cheap wooden frame, of a pattern that
is quite out of the movement. Fancy, £5 15s.!</p>
<p>Did you buy anything?</p>
<p>In haste,</p>
<p>Yours, H.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>If you have any stout safety-pins, lend me a couple, old boy. I
failed to secure the braces. They fetched 1s. 9d., which was
greatly in excess of their intrinsic value.</p>
<p>There has been no reply from Petherton to date.</p>
<hr />
<h3>Journalistic Candour.</h3>
<blockquote>"Mr. Wells has no master in controversy with ordinary
mortals, but I would seriously warn him that arguing with the
'Morning Post' leads after a certain point to softening of the
brain."—"<i>Diarist" in "The Westminster
Gazette</i>."</blockquote>
<p>We have always taken a painful interest in <i>The
Westminster's</i> quarrels with <i>The Morning Post</i>.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<blockquote>
<p>"In 1914-15 there was for the first time a surplus of cereals of
about 27,475 tons produced in Egypt."—<i>Times</i>.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>For the first time? Shade of JOSEPH!</p>
<hr class="short" />
<blockquote>
<p>"A Young Lady is desirous of CHANGE. Has wholesale and retail
military experience. Also knowledge of practical."—<i>Daily
Telegraph</i>.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Now, then, HAIG.</p>
<hr />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page221" id="page221"></a>[pg
221]</span>
<div class="figcenter" style="width:100%;"><a href=
"images/221.png"><img width="100%" src="images/221.png" alt=
"" /></a>
<h3>DOING THEIR BIT.</h3>
</div>
<hr />
<h3>BEASTS ROYAL.</h3>
<h4>I.</h4>
<h4>QUEEN HATSHEPSU'S APE.</h4>
<h4>B.C. 1491.</h4>
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p>Now from the land of Punt the galleys come,</p>
<p class="i2">HATSHEPSU'S, sent by Amen-Ra and her</p>
<p class="i2">To bring from God's own land the gold and myrrh,</p>
<p>The ivory, the incense and the gum;</p>
<p class="i2">The greyhound, anxious-eyed, with ear of silk,</p>
<p class="i2">The little ape, with whiskers white as milk,</p>
<p>And the enamelled peacock come with them.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>The little ape sits on HATSHEPSU'S chair,</p>
<p class="i2">And with a solemn and ironic eye</p>
<p>He sees TAHUTMES strap the balsamed hair</p>
<p class="i2">Unto his royal chin and wonders why;</p>
<p>He sees the stewards and chamberlains bow down,</p>
<p>Plays with the asp upon HATSHEPSU'S crown,</p>
<p class="i2">And thinks, "A goodly land, this land of Khem!"</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>The little ape sits on HATSHEPSU'S knee</p>
<p class="i2">While the great lotus-fans move to and fro;</p>
<p class="i2">Outside along the Nile the galleys go</p>
<p>And the Phoenician rowers seek the sea;</p>
<p class="i2">Outside the masons carve TAHUTMES' chin,</p>
<p class="i2">Tipped with the beard of Ra, and lo,
within—</p>
<p>The ape, derisive and ineffable.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>The little ape from Punt sits there beside</p>
<p class="i2">TAHUTMES and HATSHEPSU on their throne,</p>
<p>Dissembling courteously his inward pride</p>
<p class="i2">When the great men of Egypt, one by one,</p>
<p>Their oiled and shaven heads before him bend,</p>
<p>And thinking, "I was born unto this end;</p>
<p class="i2">I am the King they honour. It is well."</p>
</div>
</div>
<hr />
<h3>THE CLINCHOPHONE.</h3>
<blockquote>
<p>["WANTED.—Loud gramophone (second-hand) for
reprisals."—<i>Advt. in "The Times."</i>]</p>
</blockquote>
<p>It is just to meet such pressing demands as this that the
Gramophobia Company have introduced their remarkable instrument or
weapon, described as The Clinchophone. No home is complete without
it.</p>
<p>It is supplied with little oil bath, B.S.A. fittings and kick
start.</p>
<p>A child can set it in motion, but nothing on earth will stop it
until its object is achieved and there is peace with honour.</p>
<p>Installed in a neighbourhood bristling with pianos, amateur
singers, gramophones, and other grind boxes it saves its cost in
doctors' bills.</p>
<p>It is fatal at fifty yards, and there has been nothing like it
since the "Tanks." It can do almost everything except stop before
its time.</p>
<p>Read the following testimonials:—</p>
<blockquote>
<p>"GENTLEMEN,—While the grand piano next door was playing
last evening I pressed the button of The Clinchophone. The piano
immediately sat back on its haunches, gibbered and then fell on the
player."</p>
<p>"DEAR SIR,—At the first trial of my new Clinchophone my
neighbour's gramophone rushed out of the house and has not been
heard of since."</p>
<p>"SAVED" says: "Last night the <i>basso profondo</i> two doors
away started singing, 'Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep.' He sang
two bars and then crawled round to my house on his hands and knees
and collapsed on the doorstep with the word 'Kamerad!' on his
lips."</p>
</blockquote>
<hr />
<h3>Our Stylists.</h3>
<blockquote>
<p>"The look from his eyes, the ashen colour of his face, the
passion in his voice, mute though it was, frightened and bewildered
her."—<i>Story in "Home Notes."</i></p>
</blockquote>
<hr />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page222" id="page222"></a>[pg
222]</span>
<div class="figcenter" style="width:100%;"><a href=
"images/222.png"><img width="100%" src="images/222.png" alt=
"" /></a>
<p>"DEARIE ME, NOW, I SHOULDN'T HA' THOUGHT THEY GIVES YOU ENOUGH
MONEY IN THE ARMY TO FILL ALL THEM THERE LITTLE PURSES."</p>
</div>
<hr />
<h2>PATROLS.</h2>
<p>The Scout Officer soliloquises:—</p>
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p>The lights begin to leap along the lines,</p>
<p class="i2">Leap up and hang and swoop and sputter out;</p>
<p>A bullet hits a wiring-post and whines;</p>
<p class="i2"><i>I wish to Heaven that I was not a Scout!</i></p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>Time was (in Dorsetshire) I loved the trade;</p>
<p class="i2">Far other is this battle in the waste,</p>
<p>Wherein, each night, though not of course afraid,</p>
<p class="i2">I wriggle round with ill-concealed distaste,</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>Where who can say what menace is not nigh,</p>
<p class="i2">What ambushed foe, what unexploded crump,</p>
<p>And the glad worm, aspiring to the sky,</p>
<p class="i2">Emerges suddenly and makes you jump.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>Where either all is still, so still one feels</p>
<p class="i2">That something huge must presently explode,</p>
<p>And back, far back, is heard the noise of wheels</p>
<p class="i2">From Prussian waggons on the Douai road;</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>And flares shoot upward with a startling hiss</p>
<p class="i2">And fall, and flame intolerably close,</p>
<p>So that it seems no living man could miss—</p>
<p class="i2">How huge my head must look, my legs how
gross!—</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>Or the live air is full of droning hums</p>
<p class="i2">And cracking whips and whispering snakes of fire,</p>
<p>And a loud buzz of conversation comes</p>
<p class="i2">From Simpson's party putting out some wire.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>Or else—as when some soloist is done</p>
<p class="i2">And the hushed orchestra may now begin—</p>
<p>A sudden rage inflames the placid Hun</p>
<p class="i2">And scouts lie naked in a world of din.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>The sullen bomb dissolves in singing shapes;</p>
<p class="i2">The whizz-bang jostles it—too fast to flee;</p>
<p>Machine-guns chatter like demented apes—</p>
<p class="i2">And, goodness, can it <i>all</i> be meant for me?</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>It can and is. And such are small affairs</p>
<p class="i2">Compared with Tompkins and his Lewis gun,</p>
<p>Or eager folk who play about with flares,</p>
<p class="i2">And, like as not, mistake me for a Hun;</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>Compared with when some gunner, having dined,</p>
<p class="i2">To show his guest the glories of his art</p>
<p>'Poops off a round or two,' which burst behind,</p>
<p class="i2">But fail to drown the beating of my heart</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>Sweet to all soldiers is the rearward view;</p>
<p class="i2">To infanteers how grand the gunners' case!</p>
<p>And I suppose men pine at G.H.Q.</p>
<p class="i2">For the rich ease of people at the Base.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>To me is sweet this mean and noisome ditch,</p>
<p class="i2">When on my belly I must issue out</p>
<p>Into the night, inscrutable as pitch—</p>
<p class="i2"><i>I wish to Heaven that I was not a Scout!</i></p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>A.P.H.</p>
</div>
</div>
<hr />
<blockquote>
<p>"Good Donkey for Sale: musical."—<i>Louth
Advertiser</i>.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Sings "The Vicar of Bray."</p>
<hr />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page223" id="page223"></a>[pg
223]</span>
<div class="figcenter" style="width:100%;"><a href=
"images/223.png"><img width="100%" src="images/223.png" alt=
"" /></a>
<h3>THE INSEPARABLE.</h3>
<p>THE KAISER (<i>to his People</i>). "DO NOT LISTEN TO THOSE WHO
WOULD SOW DISSENSION BETWEEN US. <i>I WILL NEVER DESERT
YOU</i>."</p>
</div>
<hr />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page224" id="page224"></a>[pg
224]</span>
<div class="figcenter" style="width:100%;"><a href=
"images/224.png"><img width="100%" src="images/224.png" alt=
"" /></a>
<h3>AFTER THE INSPECTION.</h3>
<p><i>Orderly (to Colonel)</i>. "CAN I GET YOU A TAXI, SIR?"</p>
<p><i>Colonel</i>. "YES, PLEASE, DEAR."</p>
</div>
<hr />
<h2>A LONDON MYSTERY SOLVED.</h2>
<p>Everyone must have observed a phenomenon of the London streets
which becomes continually more noticeable. And not only must they
have observed it, but have suffered from it.</p>
<p>At one time the omnibuses, which are rapidly becoming the only
means of street transport for human beings, had regular
stopping-places at the corner's of streets, at Piccadilly Circus,
at Oxford Circus, and so forth.</p>
<p>The corner was the accepted spot; the crowds gathered there, and
the omnibus, stopping there, emptied and refilled. But there has
been a gradual tendency towards the abandonment of the corners,
causing the omnibuses to pull up farther and farther from them, so
that it seems almost as if a time may come when, instead of
Piccadilly Circus, for example, the stopping-place for west-bound
omnibuses will be St. James's church.</p>
<p>Everyone, as I say, must have noticed this change in traffic
habits, and most people believe that police regulations are at the
bottom of it.</p>
<p>But I know better; and the reason why I know better is a little
conversation I have had with a driver.</p>
<p>It was during one of the finest efforts towards depressing
dampness that even this Summer has put up, and the driver dripped.
A great crowd of miserable mortals awaited his omnibus at a certain
recognised halt, all desperately anxious for a seat or even
standing room; but these he disregarded and carefully urged the
vehicle on for another twenty yards.</p>
<p>While the wretched people were running along the pavement to
begin their struggle for a place, I asked him why he had put them
to all that trouble.</p>
<p>"I suppose it's the police," I said, to make it easier for
him.</p>
<p>"Not as I know of," he replied.</p>
<p>"But why not stop where the public expect you to?" I asked.</p>
<p>"Why?" he inquired.</p>
<p>"Well, it would be more reasonable, more helpful," I
suggested.</p>
<p>"Who wants to help or be reasonable?" he replied. "Here, look at
me. I'm driving this bus for hours and hours every day. I'm cold
and wet. I'm putting on the brakes from morning to night, saving
people's silly lives, until I'm sick of the sight of them. If you
was to drive a motor bus in London you'd want a little amusement
now and then, too."</p>
<p>"So it's just for entertainment that you dodge about over the
stopping-places and keep changing them?" I asked.</p>
<p>"Yes," he replied.</p>
<hr />
<h3>Another Impending Apology.</h3>
<blockquote>
<p>"I was sorry to hear that Lady Diana had met with a nasty motor
accident; but had escaped with only slight injuries."—<i>Mrs.
Gossip in "The Daily Sketch."</i></p>
</blockquote>
<hr class="short" />
<blockquote>
<h5>"STOP-PRESS NEWS.<br />
GERMAN OFFICIAL.</h5>
<p>"Also ran: Julian, The Vizier, Siller and
Pennant."—<i>Manchester Evening Chronicle</i>.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>It is not often that the German official communiqués
admit defeat.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<blockquote>
<p>"The Poor's Piece appears to be a sort of No Man's Land, and
ever since the extinction of Vestrydom has been within the
parochial administrative parvenu of the Urban District
Council."—<i>Essex Paper</i>.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Who is this municipal upstart?</p>
<hr class="short" />
<blockquote>
<h5>A SIGNIFICANT STEP.</h5>
<p>The <i>Evening Post's</i> Washington correspondent states: "Mr.
Lloyd George's speech at Glasgow is a significant step in the
process of winning the war by liplomatic strategy."—<i>Sydney
Daily Telegraph</i>.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>There's many a slip 'twixt the dip and the lip; but "liplomatic"
is not a bad word.</p>
<hr />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page225" id="page225"></a>[pg
225]</span>
<h2>THE MUD LARKS.</h2>
<p>Nobody out here seems exactly infatuated with the politicians
nowadays. The Front Trenches have about as much use for the Front
Benches as a big-game hunter for mosquitoes. The bayonet professor
indicates his row of dummies and says to his lads, "Just imagine
they are Cabinet Ministers—go!" and in a clock-tick the
heavens are raining shreds of sacking and particles of straw. The
demon bomber fancies some prominent Parliamentarian is lurking in
the opposite sap, grits his teeth, and gets an extra five yards
into his bowling.</p>
<p>But I am not entirely of the vulgar opinion. The finished
politician may not be a subject for odes, but a political education
is a great asset to any man. Our Mess President, William, once
assisted a friend to lose a parliamentary election, and his
experience has been invaluable to us. The moment we are tired of
fighting and want billets, the Squadron sits down where it is and
the Skipper passes the word along for William. William dusts his
boots, adjusts his tie and heads for the most prepossessing farm in
sight. Arrived there he takes off his hat to the dog, pats the pig,
asks the cow after the calf, salutes the farmer, curtseys to the
farmeress, then turning to the inevitable baby, exclaims in the
language of the country, "Mong Jew, kell jolly ong-fong" (Gosh,
what a topping kid!), and bending tenderly over it imprints a
lingering kiss upon its indiarubber features and wins the freedom
of the farm. The Mess may make use of the kitchen; the spare bed is
at the Skipper's disposal; the cow will move up and make room for
the First Mate; the pig will be only too happy to welcome the
Subalterns to its modest abode.</p>
<p>Ordinary billeting officers stand no chance against our William
and his political education. "That fellow," I heard one disgruntled
competitor remark of him, "would hug the Devil for a knob of coke."
Once only did he meet his match, and a battle of Titans
resulted.</p>
<p>In pursuit of his business he entered a certain farm-house, to
find the baby already in possession of another officer, a heavy red
creature with a monocle, who was rocking the infant's cradle
seventy-five revolutions per minute and making dulcet noises on a
moustache comb.</p>
<p>William's heart fell to his field boots; he recognised the red
creature's markings immediately. This was another politician; no
bloodless victory would be his; fur would fly first, powder
burn—Wow!</p>
<p>The red person must have tumbled to William as well, for he
increased the revolutions to one hundred and forty per minute and
broke into a shrill lullaby of his own impromptu
composition:—</p>
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p>"Go to sleep, Mummy's liddle Did-ums;</p>
<p>Go to sleep, Daddy's liddle Thing-ma-jig."</p>
</div>
</div>
<p>Nevertheless this did not baffle our William. He approached from
a flank, deftly twitched the infant out of its cradle by the scruff
of its neck, and commenced to plaster it with tender kisses.
However the red man tailed it as it went past and hung on, kissing
any bits he could reach. When the mother reappeared they were
worrying the baby between them as a couple of hound puppies worry
the hind leg of a cub. She beat them faithfully with a broom and
hove both of them out into the wide wet world, and we all slept in
a bog that night, and William was much abused and loathed. But that
was his only failure.</p>
<p>If getting billets is William's job, getting rid of them is the
Babe's affair. William, like myself, has far too great a mastery of
the <i>patois</i> to handle delicate situations with success. For
instance, when the fanner approaches me with tidings that my
troopers have burnt two ploughshares and a crowbar and my troop
horses have masticated a brick wall I engage him in palaver, with
the result that we eventually part, I under the impression that the
incident is closed, and he under the impression that I have
promised to buy him a new farm. This leads to all sorts of
international complications.</p>
<p>The Babe, on the other hand, regards a knowledge of French as
immoral and only knows enough of it to order himself <span class=
"pagenum"><a name="page226" id="page226"></a>[pg 226]</span> a
drink. He is also gifted with a slight stutter, which under the
stress of a foreign language becomes chronic. So when we evacuate a
billet William furnishes the Babe with enough money to compensate
the farmer for all damages we have not committed, and then effaces
himself. Donning a bright smile the Babe approaches the farmer and
presses the lucre into his honest palm.</p>
<p>"Hi," says the worthy fellow, "what is this, then? One hundred
francs! Where is the seventy-four francs, six centimes for the
fleas your dog stole? The two hundred francs, three centimes for
the indigestion your rations gave my pig? The eight thousand and
ninety-nine francs, five centimes insurance money I should have
collected if your brigands had not stopped my barn from
burning?—and all the other little damages, three million,
eight hundred thousand and forty-four francs, one centime in
all—where is it, <i>hein</i>?"</p>
<p>"Ec-c-coutez une moment," the Babe begins, "Jer p-p-poovay
expliquay
tut—tut—tut—tut—sh-sh-shiss—" says
he, loosening his stammer at rapid fire, popping and hissing,
rushing and hitching like a red-hot machine-gun with a siphon
attachment. In five minutes the farmer is white in the face and
imploring the Babe to let by-gones be by-gones. "N-n-not a b-bit of
it, old t-top," says the Babe. "Jer p-p-poovay exp-p-pliquay
b-b-bub-bub-bub—" and away it goes again like a combined
steam-riveter and shower-bath, like the water coming down at
Lodore. No farmer however hardy has been known to stand more than
twenty minutes of this. A quarter-of-an-hour usually sees him
bolting and barring himself into the cellar, with the Babe blowing
him kisses of fond farewell through the keyhole.</p>
<p>We are billeted on a farm at the present moment. The Skipper
occupies the best bed; the rest of us are doing the <i>al
fresco</i> touch in tents and bivouacs scattered about the
surrounding landscape. We are on very intimate terms with the
genial farmyard folk. Every morning I awake to find half-a-dozen
hens and their gentleman-friend roosting along my anatomy. One of
the hens laid an egg in my ear this morning. William says she
mistook it for her nest, but I take it the hen, as an honest bird,
was merely paying rent for the roost.</p>
<p>The Babe turned up at breakfast this morning wearing only half a
moustache. He said a goat had browsed off the other half while he
slept. The poor beast has been having fits of giggles ever
since—a moustache must be very ticklish to digest.</p>
<p>Yesterday MacTavish, while engaged in taking his tub in the
open, noticed that his bath-water was mysteriously sinking lower
and lower. Turning round to investigate the cause of the phenomenon
he beheld a gentle milch privily sucking it up behind, his back.
There was a strong flavour of Coal Tar soap in the <i>café
au lait</i> to-day.</p>
<p>This morning at dawn I was aroused by a cold foot pawing at my
face. Blinking awake, I observed Albert Edward in rosy pyjamas
capering beside my bed. "Show a leg, quick," he whispered. "Rouse
out, and Uncle will show boysey pretty picture."</p>
<p>Brushing aside the coverlet of fowl I followed him tip-toe
across the dewy mead to the tarpaulin which he and MacTavish call
"home."</p>
<p>Albert Edward lifted a flap and signed me to peep within. It
was, as he had promised, a pretty picture.</p>
<p>At the foot of our MacTavish's mattress, under a spare blanket
lifted from that warrior in his sleep, lay a large pink pig. Both
were occupied in peaceful and stertorous repose.</p>
<p>"Heads of Angels, by Sir JOSHUA REYNOLDS," breathed Albert
Edward in my ear.</p>
<p>PATLANDER.</p>
<hr />
<div class="figcenter" style="width:70%;"><a href=
"images/225.png"><img width="100%" src="images/225.png" alt=
"" /></a>
<p><i>Old Lady from the Country</i>. "I'VE ASKED FOUR PORTERS, AND
THEY ALL TELL ME DIFFERENT."</p>
<p><i>Porter</i>. "WHAT CAN YOU EXPECT, MISSUS, IF YER ASKS FOUR
DIFFERENT PORTERS?"</p>
</div>
<hr />
<h3>COMMERCIAL CANDOUR.</h3>
<blockquote>
<p>"1913 Touring Ford, in splendid condition, fitted with new
coils, parafin vaporiser; has been little use."—<i>Irish
Times</i>.</p>
</blockquote>
<hr />
<h3>THE TWO LETTERS.</h3>
<p>I had as usual two letters to write. There are always two and
often twenty, but this morning there were two only. One was to my
old friend, A., who had just gone into bankruptcy; the other was to
my young friend, B., whose sporting efforts in France have won him
very rapid promotion. He was just bringing his new captain's stars
to England on a few days' leave.</p>
<p>A. is a somewhat austere and melancholy man; B. is just as
different as you can imagine.</p>
<p>I wrote thus. First to A.:—</p>
<blockquote>
<p>"MY DEAR MAN,—I am sorry to hear your bad news. The times
are sufficiently depressing without such a blow as this having to
fall on you. I am certain that you don't deserve such treatment,
and you have all my sympathy. As for the disgrace—there is
none. You are simply a victim of the War. If there is anything I
can do to cheer you up, let me know.</p>
<p>"I am, yours, etc.,—."</p>
</blockquote>
<p>To B. I wrote thus:—</p>
<blockquote>
<p>"DEAR OLD TOP,—This is the best news I have heard for a
long time. I always knew you would bring it off soon; but I wasn't
prepared for anything quite so sudden. There is, of course, only
one thing to do when a man fulfils his destiny in this way. The
custom is immemorial, and, war or no war, we must crack a bottle.
Tell me where you would like to dine, and when, and I'll fix it up,
and some jolly show afterwards. Occasions like This must be
celebrated.</p>
<p>"I am, yours, etc.,—."</p>
</blockquote>
<p>So far it is a somewhat feeble narrative, nor has it any point
beyond the circumstance that I posted the letters in the wrong
envelopes.</p>
<hr />
<h3>What to do with our Critics.</h3>
<blockquote>
<p>"The Ministry of Munitions has for disposal approximately 75
TONS WEEKLY of PRESS MUD."—<i>Advt. in "The
Engineer."</i></p>
</blockquote>
<hr class="short" />
<blockquote>
<p>"In consequence of the epidemic at the Royal Naval College,
Osborne, in the spring of this year, it has been decided to reduce
the number of cadets at the College from 500 to 300. This reduction
will not affect the numbers to be entered, as a larger number of
cadets will be accommodated at Dartmouth
Colliery."—<i>Scotsman</i>.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Where they will be trained, we suppose, as mine-sweepers.</p>
<hr />
<div class="figcenter" style="width:60%;"><a href=
"images/226.png"><img width="100%" src="images/226.png" alt=
"" /></a>
<h3>THE REDUCED TRAIN SERVICE AT SLOWGRAVE.</h3>
<p>"NO NEED TO IDLE YOUR TIME AWAY. JUST GET A SHEET OF EMERY-PAPER
AND TAKE THE RUST OFF O' THEM RAILS."</p>
</div>
<hr />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page227" id="page227"></a>[pg
227]</span>
<div class="figcenter" style="width:100%;"><a href=
"images/227.png"><img width="100%" src="images/227.png" alt=
"" /></a>
<h3>TRIALS OF A CAMOUFLAGE OFFICER.</h3>
<p><i>Sergeant-Major</i>. "BEG PARDON, SIR, I WAS TO ASK YOU IF
YOU'D STEP UP TO THE BATTERY, SIR."</p>
<p><i>Camouflage Officer</i>. "WHAT'S THE MATTER?"</p>
<p><i>Sergeant-Major</i>. "IT'S THOSE PAINTED GRASS SCREENS, SIR.
THE MULES HAVE EATEN THEM."</p>
</div>
<hr />
<h2>"GOG."</h2>
<h3>(<i>To the Author of "Jong," Punch, September 19th.</i>)</h3>
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p>O singer sublime of Beeyah-byyah-bunniga-nelliga-jong,</p>
<p class="i2">It isn't envy, the green and yellow,</p>
<p class="i2">That makes me take up my lyre, old fellow,</p>
<p class="i2">And burst with a fierce cacophonous bellow</p>
<p class="i4">Across the path of your song.</p>
<p class="i2">I want to propose another name,</p>
<p class="i2">Unknown to you and unknown to fame;</p>
<p class="i2">It is like the sound of a hand-sawn log</p>
<p class="i2">Or the hostile hark of a husky dog:</p>
<p class="i4">Chagogagog-munchogagog-chabun-agungamog!</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>This cracker of jaws is a lake, I'm told, a lake in the U.S.A.,</p>
<p class="i2">And first the Indians, the red sort, owned it,</p>
<p class="i2">But later to Uncle Sam they loaned it,</p>
<p class="i2">Who afterwards made no bones, but boned it</p>
<p class="i4">In the fine Autolycus way;</p>
<p class="i2">And though life wasn't a matter vital</p>
<p class="i2">He kept with the lake its rasping title,</p>
<p class="i2">Which recalls the croak of an amorous frog</p>
<p class="i2">Or a siren heard in an ocean fog:</p>
<p class="i4">Chagogagog-munchogagog-chabun-agungamog!</p>
</div>
</div>
<hr class="short" />
<h3>The Butterfly.</h3>
<blockquote>
<p>"Two thousand cabbage butterflies have been captured by
Huntingdon school-children, but more stern measures for their
capture must be introduced."—<i>Evening Paper</i>.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>In order to capture the cabbage butterfly the first thing to do
is to interest the creature by giving it a cabbage-leaf to play
with. Then take the kitchen-chopper in the right hand, lift it high
and bring it down with a crash on the third vertebra. Few
butterflies repeat any offence after this is severed.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<h3>The Invincible Argentine.</h3>
<blockquote>
<p>"There is a most useful Navy, including two or three
super-Dreadnoughts, and the best-bred racehorses in the
world."—<i>Irish Times</i>.</p>
</blockquote>
<hr class="short" />
<blockquote>
<p>"Further instructions as regards the allowance to householders
which have increased in size will be issued later. The issue of
temporary cards is under consideration."—<i>Food Control
Notice in "Liverpool Daily Post."</i></p>
</blockquote>
<p>"Who have increased in size" would be better grammar and just as
good sense.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<h3>A Lesson for the National Service Department.</h3>
<p>Words under a picture in <i>The Daily Mail</i>:—</p>
<blockquote>
<p>"Chiropodists are attending to the feet of America's new army,
and dentists are paying attention to the teeth."</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Whereas in the British Army it might so easily have been the
other way round.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<h3>Our Stylists Again.</h3>
<p>From <i>The Tatler</i> on the subject of the little Stork, which
is the badge of Capt. Guynemer's squadron:—</p>
<blockquote>
<p>"What emblem could, indeed, be more appropriate as well as
beautiful as the bird which is the symbol of Alsace?"</p>
</blockquote>
<hr class="short" />
<blockquote>
<p>"Wanted, Girls, age 18 to 22, for Jam Jars."—<i>Manchester
Evening Chronicle</i>.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>As a substitute for sugar, we presume; but wouldn't "Sweet
Seventeen" be even more suitable?</p>
<hr class="short" />
<blockquote>
<p>"In almost every part of England and Wales there are now some
200,000 women who are doing a real national work on the
land."—<i>Mr. PROTHERO'S letter in "The Daily
Telegraph."</i></p>
</blockquote>
<p>If there are 200,000 women in almost every part of England there
can't be much chance for the men, particularly the single men.</p>
<hr />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page228" id="page228"></a>[pg
228]</span>
<h2>THE WAR DOG.</h2>
<p>Never confuse the "War dog" with the "dog of War." The War dog
is a direct product of the War, but you never yet met him
collecting for a hospital, or succouring the wounded, or assisting
the police, or hauling a mitrailleuse if he could help it. Yet the
War dog worships the Army; it represents a square meal and a
"cushy" bed. The new draft takes him for a mascot; but the old hand
knows him better. A shameless blend of petty larceny, mendacity,
fleas, gourmandism, dirt and unequalled plausibility.</p>
<p>You meet the War dog on some endless road. He will probably be
wearing round his neck a piece of dirty card analogous to the eye
patch and drooping Inverness cape of some mendicants nearer
home—a "property" in fact, and put there by himself, the
writer is convinced, although he has not yet actually caught the
War dog dressing for the part. The War dog on the road has
"spotted" you long before you have seen him, and he has marked you
for his own. You become conscious of a piteous whine just behind
you and, turning, see the War dog, his eyes filled with tears of
entreaty, crawling towards you on his stomach. He advances inch by
inch, and on being encouraged with comfortable words of invitation
the parasite wriggles his lean body (it is trained to <i>look</i>
lean—actually it is well padded with stolen food from
officers' kitchens) up to your feet, and, selecting a puddle in
token of his deep humility, rolls upon his back and smiles
tearfully up at you from between his grimy fore-paws. Then the game
goes forward merrily as per schedule.</p>
<p>Of course you take him back to camp and give him your last piece
of Blighty cake. You introduce your
protégé—always crawling on his stomach—to
the cook; swear to the dog's immaculate conduct; beg a trifle of
straw from the transport, and in short see him comfortably settled
for the night.</p>
<p>The War dog has you now well beneath his paws. He joins the Mess
and listens with an ill-concealed grin as each in turn boasts of
the rat-catching powers of his dog at home. Then the War dog
retreats hurriedly as a mouse appears; and you, his victim,
apologise for him and explain how he has been shaken by adversity
and what a noble creature a few days of good food and kind
treatment will make of him. The rest is simple. The War dog (with
his court) invades your bed and home parcels, and brings you into
disrepute with all and sundry—especially the Cook and
Quarter. He is fought and soundly thrashed by the regimental mascot
(half his size), and the battalion wit composes limericks about you
and your pet.</p>
<p>Then suddenly your War dog disappears. You are just beginning to
live him down—having moved into another area—when you
espy him from the street, the centre of a noisy group in a not too
reputable wine-shop. But the War dog never recognises you. He has
finished with you—grown tired of you, in fact (he rarely
"works" the same victim for more than three weeks). You and your
battalion are to him as it were a bone picked clean; and you depart
with a prayer that he may die a stray's death at the hands of the
Military Police.</p>
<p>One month travelling snugly in a G.S. waggon (you never catch
him marching like an honest mascot), the next "swinging the lead"
in some warm dug-out—there are few moves on the board of the
great War game that he does not know. He will patronise a score of
regiments in three months; travel from one end of the Western Front
to the other and back again, taking care never to attempt to renew
an old acquaintance. Occasionally he makes the mistake of running
across a mitrailleuse battery with its dog-teams needing
reinforcements, or tries to billet himself on a military
pigeon-loft and meets a violent death. But whatever fortune may
bring him we can confidently assert that he is much too fly to
chance his luck across the border and into the land where the
sausage-machines guard the secret of perpetual motion.</p>
<hr />
<h2>IN WILD WALES.</h2>
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p>Dwarfing the town that to the hillside clings</p>
<p class="i2">On terraced slopes, the castle, nobly planned</p>
<p>And noble in its ruined greatness, flings</p>
<p class="i2">Its double challenge to the sea and land.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>Oh, if the ancient spirit of the place</p>
<p class="i2">Could win free utterance in articulate tones,</p>
<p>What tales to hearten and inspire and brace</p>
<p class="i2">Would issue from these grey and lichened stones!</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>Once manned and held by paladin and peer,</p>
<p class="i2">Now tenanted by jackdaws, bats and owls,</p>
<p>Save when the casual tourist through its drear</p>
<p class="i2">And grass-grown courts disconsolately prowls.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>Once famous as the scene of Border fights,</p>
<p class="i2">Now watching, in the greatest war of all,</p>
<p>Old men, with their bilingual acolytes,</p>
<p class="i2">Beating, outside its gates, a little ball;</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>While on the crumbling battlements on high,</p>
<p class="i2">Where mail-clad men-at-arms kept watch and ward,</p>
<p>Adventurous sheep amaze the curious eye</p>
<p class="i2">Instead of grazing on the level sward.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>But though such incongruities may jar</p>
<p class="i2">The sense of fitness in a mind fastidious,</p>
<p>Modernity has wholly failed to mar</p>
<p class="i2">The face of Nature here, or make it hideous.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>Inland the amphitheatre of hills</p>
<p class="i2">Sweeps round with Snowdon as their central crest,</p>
<p>And murmurs of innumerable rills</p>
<p class="i2">Blend with the heaving of the ocean's breast.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>Already Autumn's fiery finger laid</p>
<p class="i2">On heath and marsh and woodland far and wide</p>
<p>In all their gorgeous pageantry has arrayed</p>
<p class="i2">The tranquil beauties of the countryside.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>Here every prospect pleases, and the spot,</p>
<p class="i2">Unspoilt, unvulgarised by man, remains,</p>
<p>Thanks largely to a System which has not</p>
<p class="i2">Accelerated or improved its trains.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p>Yet even here, amid untroubled ways,</p>
<p class="i2">Far from the city's fevered, tainted breath,</p>
<p>Yon distant plume of yellow smoke betrays</p>
<p class="i2">The ceaseless labours of the mills of death.</p>
</div>
</div>
<hr />
<blockquote>
<p>"William Arthur Fletcher, ship's apprentice, of South Shields,
was remanded for a week on a charge of being absent from his ship.
His captain alleged that he had found Fletcher asleep on the
bridge."—<i>Daily Dispatch</i>.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>It must have been his mind that was absent.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<blockquote>
<p>"At St. Peter's, Vere Street, where he is going to preach from
the 30th of this month to the end of this year, the Rev. R.J.
Campbell will speak from the pulpit of Frederick Denison Maurice,
like himself a convert to the Church of England ... To hear him was
an experience never forgotten."—<i>Guardian</i>.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>And this although MAURICE rarely preached for more than one
month on end.</p>
<hr />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page229" id="page229"></a>[pg
229]</span>
<div class="figcenter" style="width:100%;"><a href=
"images/229.png"><img width="100%" src="images/229.png" alt=
"" /></a>
<h3>MANNERS IN MACEDONIA.</h3>
<h5>LADIES FIRST.</h5>
</div>
<hr />
<h2>OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.</h2>
<p>(<i>By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks</i>.)</p>
<p>I can't help thinking that <i>Gyp</i>, the central figure in Mr.
JOHN GALSWORTHY'S new story, <i>Beyond</i> (HEINEMANN), was unhappy
in her encounters with the opposite sex. But if memory serves me
this is an experience familiar to Mr. GALSWORTHY'S heroines. Men
were always wanting to kiss <i>Gyp</i>, or to marry her, or both,
and after a time kept going off and repeating the process with
somebody else; so that one can't fairly be astonished if towards
the end of the book her outlook had become rather cynical. The
character who might have preserved her estimate of mankind in
general, and the best and most sympathetically drawn figure in the
book, is <i>Gyp's</i> perfectly delightful old father, who
throughout the conspicuous failure of her two unions, legitimate
and other, retained his fine and chivalrous regard and unfailing
care for a daughter who might well have been a thorn in the flesh
of a conventional parent. But the relations of these two were never
conventional. <i>Gyp</i> had been herself a love-child, and the
knowledge of this is shown very clearly in its influence upon their
mutual attitude. As for her own affairs, these were, first—to
her father's unbounded astonishment—marriage with a
temperamental violinist, who ran rapidly down the scale from
adoration of his own wife to intrigue with another's; second,
clandestine relations with a man of her own race and breed, who
loved her to idolatry, and within a few months was found embracing
his cousin. Poor <i>Gyp</i>! I jest; but you will need no telling
that for sincerity and beauty of writing here is a book that you
cannot afford to miss. Sometimes I am a little uncertain what Mr.
GALSWORTHY is driving at, but I never fail to admire his drive.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>Unless Mr. S.P.B. MAIS learns to curb his enthusiasms and to rid
himself of certain prejudices he will be wantonly seeking trouble.
<i>Rebellion</i> (GRANT RICHARDS) is in some respects a more
thoughtful and promising book than <i>Interlude</i>, but it is
marred by what can only be called the same narrow point of view.
With everybody and everything modern Mr. MAIS shows an ardent
sympathy, but if he is ever to give a comprehensive picture of life
he must contrive to be more patient with the old-fashioned. Here
his strong personality obtrudes itself too often, and he is
inclined to forget that he is a novelist and not a preacher. I
could imagine him throwing off a fine comminatory sermon from the
text, "Cursed be he who does not admire the genius of Mr. COMPTON
MACKENZIE." This homily is drawn from me with reluctance, because
in the main I am a strong believer in Mr. MAIS, and (with his
connivance) have every intention of retaining that attitude. With
all its faults <i>Rebellion</i> remains gloriously distinct from
the rubbish-heap of fiction by virtue of its intense sincerity and
its frequent flashes of fine descriptive writing. The question of
sex dominates it, and those of us who still think that such
problems are merely sustenance for the prurient-minded may cast it
impatiently aside. But others who like to watch a clever man
feeling his way towards the light, and regard a novel as neither a
bait nor a bauble, can be confidently advised to read it. They may
be irritated, but they will be intrigued.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>On the cover of <i>One Woman's Hero</i> (METHUEN) you will read
that "This book has been designed to cheer and strengthen those for
whom, from bereavement owing to the War, the days and nights are
sometimes only a procession of sad and torturing visions." Which of
course <span class="pagenum"><a name="page230" id="page230"></a>[pg
230]</span> disarms criticism, other than what may be expressed in
a question whether a book less exclusively preoccupied by the War
might not more surely have attained this end. But again, of course,
maybe it wouldn't. The tale (for all our pretendings) is not yet
written that can actually bring oblivion to bereavement, so perhaps
the next best thing is topical chatter of the bright and
unsentimental kind with which SYBIL CAMPBELL LETHBRIDGE has filled
her entertaining pages. Chatter is the only term for it, though it
is quite good of its style; the form being a series of letters
written to a friend by the young wife of a soldier at the front.
Her neighbours, their households and dinners and affectations and
courage, are what she writes about; especially do I commend her
handling of the "Let us Forget and Forgive" tribe. To all such (and
most of us know at least one) I should suggest the posting of a
copy of <i>One Woman's Hero</i>, with the page turned down (an act
permissible in so good a cause) at the report of the annihilation
of one of these well-intentioned but infuriating philosophers. The
combined logic and equity of this suggest that the Government might
do worse than commandeer the services of Miss LETHBRIDGE as a
dinner-table propagandist.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>I think BEATRICE GRIMSHAW tortures overmuch her tough bronzed
Australian hero, who "could fight his weight in wild cats," and her
beautiful slender heroine, "daughter of castles, descendant of
crusaders." First the twain fall desperately in love, and
<i>Edith</i>, the Catholic, discovers <i>Ben</i> to be an innocent
<i>divorcé</i>. Marriage impossible, they part. But it is
apparently quite in order for her to marry, without loving, a cocoa
king who drinks—anything but cocoa; which done, to add to the
bitterness of the cup, <i>Ben's</i> wife is reported dead.
Whereafter the king in a drunken fit poisons himself, and the
widow, fearing to be suspect, flies with her big <i>Ben</i> to his
secret <i>Nobody's Island</i> (HURST AND BLACKETT), off the New
Guinea coast, where they live comfortably off ambergris. Eventually
tracked down by the dead king's brother, who allows himself to be
persuaded of <i>Edith's</i> innocence on what seems to me the most
inadequate evidence, the lovers, after protracted mental agonies
and physical dangers, are about to enjoy deserved peace when
<i>Ben's</i> wife turns up again, necessitating further separation;
till finally <i>Edith</i>, with a handsome babe and the news that
after all <i>Ben's</i> first wife wasn't a wife at all, finds her
way back to Nobody's Island. Now that does seem to be rather
overdoing it. But I hasten to credit the writer with a very happy
gift of description, which brings the Papuan forests and mountains
(or something plausibly like them) vividly before the reader, while
the characters, including a boy villain ingenuously bizarre, are
amusing puppets capably manipulated.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>Mrs. BARNES-GRUNDY possesses a wonderful supply of sprightly
humour. <i>Her Mad Month</i> (HUTCHINSON) is funny without being
flippant, and although the heroine is very naughty she is never
naughty enough to shock her creator's unhyphened namesake. Perhaps
<i>Charmian's</i> exploits in escaping from a severe grandmother,
and going unchaperoned to Harrogate (where a very pretty piece of
philandering ensued), do not amount to much when seriously
considered, but it is one of Mrs. BARNES-GRUNDY'S strong points
that you cannot take her seriously. I am on her side all the time
when she is giving me light comedy, but when she leaves that vein
and bathes her heroine in tears I cannot conjure up any real
sympathy. I never for a moment doubted that <i>Charmian's</i>
lover, though reported as having "died from wounds," would turn up
again. I am afraid the War is responsible for a great deal of
rather obvious fiction.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>Miss MARIE HARRISON has investigated the condition of Ireland,
and in <i>Dawn in Ireland</i> (MELROSE) she presents the results of
her studies. The book is inspired by a great deal of the right kind
of enthusiasm, and the advice given is so excellent as to arouse
the fear that it will not be taken. Yet Miss HARRISON is justified
of her endeavours. She shows how often the English governors of
Ireland have failed, in spite of the best intentions, only because
they applied their remedy too late and thus, to their own great
surprise, wasted the generosity of which they were perhaps too
conscious. According to Miss HARRISON the gombeenman is the curse
of Ireland, the serpent whose presence, if only he can be reduced
to being an absentee, warrants us in regarding Ireland as a
possible Eden. Miss HARRISON will please to take the preceding
sentence as proving my entire sympathy with Irish modes of thought
and expression and, generally, with Ireland. Against the gombeener
(who is a shop-keeper running his business on the long-credit
system) she invokes a vision of the blessings of co-operation. One
of her heroes is Sir HORACE PLUNKETT, and, indeed, the work of the
Irish Agricultural Organisation Society, over which he has
presided, has been an unmixed benefit to Ireland. I heartily
endorse Miss HARRISON'S hope that "at no distant period all will be
well with Ireland." Her book should certainly help towards this
result.</p>
<hr class="short" />
<p>Captain VERE SHORTT fell at Loos in September of 1915, and left
twelve chapters of a story, <i>The Rod of the Snake</i> (LANE),
which his sister has finished and very capably finished; helped by
the recollection of many intimate conversations about the plot and
its development. It tells how young <i>Charlie Shandross</i>,
bidding his preposterous soldier uncle be hanged, shook the stale
dust of Ballybar off his feet, served three years in the C.M.R.,
and so prepared himself for the deadly adventure of the rod of the
snake, the image of the ape, the Haytian attaché and the
sinister priestess of Voodoo rites—Paris its setting. I won't
spoil your pleasure by giving the details away; I will only say it
is all very splendidly incredible, but not unplausible, and the
authors do take pains with their puzzles, as where the hero and his
party find the secret spring of the panel in the vault by the blood
tracks of their enemy, who has been thoughtfully wounded in the
hand. A small point but significant; too many writers in this kind
being given to whisking their favourites out of danger in the most
arbitrary manner. A good railway book, of the sort you can
confidently pass on to the soldiers' hospitals after reading
it.</p>
<hr />
<div class="figcenter" style="width:60%;"><a href=
"images/230.png"><img width="100%" src="images/230.png" alt=
"" /></a>
<h4>THE LAST VISITOR AND THE NATIONAL ANTHEM.</h4>
</div>
<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 10663 ***</div>
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