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diff --git a/10721-h/10721-h.htm b/10721-h/10721-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..81dae5c --- /dev/null +++ b/10721-h/10721-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1642 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Transitional//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-transitional.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> +<head> +<meta name="generator" content= +"HTML Tidy for Windows (vers 1st November 2003), see www.w3.org" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content= +"text/html; charset=UTF-8" /> +<title>Punch, October 10, 1917.</title> + +<style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[*/ + + <!-- + body {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + p {text-align: justify;} + blockquote {text-align: justify;} + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 {text-align: center;} + pre {font-size: 0.7em;} + .sc {font-variant: small-caps;} + + hr {text-align: center; width: 50%;} + html>body hr {margin-right: 25%; margin-left: 25%; width: 50%;} + hr.full {width: 100%;} + html>body hr.full {margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 0%; width: 100%;} + hr.short {text-align: center; width: 20%;} + html>body hr.short {margin-right: 40%; margin-left: 40%; width: 20%;} + + .note, + {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} + + span.pagenum + {position: absolute; left: 1%; right: 91%; font-size: 8pt;} + + .poem + {margin-left:10%; margin-right:10%; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: left;} + .poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + .poem p {margin: 0; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem p.i2 {margin-left: 1em;} + .poem p.i4 {margin-left: 2em;} + .poem p.i6 {margin-left: 3em;} + .poem p.i8 {margin-left: 4em;} + .poem p.i10 {margin-left: 5em;} + + p.author {text-align: right;} + + .figure, .figcenter, .figright + {padding: 1em; margin: 0; text-align: center; font-size: 0.8em;} + .figure img, .figcenter img, .figright img + {border: none;} + .figure p, .figcenter p, .figright p + {margin: 0; text-indent: 1em;} + .figcenter {margin: auto;} + .figright {float: right;} + + .footnote {font-size: 0.9em; margin-right: 10%; margin-left: 10%;} + --> +/*]]>*/ +</style> +</head> +<body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 10721 ***</div> + +<h1>PUNCH,<br /> +OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.</h1> +<h2>Vol. 153.</h2> +<hr class="full" /> +<h2>October 10, 1917.</h2> +<hr class="full" /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page247" id="page247"></a>[pg +247]</span> +<h2>CHARIVARIA.</h2> +<p>"Of course I cannot be in France and America at the same time," +said Colonel ROOSEVELT to a New York interviewer. The EX-PRESIDENT +is a very capable man and we can only conclude that he has not been +really trying.</p> +<hr class="short" /> +<p>"The Church of to-morrow is not to be built up of prodigal +sons," said a speaker at the Congregational Conference. Fatted +calves will, however, continue to be a feature in Episcopal +circles.</p> +<hr class="short" /> +<p>A Berlin coal merchant has been suspended from business for +being rude to customers. It is obvious that the Prussian +aristocracy will not abandon its prerogatives without a +struggle.</p> +<hr class="short" /> +<p>The lack of food control in Ireland daily grows more scandalous. +A Belfast constable has arrested a woman who was chewing four +five-pound notes, and had already swallowed one.</p> +<hr class="short" /> +<p>An alien who was fined at Feltham police court embraced his +solicitor and kissed him on the cheek. Some curiosity exists as to +whether the act was intended as a reprisal.</p> +<hr class="short" /> +<p><i>The English Hymnal</i>, says a morning paper, "contains forty +English Traditional Melodies and three Welsh tunes." This attempt +to sow dissension among the Allies can surely be traced to some +enemy source.</p> +<hr class="short" /> +<p>Mr. GEORGE MOORE, the novelist, declares that ROBERT LOUIS +STEVENSON "was without merit for tale-telling." But how does Mr. +GEORGE MOORE know?</p> +<hr class="short" /> +<p>"Is Pheasant Shooting Dangerous?" asks a weekly paper headline. +We understand that many pheasants are of the opinion that it has +its risks.</p> +<hr class="short" /> +<p>Only a little care is needed in the cooking of the marrow, says +Mrs. MUDIE COOKE. But in eating it great caution should be taken +not to swallow the marrow whole.</p> +<hr class="short" /> +<p>An applicant at the House of Commons' Appeal Tribunal stated +that he had been wrongly described as a Member of Parliament. It is +not known who first started the scandal.</p> +<hr class="short" /> +<p>HERR BATOCKI, Germany's first Food Dictator, is now on active +service on the Western Front, where his remarks about the +comparative dulness of the proceedings are a source of constant +irritation to the Higher Command.</p> +<hr class="short" /> +<p>It is rumoured that the Carnegie Medal for Gallantry is to be +awarded to the New York gentleman who has purchased Mr. EPSTEIN'S +"Venus."</p> +<hr class="short" /> +<p>We understand that an enterprising firm of publishers is now +negotiating for the production of a book written by "The German +Prisoner Who Did Not Escape."</p> +<hr class="short" /> +<p>Four conscientious objectors at Newhaven have complained that +their food often contains sandy substances. It seems a pity that +the authorities cannot find some better way of getting a little +grit into these poor fellows.</p> +<hr class="short" /> +<p>General SUKHOMLINOFF has appealed from his sentence of +imprisonment for life. Some people don't know what gratitude +is.</p> +<hr class="short" /> +<p>It is good to find that people exercise care in time of crisis. +Told that enemy aircraft were on their way to London a dear old +lady immediately rushed into her house and bolted the door.</p> +<hr class="short" /> +<p>Owing to a shortage of red paint, several London 'buses are +being painted brown. Pedestrians who have only been knocked down by +red-painted 'buses will of course now be able to start all over +again.</p> +<hr class="short" /> +<p>We think it was in bad taste for Mr. BOTTOMLEY, just after +saying that he had seen Mr. WINSTON CHURCHILL at the Front, to add, +"I have Taken Risks."</p> +<hr class="short" /> +<p>Six little boa-constrictors have been born in the Zoological +Gardens. A message has been despatched to Sir ARTHUR YAPP, urging +the advisability of his addressing them at an early date.</p> +<hr class="short" /> +<p>To record the effect of meals on the physical condition of +children, Leyton Council is erecting weighing machines in the +feeding centres. Several altruistic youngsters, we are informed, +have gallantly volunteered to demonstrate the effects of +over-eating without regard to the consequences.</p> +<hr class="short" /> +<p>An allotment holder in Cambridgeshire has found a sovereign on a +potato root. To its credit, however, it must be said that the +potato was proceeding in the direction of the Local War Savings +Association at the rate of several inches a day.</p> +<hr class="short" /> +<p>We are pleased to say that the Wimbledon gentleman who last week +was inadvertently given a pound of sugar in mistake for tea is +going on as well as can be expected, though he is still only +allowed to see near relations.</p> +<hr /> +<div class="figcenter" style="width:60%;"><a href= +"images/247.png"><img width="100%" src="images/247.png" alt= +"" /></a> +<i>The Grouser</i>. "JUST OUR ROTTEN LUCK TO ARRIVE 'ERE ON +EARLY-CLOSING DAY."</div> +<hr /> +<h3>COMMERCIAL CANDOUR.</h3> +<blockquote> +<p>"ANTIQUES.—All Lovers of the Genuine Antiques should not +fail to see one of the best-selected Stocks of Genuine Antique +Furniture, &c., including Stuart, Charles II., Tudor, Jacobean, +Queen Anne, Chippendale, Sheraton, Hepplewhite, Adams, and Georgian +periods.</p> +<p>FRESH GOODS EVERY DAY."</p> +<p class="author"><i>Provincial Paper</i>.</p> +</blockquote> +<hr class="short" /> +<p>A new German Opera that we look forward to seeing: <i>Die +Gothädummerung</i>.</p> +<hr class="short" /> +<blockquote> +<p>"A man just under military age, with seven children, is ordered +to join up."—<i>Weekly Dispatch</i>.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Such precocious parentage must be discouraged.</p> +<hr class="short" /> +<blockquote>"HELSINGFORS, Sept. 28.—The Governor-General of +Finland has ordered seals to be affixed to the doors of the +Diet."—<i>Times</i>.</blockquote> +<p>This seems superfluous. Seals have always been attached to a Fin +Diet.</p> +<hr class="short" /> +<blockquote>"A party of the Russians in their natural costumes have +come to Portland to ply their trade as metal workers. They make a +picturesque group, which a Press writer will try to describe +to-morrow morning."—<i>Portland Daily Press +(U.S.A.)</i>.</blockquote> +<p>We trust that he did not dwell unduly upon the scantiness of +their attire.</p> +<hr /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page248" id="page248"></a>[pg +248]</span> +<h2>MODEL DIALOGUES FOR AIR-RAIDS.</h2> +<blockquote class="note">[A few specimen conversations are here +suggested as suitable for the conditions which we have lately +experienced. The idea is to discourage the Hun by ignoring those +conditions or explaining them away. For similar conversations in +actual life blank verse would not of course be +obligatory.]</blockquote> +<h4>I.</h4> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p><i>A</i>. Beautiful weather for the time of year!</p> +<p><i>B</i>. A perfect spell, indeed, of halcyon calm,</p> +<p class="i4">Most grateful here in Town, and, what is more,</p> +<p class="i4">A priceless gift to our brave lads in France,</p> +<p class="i4">Whose need is sorer, being sick of mud.</p> +<p><i>A</i>. They have our first thoughts ever, and, if Heaven</p> +<p class="i4">Had not enough good weather to go round,</p> +<p class="i4">Gladly I'd sacrifice this present boon</p> +<p class="i4">And welcome howling blizzards, hail and flood,</p> +<p class="i4">So they, out there, might still be warm and dry.</p> +</div> +</div> +<h4>II.</h4> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p><i>C</i>. Have you observed the alien in our midst,</p> +<p class="i4">How strangely numerous he seems to-day,</p> +<p class="i4">Swarming like migrant swallows from the East?</p> +<p><i>D</i>. I take it they would fain elude the net</p> +<p class="i4">Spread by Conscription's hands to haul them in.</p> +<p class="i4">All day they lurk in cover Houndsditch way,</p> +<p class="i4">Dodging the copper, and emerge at night</p> +<p class="i4">To snatch a breath of Occidental air</p> +<p class="i4">And drink the ozone of our Underground.</p> +</div> +</div> +<h4>III.</h4> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p><i>E</i>. How glorious is the Milky Way just now!</p> +<p><i>F</i>. True. In addition to the regular stars</p> +<p class="i4">I saw a number flash and disappear.</p> +<p><i>E</i>. I too. A heavenly portent, let us hope,</p> +<p class="i4">Presaging triumph to our British arms.</p> +</div> +</div> +<h4>IV.</h4> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p><i>G</i>. Methought I heard yestreen a loudish noise</p> +<p class="i4">Closely resembling the report of guns.</p> +<p><i>H</i>. Ay, you conjectured right. Those sounds arose</p> +<p class="i4">From anti-aircraft guns engaged in practice</p> +<p class="i4">Against the unlikely advent of the Hun.</p> +<p class="i4">One must be ready in a war like this</p> +<p class="i4">To face the most remote contingencies.</p> +<p><i>G</i>. Something descended on the next back-yard,</p> +<p class="i4">Spoiling a dozen of my neighbour's tubers.</p> +<p><i>H</i>. No doubt a live shell mixed among the blank;</p> +<p class="i4">Such oversights from time to time occur</p> +<p class="i4">Even in Potsdam, where the casual sausage</p> +<p class="i4">Perishes freely in a <i>feu de joie</i>.</p> +</div> +</div> +<h4>V.</h4> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p><i>J</i>. We missed you badly at our board last night.</p> +<p><i>K</i>. The loss was mine. I could not get a cab.</p> +<p class="i4">Whistling, as you're aware, is banned by law,</p> +<p class="i4">And when I went in person on the quest</p> +<p class="i4">The streets were void of taxis.</p> +<p><i>J</i>. + + And to what</p> +<p class="i4">Do you attribute this unusual dearth?</p> +<p><i>K</i>. The general rush to Halls of Mirth and Song,</p> +<p class="i4">Never so popular. The War goes well,</p> +<p class="i4">And London's millions needs must find a way</p> +<p class="i4">To vent their exaltation—else they burst.</p> +<p><i>J</i>. But could you not have travelled by the Tube?</p> +<p><i>K</i>. I did essay the Tube, but found it stuffed.</p> +<p class="i4">The atmosphere was solid as a cheese,</p> +<p class="i4">And I was loath to penetrate the crowd</p> +<p class="i4">Lest it should shove me from behind upon</p> +<p class="i4">The electric rail.</p> +<p><i>J</i>. + Can you account for that?</p> +<p><i>K</i>. I should ascribe it to the harvest moon,</p> +<p class="i4">That wakes romance in Metropolitan breasts,</p> +<p class="i4">Drawing our young war-workers out of town</p> +<p class="i4">To seek the glamour of the country lanes</p> +<p class="i4">Under the silvery beams to lovers dear. O.S.</p> +</div> +</div> +<hr /> +<h2>FORCE OF HABIT.</h2> +<p>The fact that George had been eighteen months in Gallipoli, +Egypt and France, without leave home till now, should have warned +me. As it was I merely found myself gasping "Shell-shock!"</p> +<p>We were walking in a crowded thoroughfare, and George was giving +all the officers he met the cheeriest of "Good mornings." It took +people in two ways. Those on leave, blushing to think they had so +far forgotten their B.E.F. habits as to pass a brother-officer +without some recognition, replied hastily by murmuring the +conventional "How are you?" into some innocent civilian's face some +yards behind us. Mere stay-at-homes, on the other hand, surprised +into believing that they ought to know him, stopped and became +quite effusive. As far as I can remember George accepted three +invitations to dinner from total strangers rather than explain, and +I was included in one of them.</p> +<p>We were for the play that night and I foresaw difficulties at +the public telephone, and George's first remark of "Hullo, hullo, +is that Signals? Put me through to His Majesty's," confirmed my +apprehensions.</p> +<p>Half-an-hour of this kind of thing produced in me a strong +desire for peace and seclusion. A taxi would have solved my +difficulty (had I been able to solve the taxi difficulty first), +but George himself anticipated me by suddenly holding up a private +car and asking for a lift. I could have smiled at this further +lapse had not the owner, a detestable club acquaintance whom I had +been trying to keep at a distance for years, been the driver. He +was delighted, and I was borne away conscious of twenty years' work +undone by a single stroke.</p> +<p>Peace and seclusion at the club afforded no relief however. +George was really very trying at tea. He accused the bread because +the crust had not a hairy exterior (generally accumulated by its +conveyance in a blanket or sandbag). He ridiculed the sugar +ration—I don't believe he has ever been short in his life; +and the resources of the place were unequal to the task of +providing tea of sufficient strength to admit of the spoon being +stood upright in it—a consistency to which, he said, he had +grown accustomed. When I left him he was bullying the hall-porter +of the club for a soft-nosed pencil; ink, he explained, being an +abomination.</p> +<p>I also saw him pay 2½<i>d.</i> for a <i>Daily +Mail</i>.</p> +<hr class="short" /> +<p>I got a letter from George just before he went back. He +patronized me delightfully—seemed more than half a Colonial +already. He said he was glad to have seen us all again, but was +equally glad to be getting back, as he was beginning to feel a +little homesick. He hinted we were dull dogs and treated people we +didn't know like strangers. Didn't we ever cheer up? He became very +unjust, I thought, when he said that France was at war, but that we +had only an Army and Navy.</p> +<p>Incidentally I had to pay twopence on the letter, the postman +insisting that George's neat signature in the bottom left-hand +corner of the envelope was an insufficient substitute for a penny +stamp.</p> +<hr /> +<blockquote> +<p>"The raiders came in three suctions."—<i>Evening +News</i>.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>So <i>that</i> was what blocked the Tubes.</p> +<hr /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page249" id="page249"></a>[pg +249]</span> +<div class="figcenter" style="width:100%;"><a href= +"images/249.png"><img width="100%" src="images/249.png" alt= +"" /></a> +<h3>THE LETTER AND THE SPIRIT.</h3> +<p>PRIME MINISTER. "YOU YOUNG RASCAL! I NEVER SAID THAT."</p> +<p>NEWSBOY. "WELL, I'LL LAY YER MEANT IT."</p> +</div> +<hr /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page250" id="page250"></a>[pg +250]</span> +<div class="figcenter" style="width:100%;"><a href= +"images/250.png"><img width="100%" src="images/250.png" alt= +"" /></a> +<p><i>Keeper</i>. "ANY BIRDS, SIR?"</p> +<p><i>Officer (fresh from France)</i>. "YES. THREE CRASHED; TWO +DOWN OUT OF CONTROL."</p> +</div> +<hr /> +<h2>THE WATCH DOGS.</h2> +<h3>LXVI.</h3> +<p>MY DEAR CHARLES,—Here is a war, producing great men, and +here am I writing to you from time to time about it and never +mentioning one of them. I have touched upon Commanding Officers, +Brigadiers, Divisional, Corps, even Army Commanders; I have gone so +far as to mention the COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF once and I have mentioned +myself very many times. But the really great men I have omitted. I +mean the really, really great men, without whom the War could not +possibly go on, and with whom, I am often led to suppose, the +decision remains as to what day Peace shall be declared. Take the +A.M.L.O. at —— for example.</p> +<p>Now, Charles, be it understood that I am not saying anything for +or against the trade of Assisting Military Landing Officers; I have +no feeling with regard to it one way or the other. For all I know +it may require a technical knowledge so profound that any man who +can master it is already half-way on the road to greatness. On the +other hand, it may require no technical knowledge at all, and, the +whole of a Military Landing Officer's duties being limited to +watching other people working, the Assistant Military Landing +Officer's task may consist of nothing more complicated than +watching the Military Landing Officer watching the military land. +If this is so, the work may be so simple that, once a man has +satisfied the very rigid social test to be passed by all aspirants +to so distinguished a position, he must simply be a silly ass if he +doesn't automatically become a great man, after a walk or two up +and down the quay. I repeat, I know nothing whatever of the calling +of A.M.L.O., and I could not tell you without inquiry whether it is +an ancient and honourable profession or an unscrupulous trade very +jealously watched by the Law. I have some friends in it and I have +many friends out of it, and the former should not be inflated with +conceit nor the latter unduly depressed when I pronounce the +deliberate opinion that the best known and greatest thing in the +B.E.F. is without doubt the A.M.L.O. at ——.</p> +<p>Though it is months since I cast eyes on him, I can see him now, +standing self-confidently on his own private quay, with the most +chic of Virginian cigarettes smouldering between his aristocratic +lips and the very latest and most elegant of Bond Street Khaki +Neckwear distinguishing him from the mixed crowd about him. Every +one else is distraught; even matured Generals, used to the simple +and irresponsible task of commanding troops in action, are a little +unnerved by the difficulties and intricacies of embarking oneself +militarily. He on whom all the responsibility rests remains aloof. +A smile, half cynical, plays across his proud face. He knows he has +but to flick the ash from his cigarette and the Army will spring to +attention and the Navy will get feverishly to work. He has but to +express consent by the inclination of his head and sirens will +blow, turbine engines will operate as they would never operate for +anybody else, thousands of tons of shipping will rearrange itself, +and even the sea will become less obstreperous and more circumspect +in its demeanour, adjusting, if need be, its tides to suit his +wishes.</p> +<p>I take it my condition is typical when I am "proceeding" (one +will never come and go again in our time; one will always +proceed)—when I am proceeding to the U.K. The whole thing is +too good to believe, and I don't believe it till I have some +written and omnipotent instructions, in my pocket and am actually +moving towards the sea. The youngest and keenest schoolboy +returning home for his holidays is a calm, collected, impassionate +and even dismal man of the world compared to me. I see little and +am impressed by nothing; all things and men are assumed to be good, +and none <span class="pagenum"><a name="page251" id= +"page251"></a>[pg 251]</span> of them is given the opportunity of +proving itself to be the contrary. As for the A.M.L.O. at any other +port but this one, I remark nothing about him except his princely +generosity in letting me have an embarcation card. He is just one +more good fellow in the long series of good fellows who have +authorised my move. I am borne out to sea in a dream—a dream +of England and all that England means to us, be that a wife or a +reasonable breakfast at a reasonable hour. Not until I am on my way +back does it occur to me that landing and transport officers have +identities, and by that time I have lost all interest in transport +and landing and officers and identities and everything else.</p> +<p>At the port of ——, however, it is very different. I +may arrive on the quay in a dream, but I'm at once out of it when I +have caught sight of Greatness sitting in its little hut with the +ticket window firmly closed until the arrival of the hour before +which he has disposed that it shall not open. Thoughts of home are +gone; I can think of nothing but Him. When at last I have obtained +his gracious, if reluctant, consent to my obeying the instructions +I have, and have got on to the boat, I deposit my goods hurriedly, +anywhere, and fight for a position by the bulwark nearest the quay, +from which I may gaze at his august Excellency for the few +remaining hours during which it is given us to linger in or near +our well-beloved France.</p> +<p>How came it about, I ask myself, that the Right Man got to be in +the Right Place? It cannot have been merely fortuitous that he was +not thrust away into some such obscure job as the command of an +Expeditionary Force or the control of the counsels of the Imperial +General Staff. It must have been the deliberate choice of a wise +chooser; Major-General Military Landing himself, the SECRETARY OF +STATE FOR WAR on his own, even His MAJESTY in person? Or was a +plebiscite taken through the length and breadth of the British +Isles when I was elsewhere, and did Britain, thrilled to the core, +clamour for him unanimously?</p> +<p>I watch him keep a perturbed and restless Major from the line +waiting while he finishes his light-hearted badinage with a +subordinate. It is altogether magnificent in its sheer +<i>sangfroid</i>. Why is it that such a one is labelled merely +A.M.L.O., when he should obviously be the M.L.O.? He has his +subordinate, happily insignificant and obsequiously proud to serve. +Let the subordinate be the a.m.l.o., and let It, Itself, be openly +acknowledged to be It, Itself.</p> +<p>By the way, where <i>is</i> his M.L.O.? Has anybody ever seen +him? I haven't. Does he exist?... Has he been got rid of?</p> +<p>There is a convenient crevice between the quay and the boat with +a convenient number of feet of water at the bottom of it. Is the +M.L.O. down there, and is the "A.M.L.O." brassard but the modesty +of true greatness?</p> +<p>If the M.L.O. has been thrown down there, who threw him?</p> +<p>Was it my idol, the A.M.L.O., in a moment of exasperation with +his M.L.O.?</p> +<p>Or was it the M.L.O., in a moment of exasperation with my idol, +the A.M.L.O.?</p> +<p class="author">Yours ever,<br />HENRY.</p> +<hr /> +<div class="figcenter" style="width:100%;"><a href= +"images/251.png"><img width="100%" src="images/251.png" alt= +"" /></a> +<p><i>Old Lady</i>. "IS THIS THE RESULT OF A BOMB, CONSTABLE?"</p> +<p><i>Constable (fed up)</i>. "BLESS YOU, NO, MA'AM. THE GENT THAT +LIVES HERE'S GOT HAY FEVER."</p> +</div> +<hr /> +<blockquote>"Naval Officer's (Minesweeping) Wife would be grateful +for the opportunity of purchasing a Baby's Layette of good quality +at a very reasonable price."—<i>Morning +Post</i>.</blockquote> +<p>Our congratulations to the mine sweeping wife upon having +captured a Baby Mine.</p> +<hr /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page252" id="page252"></a>[pg +252]</span> +<h2>BEASTS ROYAL.</h2> +<h3>III.</h3> +<h3 class="sc">Duke William's Falcon. A.D. 1065.</h3> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Upon a marsh beside the sea,</p> +<p>With hawk and hound and vassals three,</p> +<p>Rode WILLIAM, Duke of NORMANDY,</p> +<p class="i2">The heir of Rover ROLLO;</p> +<p>And ever as his falcon flew</p> +<p>Quoth he: "Mark well, by St. MACLOU,</p> +<p>For where she hovers hasten you,</p> +<p class="i2">And where she falls I follow."</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>She rose into the misty sky,</p> +<p>A brooding menace hid on high,</p> +<p>Ere she dipped earthward suddenly</p> +<p class="i2">As dips the silver swallow;</p> +<p>Then, spurring through the rushes grey,</p> +<p>Cried WILLIAM, "Sirs, away, away!</p> +<p>For where she hovers is the prey,</p> +<p class="i2">And where she falls I follow."</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Her marbled plume with crimson dight,</p> +<p>Seaward she soared, and bent her flight</p> +<p>Above the ridge of foaming white</p> +<p class="i2">Along the harbour hollow;</p> +<p>Then, looking grimly toward the strait,</p> +<p>Said WILLIAM, "Truly, soon or late,</p> +<p>There where she hovers is my fate,</p> +<p class="i2">And where she falls I follow."</p> +</div> +</div> +<hr /> +<h2>THE CAVE-DWELLERS.</h2> +<p>"If you please, ma'am, that funny-looking gentleman with the +long hair has brought his jug for some more water. And could you +oblige him with a little pepper?"</p> +<p>"Certainly not," said my wife. "The man's a nuisance. He is not +even respectable—looks like a gipsy or a disreputable artist. +I'll speak to him myself." And she flounced out of the room.</p> +<p>I felt almost sorry for the man; but really the thing was +overdone when, not content with overcrowding our village, these +London people took to living in dug-outs on the common.</p> +<p>Matilda rushed back into the room with a metal jug in her +hand.</p> +<p>"Oscar! It's old Sheffield plate, and there's a coat-of-arms on +it. Turn up the heraldry book; look in the index for 'bears.' +Perhaps they're somebody after all."</p> +<p>Matilda is a second cousin once removed of the +Drewitts—one of the best baronetcies in England—and +naturally we take an interest in Heraldry.</p> +<p>"Yes, here it is. A cave-bear rampant! Oscar, it's the crest of +the Cave-Canems, one of the oldest families in Britain, if not the +very oldest! Poor things, I feel so sorry for them. Perhaps I might +offer him some vegetables."</p> +<p>"And to think of their having to live in a cave again after all +these centuries," said my wife when she returned. "Isn't it +pathetic? Oscar, don't you think we ought to call on them?"</p> +<p>We agreed that it was our duty to call on the distinguished +cave-dwellers. But what ought we to wear? They dressed very simply; +I had seen him in an old tweed suit and a soft felt hat.</p> +<p>"And his wife," Matilda said, "is positively dowdy. But that +proves they are somebody. Only the very best people can afford to +wear shabby clothes in these times."</p> +<p>We decided that in our case it was necessary to recognise the +polite usages of society. So my wife wore her foliage green silk, +and I my ordinary Sabbath attire.</p> +<p>A fragrant odour of vegetables cooking led us eventually to the +little mound amidst the gorse where our aristocratic visitors were +temporarily residing. There was some difficulty at first in +attracting their attention, but this I overcame by tying our +visiting-cards to a piece of string and dangling it down the tunnel +that served as an entrance. After coughing several times I had a +bite, and the cave-man showed himself.</p> +<p>"Hallo!" I heard him say, laughing, "it's the kind Philistines +who gave us the vegetables." Then aloud, "Come in. Mind the +steps."</p> +<p>I damaged my hat slightly against the roof, and I am afraid +Matilda's dress suffered a little, but we managed to enter their +dug-out. The place was faintly lighted by a sort of window +overlooking the third hole of the deserted golf course. Our host +introduced his wife.</p> +<p>"We were not really nervous," said the lady, "but a fragment of +shell came through the studio window and destroyed a number of my +husband's pictures. He is a painter of the Neo-Impressionistic +School."</p> +<p>"What a shame!" said Matilda, taking up a canvas. "May I look? +Oh! how pretty."</p> +<p>"My worst enemy has never called my work that," said the artist. +"Perhaps you would appreciate it better if you held it the other +way up."</p> +<p>It is at a moment like this that my wife shines.</p> +<p>"I should like to see it in a better light," she said. "But how +interesting! Everyone paints now-a-days—even Royalty. My +cousin, Sir Ethelwyn Drewitt, has done some charming water-colours +of the family estates. Perhaps you know him?"</p> +<p>Our host shook his head.</p> +<p>"A very old family, like your own," said Matilda. "Our ancestors +probably knew each other in the days of Stonehenge. I, of course, +recognised the coat-of-arms on your plate."</p> +<p>"I am afraid you are in error," said the artist. "My name is +Pitts. And I don't go back beyond my grandfather, who, honest man, +kept a grocer's shop in Dulwich. The jug you've been admiring I +bought in the Caledonian Cattle Market for fifteen shillings."</p> +<p>Matilda swooned. The air was certainly very close down +there.</p> +<hr /> +<h2>THE WAR-DREAM.</h2> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>I Wish I did not dream of France</p> +<p class="i2">And spend my nights in mortal dread</p> +<p>On miry flats where whizz-bangs dance</p> +<p class="i2">And star-shells hover o'er my head,</p> +<p>And sometimes wake my anxious spouse</p> +<p>By making shrill excited rows</p> +<p>Because it seems a hundred "hows"</p> +<p class="i6">Are barraging the bed.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>I never fight with tigers now</p> +<p class="i2">Or know the old nocturnal mares;</p> +<p>The house on fire, the frantic cow,</p> +<p class="i2">The cut-throat coming up the stairs</p> +<p>Would be a treat; I almost miss</p> +<p>That feeling of paralysis</p> +<p>With which one climbed a precipice</p> +<p class="i6">Or ran away from bears.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Nor do I dream the pleasant days</p> +<p class="i2">That sometimes soothe the worst of wars,</p> +<p>Of omelettes and estaminets</p> +<p class="i2">And smiling maids at cottage-doors;</p> +<p>But in a vague unbounded waste</p> +<p>For ever hide with futile haste</p> +<p>From 5.9's precisely placed,</p> +<p class="i6">And all the time it pours.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Yet, if I showed colossal phlegm</p> +<p class="i2">Or kept enormous crowds at bay,</p> +<p>And sometimes won the D.C.M.,</p> +<p class="i2">It might inspire me for the fray;</p> +<p>But, looking back, I do not seem</p> +<p>To recollect a single dream</p> +<p>In which I did not simply scream</p> +<p class="i6">And try to run away.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>And when I wake with flesh that creeps</p> +<p class="i2">The only solace I can see</p> +<p>Is thinking, if the Prussian sleeps,</p> +<p class="i2">What hideous visions <i>his</i> must be!</p> +<p>Can all my dreams of gas and guns</p> +<p>Be half as rotten as the Hun's?</p> +<p>I like to think his blackest ones</p> +<p class="i6">Are when he dreams of me.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="author">A.P.H.</p> +</div> +</div> +<hr /> +<blockquote>"Street lamp-posts in Chiswick are all being painted +white by female labour."—<i>Times</i>.</blockquote> +<p>The authorities were afraid, we understand, that if males were +employed they would paint the town red.</p> +<hr class="short" /> +<blockquote>"Four groups of raiders tried to attack London on +Saturday night. If there were eight in each group, this meant +thirty-two Gothas."—<i>Evening Standard</i>.</blockquote> +<p>In view of the many loose and inaccurate assertions regarding +the air-raids, it is agreeable to meet with a statement that may be +unreservedly accepted.</p> +<hr /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page253" id="page253"></a>[pg +253]</span> +<div class="figcenter" style="width:100%;"><a href= +"images/253.png"><img width="100%" src="images/253.png" alt= +"" /></a><i>Lodger (who has numbered his lumps of sugar with lead +pencil)</i>. "OH, MRS. JARVIS, I AM UNABLE TO FIND NUMBERS 3, 7 AND +18."</div> +<hr /> +<h2>THE DOOR.</h2> +<p>Once upon a time there was a sitting-room, in which, when +everyone had gone to bed, the furniture, after its habit, used to +talk. All furniture talks, although the only pieces with voices +that we human beings can hear are clocks and wicker-chairs. +Everyone has heard a little of the conversation of wicker-chairs, +which usually turn upon the last person to be seated in them; but +other furniture is more self-centered.</p> +<p>On the night with which we are now concerned the first remark +was made by the clock, who stated with a clarity only equalled by +his brevity that it was one. An hour later he would probably be +twice as voluble.</p> +<p>It was normally the signal for an outburst of comment and +confidence; but let me first say that the house in which this +sitting-room was situated belonged to an elderly gentleman and his +wife, each conspicuous for peaceable kindliness. Neither would hurt +a fly, but since they had grandsons fighting for England, honour +and the world, it chanced that they were the incongruous possessors +of quite a number of war relics, which included an inkstand made of +a steel shell-top, copper shell-binding and cartridge-cases; a +Turkish dud from Gallipoli to serve as a door-stop; a pencil-case +made of an Austrian cartridge from the Carso; a cigarette-lighter +made of English cartridge-cases; and several shell-cases +transformed into vases for flowers. One of these at this moment +contained some very beautiful late sweet peas, and the old +gentleman had made a pleasant little joke, after dinner, about +sweet peace blossoming in such a strange environment, and would +probably make it again the next time they had guests.</p> +<p>You may be sure that, with the arrival of these souvenirs from +such exciting parts, the conversation of the room became more +interesting, although it may be that some of the stay-at-homes +began after a while to feel a little out in the cold. What was an +ordinary table to say when in competition with a .75 shell-case +from the Battle of the Marne, or a mere Jubilee wedding-present +against an inkstand composed of articles of destruction from Vimy +Ridge, which had an irritating way of making the most of both its +existences—reaping in two fields—by remarking, after a +thrilling story of bloodshed, "But that's all behind me now. My new +destiny is to prove the pen mightier than the sword"? Even though +the Jubilee wedding-present came from Bond Street, and had once +been picked up and set down again by QUEEN ALEXANDRA, what availed +that? The souvenir held the floor.</p> +<p>Gradually the other occupants of the room had come to let the +souvenirs uninterruptedly exchange war impressions and speculate as +to how long it would last—a problem as to which they were not +more exactly informed than many a human wiseacre. Under cover of +this kind of talk, which is apt to become noisy, the humdrum of the +others, the chairs and the table and the mantelpiece, and the +pacific ornaments, and the mirror, could chat in their own mild +way; the wicker-chair, for example, could wonder for the thousandth +time how long it would be before the young Captain sat in it once +more; and the mirror could remark that that would be a happy moment +indeed when once again it held the reflections of the Lieutenant +and his <i>fiancée</i>, who was one of the prettiest girls +in the world.</p> +<p>"Do you think so?" the knob of the brass fender would inquire. +"To me she seemed too fat and her mouth was very wide."</p> +<p>"But that's a fault," the tongs would reply, "that you find with +every one."</p> +<p>To return to the night of which I want particularly to speak, no +sooner had the clock made his monosyllabic utterance than "I am +probably unique," the Vimy Ridge inkstand said.</p> +<p>"How?" the cigarette-lighter sharply <span class= +"pagenum"><a name="page254" id="page254"></a>[pg 254]</span> +inquired, uniqueness being one of his own chief claims to +distinction.</p> +<p>"Strange," said the inkstand, "the blacksmith who made me was +not blown to pieces. The usual thing is for the shell to be a live +one, and no sooner does the blacksmith handle it than he and the +soldiers who brought it and several onlookers go to glory. The +papers are full of such incidents. But in my case—no. I +remember," the inkstand was continuing—</p> +<p>"Oh, give us a rest," said the shell door-stop. "If you knew how +tired I was of hearing about the War, when there's nothing to do +for ever but stop in this stuffy room. And to me it's particularly +galling, because I never exploded at all. I failed. For all the +good we are any more, we—we warriors—we might as well +be mouldy old fossils like the home-grown things in this room, who +know of war or excitement absolutely nothing."</p> +<p>"That's where you're wrong," said a quiet voice.</p> +<p>"Who's speaking?" the shell asked.</p> +<p>"I am," said the door. "You're quite right about +yourselves—you War souvenirs. You've done. You can still brag +a bit, but that's all. You're out of it. Whereas I—I'm in it +still. I can make people run for their lives."</p> +<p>"How?" asked the inkstand.</p> +<p>"Because whenever I bang," said the door, "they think I'm an +air-raid."</p> +<hr /> +<div class="figcenter" style="width:100%;"><a href= +"images/254.png"><img width="100%" src="images/254.png" alt= +"" /></a> +<i>Butler (the family having come down to the kitchen during an +air-raid)</i>. "'YSTERIA—WITHIN REASON—I DON'T OBJECT +TO. BUT WHAT I CAN'T STAND IS BRAVADO."</div> +<hr /> +<h2>CUSS-CONTROL.</h2> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>I found myself, some time ago,</p> +<p>Growing too fond of cuss-words, so</p> +<p>I made a vow to curb my passions</p> +<p>And put my angry tongue on rations.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>As no Controller yet exists</p> +<p>To frame these necessary lists,</p> +<p>I had myself to pick and choose</p> +<p>The words that I could safely use.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Four verbs found favour in my sight,</p> +<p><i>Viz.</i>, "drat" and "dash" and "blow" and "blight";</p> +<p>While "blithering" and "blinkin'" were</p> +<p>My only adjectival pair.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>I freely own that "dash" and "drat"</p> +<p>At times sound lamentably flat;</p> +<p>And "blight" and "blow" don't somehow seem</p> +<p>Quite adequate to every theme.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>When you are wishful to be withering</p> +<p>'Tis hard to be confined to "blithering,"</p> +<p>And to express explosive thinkin'</p> +<p>One longs for some relief from "blinkin'."</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Still Mr. BALFOUR, so I hear,</p> +<p>Seldom goes further than "O dear!"</p> +<p>While moments of annoyance draw</p> +<p>"Bother" at worst from BONAR LAW.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Hence, if our leaders in their style</p> +<p>Are able to suppress their bile,</p> +<p>And practise noble moderation</p> +<p>In comment and in objurgation,</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Why should not I, a doggerel bard,</p> +<p>All futile expletives discard,</p> +<p>And discipline my restive soul</p> +<p>With salutary cuss-control?</p> +</div> +</div> +<hr /> +<h3>ERRARE EST DIABOLICUM.</h3> +<p>From the Indian author of an Anglo-vernacular +text-book:—</p> +<blockquote>"As the book had to go through the press in haste I am +sorry to write to you that there are some printers' devils, +especially in English spelling."</blockquote> +<hr class="short" /> +<blockquote>"Nelson himself being a Suckling on his mother's +side."—<i>Observer</i>.</blockquote> +<p>We cannot know too much about the early history of our +heroes.</p> +<hr class="short" /> +<blockquote>"Captain William Redmond, son of Mr. John Redmond, has +been awarded the D.S.O. He was commanding in a fierce fight and was +blown out of a shell hole, sustaining a sprained knee and ankle. He +rallied his men, and by promptly forming a defensive flank saved +his part of the line."—<i>Daily Express</i>.</blockquote> +<p>This must have been in Sir WALTER SCOTT'S proleptic mind when he +wrote (in <i>Rokeby</i>):—</p> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>"Young Redmond, soil'd with smoke and blood,</p> +<p>Cheering his mates with heart and hand</p> +<p>Still to make good their desperate stand."</p> +</div> +</div> +<hr /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page255" id="page255"></a>[pg +255]</span> +<div class="figcenter" style="width:100%;"><a href= +"images/255.png"><img width="100%" src="images/255.png" alt="" /></a> +<h3>A BIRTHDAY GREETING FOR HINDENBURG.</h3> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>F.M. SIR DOUGLAS HAIG (<i>sings</i>). "O I'LL TAK' THE HIGH ROAD</p> +<p class="i10"> + + + AN' YE'LL TAK' THE LOW ROAD...."</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>[The enemy has been fighting desperately to prevent us from +occupying the ridges above the Ypres-Menin road, and so forcing him +to face the winter on the low ground.]</p> +</div> +<hr /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page256" id="page256"></a>[pg +256]</span> +<div class="figcenter" style="width:100%;"><a href= +"images/256.png"><img width="100%" src="images/256.png" alt= +"" /></a> +<h3>INFORMATION TO THE ENEMY.</h3> +<i>Wife.</i> "I CALL IT SIMPLY SCANDALOUS THAT THE PAPERS SHOULD +BE ALLOWED TO PUBLISH THE DATES WHEN THE MOON IS FULL."</div> +<hr /> +<h2>OSWALD AND CO.</h2> +<p>We live in a fortress on the crest of a hill overlooking a +little Irish town, a centre of the pig and potheen industries. The +fortress was, according to tradition, built by BRIAN BORU, +renovated by Sir WALTER RALEIGH (the tobacconist, not the +professor) and brought up to date by OLIVER CROMWELL. It has +dungeons (for keeping the butter cool), loop-holes (through which +to pour hot porridge on invaders), an oubliette (for bores) and a +portcullis.</p> +<p>In spite of these conveniences our fortress is past its prime +and a modern burglar would treat it as a joke. It is so weak in its +joints that when the wind blows it shakes like a jelly, and we have +to shave with safety-razors.</p> +<p>In a small villa opposite lives Freddy, our married subaltern, +and Mrs. Freddy.</p> +<p>On a patch of turf up a neighbouring lane Oswald and Co. took up +their residence this summer.</p> +<p>The troopers called him Oswald for some unknown reason, but I +doubt if that was his baptismal name, and I doubt if he was ever +baptized.</p> +<p>Oswald was a tall bony grizzled child of the Open.</p> +<p>Years ago he would have been dismissed briefly as a tramp, but +we know better now; we have read our Georgian poets and we know +that such folk do not perambulate the country stealing fowls and +firing ricks from any dislike of settled labour, but because they +have heard the call of far horizons, <i>belles étoiles</i> +and great spaces.</p> +<p>The Co. consisted of a woolly donkey which carried Oswald's +portmanteau when he trekked, and a hairy dog which provided him +with company and conversation.</p> +<p>The donkey browsed, unfettered, about the roadside, taking the +weather as it came; but Oswald and the dog, degenerates, sheltered +under a wigwam of saplings and old sacks.</p> +<p>The wigwam being four feet long and Oswald six, he had to +telescope like a tortoise to get fully under cover; sometimes he +forgot his feet and left them outside all night in the dew, but, as +he had no boots to spoil, this didn't matter much.</p> +<p>Not having any business to attend to he lay abed very late. Our +troopers, riding at ease <i>en route</i> to the drill grounds, +would toss their lighted cigarette-ends at the protruding bare +feet. A grizzled head telescoping out of the other end of the +wigwam and a husky voice calling down celestial fury upon them, +would signalise a hit.</p> +<p>The Adjutant was for having Oswald moved on; we should be +missing things presently, he warned—saddle-blankets, rifles, +horses, perhaps the portcullis. However, the O.C. would have none +of it; he maintained that this constant menace at our gates kept +the sentries on the <i>qui vive</i> and accustomed them to +practically Active Service conditions.</p> +<p>So all the summer the wigwam remained on the turf-patch and the +sentries on the <i>qui vive</i>.</p> +<p>How Oswald existed is a mystery—probably on manna, for he +toiled not neither span, and if he stole for a living it was not +from us.</p> +<p>He spent his mornings in bed, his afternoons reclining on the +bank behind his residence, puffing at his dudheen and watching our +recruits going through the hoops with the amused contempt that a +gentleman of leisure naturally feels for the working classes.</p> +<p>At the end of September, Freddy, the Benedick, finding himself +in the orderly-room and forgetting what had brought him there, +applied for leave as a matter of habit, and, walking out again, +promptly forgot all about it. Freddy is given that way. Apparently +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page257" id="page257"></a>[pg +257]</span> the Orderly Room was finding time heavy on their hands +that morning, for machinery was set in motion, and in due course +the astonished Freddy discovered himself with permission to go to +blazes for seven days and a warrant to London in his pocket.</p> +<p>He capered whooping home to his villa, told Mrs. Freddy to pack +her toothbrush and come along, and the mail bore them hence. Next +day the weather broke, the sky turned upside down and emptied +itself upon us, the parade ground squelched if you trod on it, the +gutters failed to cope with the rush of business, and the roads ran +in spate.</p> +<p>The post-orderly, splashing back to barracks, reported the +disappearance of Oswald and Co.</p> +<p>We determined that they must have been washed out to sea and +pictured them astride the wigwam in a beam-roll off Kinsale, +keeping a watchful eye for U-boats.</p> +<p>We had seven days of unrelieved downpour. On the morning of the +eighth, Freddy and wife returned from leave, and, opening the front +door of the villa—which they discovered they had forgotten to +lock in the delirium of their departure—stepped within. At +the same moment, Oswald, the hairy dog and the woolly donkey heard +the call of the great spaces, and, opening the back door of the +villa, stepped without and departed for haunts unknown.</p> +<p>Freddy in a high state of excitement came over to the Mess and +told us all about it.</p> +<p>He himself had been all for slaying Oswald on the spot, he said, +but Mrs. Freddy wouldn't hear of it.</p> +<p>"She says he hasn't stolen anything," Freddy explained. "She +says he was only <i>staying</i> with us, in a manner of speaking, +and was quite right to take his poor old dog and donkey under cover +during that rotten weather, she says—so that's the end of +it."</p> +<p>But it wasn't the end of it; Freddy had reckoned without his +other O.C. Here was a heaven-sent opportunity of training the men +under practically Active Service conditions, scouring the country +after real game—Ho! toot the clarion, belt the drum! Boot and +saddle! Hark away!</p> +<p>So now we are out scouring the country for Oswald and Co., one +hundred men and horses, caparisoned like Christmas-trees, soaked to +the skin, fed to the teeth. And Oswald and Co.—where are +they? We cannot guess, and we are very very tired of practically +Active Service conditions.</p> +<p>Oyez, Oyez, Oyez! Anyone finding three children of the Open +answering to the description of our friends the enemy, and +returning them, dead or alive, to our little fortress, will he +handsomely and gratefully rewarded.</p> +<p class="author sc">Patlander.</p> +<hr /> +<div class="figcenter" style="width:100%;"><a href= +"images/257.png"><img width="100%" src="images/257.png" alt= +"" /></a> +<p><i>Earnest Lady</i>. "OF COURSE I UNDERSTAND MEN MUST DRINK +WHILE DOING SUCH HOT AND HEAVY WORK. BUT MUST IT BE BEER? CAN'T +THEY DRINK WATER?"</p> +<p><i>Mechanic</i>. "YES, LADY, THEY CAN DRINK WATER, BUT +(<i>confidentially</i>) IT MAKES 'EM SO GIDDY."</p> +</div> +<hr /> +<blockquote>"Boy, to heat at hearth and to strike +occasionally."—<i>Sheffield Daily Telegraph</i>.</blockquote> +<p>A case for the N.S.P.C.C.</p> +<hr class="short" /> +<p>Appended to a quotation from <i>The Globe</i> on German +intrigues with the Vatican:—</p> +<blockquote>"[NOTE: The above is obviously from the pen of Mr. L.J. +Maxse, the editor of the <i>National Review</i>, who, as recently +announced, has become associated with the editorial direction of +the Pope.]"—<i>Manchester Evening Chronicle</i>.</blockquote> +<p>In pursuance of this arrangement His Holiness will in future +take the style of <i>Pontifex Maxsemus</i>.</p> +<hr class="short" /> +<h3>Journalistic Candour.</h3> +<blockquote>"M. Kerensky has announced that all leaders of the +revolt will be tried by court-martial, and has indicated that a +determined end will be put to the present state of affairs by the +most drastic means. Add Russian Fudge matter. +utikwtStdheto"—<i>Adelaide Register</i>.</blockquote> +<p>We have lately read a good deal of "Russian Fudge matter."</p> +<hr class="short" /> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2">"PROMENADE CONCERTS, QUEEN'S HALL.</p> +<p class="i2">Sir Henry J. Wood, Conductor.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="i2"> +Mondays—Wagner. +——?——?—?——</p> +<p class="i2"> +Tuesdays—Russian. + cymfwypo——</p> +<p class="i2"> +Wednesdays—Symphony. + cmfwypemfwvfg</p> +<p class="i2"> +Thursdays—Popular. cmfwypemfwycppwf</p> +<p class="i2"> +Fridays—Beethoven. + cmfwypemfwyy</p> +<p class="i2"> +Saturdays—Popular. + cmfwypemf——"</p> +<p class="i10"> + + <i>The Star</i>.</p> +</div> +</div> +<p>A sporting effort to reproduce the effect of the barrage +<i>obbligato</i>.</p> +<hr /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page258" id="page258"></a>[pg +258]</span> +<div class="figcenter" style="width:100%;"><a href= +"images/258.png"><img width="100%" src="images/258.png" alt= +"" /></a> +<table width="100%"> +<tr> +<td width="40%"><i>Footpad</i>. "I HEAR A CYCLIST COMING. I'LL +UPSET HIS BIKE, AND THEN—"</td> +<td width="4%"></td> +<td width="56%">BUT IT WAS MR. TUBER-CAINE, THE ALLOTMENT +ENTHUSIAST, RETURNING FROM HIS LABOURS.</td> +</tr> +</table> +</div> +<hr /> +<h2>TO AN INFANT GNU.</h2> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Thomas (that may not be thine actual name</p> +<p class="i2">But it will serve as well as any other),</p> +<p>There be coarse souls to whom all flesh is game,</p> +<p class="i2">Who do not hail thee as a new-born brother</p> +<p>But merely as a thing at which to aim</p> +<p class="i2">Their fratricidal guns; they simply smother</p> +<p>The sense, which I for one cannot eschew,</p> +<p>Of soul relationship 'twixt man and gnu.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>'Tis not, O surely not, for such as these</p> +<p class="i2">Those baby limbs are flung in lightsome capers;</p> +<p>Those puny bleatings were not meant to please</p> +<p class="i2">Facetious writers for the daily papers;</p> +<p>Let baser beasts inspire the obvious wheeze,</p> +<p class="i2">Wombats and wart-hogs, tortoises and tapirs;</p> +<p>These lack the subtle spell thy presence flings</p> +<p>About the spirit tuned to higher things.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Well could I picture thee, a dusky sprite,</p> +<p class="i2">With Dryad hoofs on Thracian ledges drumming,</p> +<p>When day is slipping from the arms of night</p> +<p class="i2">And all the hushed leaves whisper, "Pan is +coming!"</p> +<p>And thou before him, leaping with delight,</p> +<p class="i2">Stirring all birds to song, all bees to humming</p> +<p>And buds to blossoming—but lo! at hand</p> +<p>A tablet reads, "<i>C. Gnu. Nyassaland</i>."</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Thus they've described thy formidable sire,</p> +<p class="i2">A whiskered person with a chronic liver.</p> +<p>I feed him biscuits to appease his ire;</p> +<p class="i2">He eats the gift but fain would bite the giver.</p> +<p>His eye is red with reminiscent fire,</p> +<p class="i2">His thoughts are by the great Zambesi River</p> +<p>Where hides the hippopotam, huge as sin,</p> +<p>And slinking leopards with the dappled skin.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>No couches of the nymph and Bassarid,</p> +<p class="i2">Or thymy meadows such as Simois glasses,</p> +<p>Lured his exulting feet, my jocund kid,</p> +<p class="i2">But veldt and kloof and waving jungle grasses,</p> +<p>Where lurk the python with unwinking lid,</p> +<p class="i2">And the lean lion, growling, as he passes,</p> +<p>His futile wrath against the hoarse baboons</p> +<p>That drape the rocks in chattering platoons.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Free of the waste he snuffed the breeze at morn,</p> +<p class="i2">The fleet-foot peer of sassaby and kudu;</p> +<p>The hunting leopard feared his bristling horn,</p> +<p class="i2">The foul hyæna voted him a hoodoo;</p> +<p>Browsing on tender grass and camel-thorn</p> +<p class="i2">He roamed the plains, as all right-minded gnu do;</p> +<p>But now he eats the bun of discontent</p> +<p>That once was lord of half a continent.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>And thou, my child, to whom harsh fate has dealt</p> +<p class="i2">A captive's birthright—thou wilt never +scamper</p> +<p>With wingéd feet across the windy veldt,</p> +<p class="i2">Where are no crowds to stare nor bars to hamper;</p> +<p>Thou wilt not ring upon the rhino's pelt</p> +<p class="i2">In wanton sport. But there—why put a damper</p> +<p>On thy young spirits by recounting what</p> +<p>Africa is but Regent's Park is not.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>It would but grieve thee, and, moreover, I</p> +<p class="i2">Note that thy young attention's growing looser.</p> +<p>A piece of cake? O fie! my Thomas, fie!</p> +<p class="i2">The keeper said, "Please not to feed the gnu, +Sir."</p> +<p>And yet it seems a shame to pass thee by</p> +<p class="i2">Without some slight confectionery douceur;</p> +<p>So here's a bun; and let this thought obtrude:</p> +<p>What matter freedom while there's lots of food!</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p class="sc author">Algol.</p> +</div> +</div> +<hr /> +<h3>PRO-GERMANISM IN KENSINGTON.</h3> +<blockquote>"At St. Mary Abbot's, in Kensington, the organist +played hymns for two hours during the Sunday raid, in which the +congregation joined."—<i>Daily Mirror</i>.</blockquote> +<hr class="short" /> +<p>The rumour that in consequence of the recent invasion of a +popular sea-coast resort by denizens of the East End the local +authorities have decided to change its name to "Brightchapel" is at +present without foundation.</p> +<hr /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page259" id="page259"></a>[pg +259]</span> +<div class="figcenter" style="width:100%;"><a href= +"images/259.png"><img width="100%" src="images/259.png" alt="" /></a> +<h3>TRIALS OF A CAMOUFLAGE OFFICER.</h3> +<p><i>C. Officer</i>. "NOW THEN, WHAT'S THE MEANING OF THIS?"</p> +<p><i>C. Painter</i>. "I WAS TELLING 'IM 'E DIDN'T KNOW NOTHING +ABOUT CAMERFLARGE, SIR, AND 'E SAYS, 'HO, DON'T I? I'LL SOON SHOW +YER. I'LL MAKE YER SO'S YER OWN MOTHER WON'T KNOW YER'; AN' 'E UPS +WITH THE PAINT-BUCKET ALL OVER ME, SIR."</p> +</div> +<hr /> +<h2><i>L'AGENT PROVOCATEUR.</i></h2> +<p>A short while ago the following advertisement appeared in the +"Personal" column of <i>The Times</i>:—</p> +<blockquote>"Artist (33), literary, travelled, mentally isolated, +would appreciate brilliant, interesting correspondents; writers' +anonymity observed."</blockquote> +<p>Now thereby hang many tales (none of them necessarily true). +Here is one of them.</p> +<p>The Colonel of the Blank-blank Blankshires exclaimed (as all +proper Colonels are expected to do), "Ha!" Carefully marking with a +blue pencil a small paragraph on the front page of <i>The +Times</i>, he threw it on the table among the attentive Mess and +snorted.</p> +<p>"Ha! A Cuthbert—a genuine shirker! I think some of you +might oblige the gentleman."</p> +<p>Then he stepped outside and went into the seventh edition of his +impressionist sketch, "Farmyard of a French Farm," with lots of BBB +pencil for the manure heap. He was a young C.O. and new to the +regiment.</p> +<p>The Mess "carried on" the conversation.</p> +<p>"<i>I'll</i> write to the blighter," shouted the Junior Sub. +"I'll be an awf'lly 'interesting correspondent.'"</p> +<p>"And a brilliant one?" queried the Major.</p> +<p>"A Verey brilliant one, Sir," asserted the Sub., giving a +sample.</p> +<p>"This sort of slacker," said the Senior Captain bitterly, as +with infinite toil he scraped the last of the glaze from the inside +of the marmalade pot, "is the sort that doesn't realise that +there's a war on."</p> +<p>"Don't you make any mistake," said the Major, "<i>he</i> knows, +poor devil! I'm going to write to him and say, 'When I think of the +incessant strain of the trench warfare carried on with inadequate +support by you civilians of military age against the repeated +brutal attacks of tribunals, I marvel at the indomitable pluck you +display. In your place I should simply jack it up, plead ill-health +and get into the Army."</p> +<p>"I've got an idea," said the Junior Sub., joyously.</p> +<p>"Consolidate it quickly," said the Adjutant, "and prepare to +receive counter-attacks. Yes?"</p> +<p>"I've never yet been allowed to explain <i>my</i> side of that +confounded affair of the revetments. I'll tell it all to Cuthbert. +<i>He</i>'ll sympathise with me. I'll tell him all that the C.O. +said and all that I should have <i>liked</i> to say to the C.O. To +pour out one's troubles into a travelled literary bosom—what +a relief!"</p> +<p>"That's rather an idea," said the Senior Captain. "I nurse a +private grief of my own beneath a camouflage of—of +persiflage. I think I shall ask Cuthbert's opinion, as an artist, +of a brother artist who himself does perfectly unrecognisable +sketches of farm-yards"—he waved a golden-syrup spoon towards +the Colonel and the manure-heap—"and yet demands a finnicking +and altogether contemptible realism in the matter of trench maps. +Pass the honey, please."</p> +<p>"It seems to me," said the Major reflectively as he rose from +table, "that 'Artist, 33, literary, travelled, mentally isolated' +(one) is going to be buried beneath the weight of the world's +grievances—or the grievances of this battalion, at any +rate."</p> +<p>"It's the same thing," observed the Senior Captain gloomily. +"Isn't there any preserved ginger? Lord, what a Mess!"</p> +<p>Weary Williams, a time-expired <span class="pagenum"><a name= +"page260" id="page260"></a>[pg 260]</span> Second +Lieutenant—a ticket-of-leave man, as it were, without a +ticket-of-leave—who had once commanded the remnants of two +companies with honour but not with acknowledgment, poised a +fountain-pen, inquiring casually, "<i>What</i> was it the C.O. said +about the destruction of Ypres? Ah, yes" (and he began to write), +"<i>a Brobdingnagian act of brachycephalic brutality</i>...."</p> +<hr class="short" /> +<p>At breakfast about a week later the Colonel seemed to be +enjoying his immense pile of correspondence so heartily that many +of the Mess, comparatively letterless as they were, directed +glances of injured interest towards him—of rather deeper +interest than was warranted by military discipline or civilian +breeding (which are, of course, the same virtue in different +forms).</p> +<p>Then, presently, as he put down one letter and opened another, +the Major was seen to stiffen and the Junior Sub. to wilt. The +attention of the table became as fixed and frigid as that of the +midnight sentry at a loophole. The Colonel toyed happily with +another letter (while the Senior Captain made a careful census of +the grounds at the bottom of his coffee-cup), took the range of the +manure-heap outside the window from the angles of the table-legs, +rose, and departed with his correspondence, summoning Williams to +follow him.</p> +<p>Outside the Weary One waited respectfully for the Colonel to +speak.</p> +<p>"So you saw through my camouflage?" said the latter +thoughtfully.</p> +<p>"Yes, Sir."</p> +<p>"How did you do it?"</p> +<p>"Well, Sir, to mention only the internal evidence—an +'Artist'"—Williams waved his hand expressively towards the +manure-heap; "'thirty-three'—one of the youngest C.O.'s in +the Army, I believe?" He bowed politely.</p> +<p>"Ha!" said the Colonel.</p> +<p>"'Literary'—I remember your stopping Captain Jones's leave +for a split infinitive in a ration return. 'Travelled'—you +have travelled in Turkey, I think, Sir?"</p> +<p>The Colonel, who had been blown out of a trench at Krithia, +nodded shortly.</p> +<p>"'Mentally isolated'—I'm afraid, Sir, our Mess doesn't +afford very much for a mind like yours to bite on. I'm afraid, too, +that such correspondence as—as mine, for instance—can +hardly be called either brilliant or interesting."</p> +<p>"I don't know," said the Colonel. "That was a very good bit +about the destruction of Ypres. What was it?—Ha, +yes—<i>A Brobdingnagian act</i>—"</p> +<p>"—<i>of brachycephalic brutality</i>, Sir. But that was +not original."</p> +<p>"If you can't be original yourself," said the Colonel kindly, +"the next best thing is to quote from those who can."</p> +<p>"That's what I thought, Sir."</p> +<p>"Ha! Well, of course the writers' anonymity must be +observed—that's a point of honour. Still, I think, +Williams—I have been asked to recommend an intelligent +officer for a staff appointment—that if I were to name +<i>you</i> I should not go far wrong. And—er—if you are +ever asked for an opinion of the destruction of Ypres—"</p> +<p>"I shall remember to give the reference, Sir. Thank you, +Sir."</p> +<p class="author">W.B.</p> +<hr /> +<h2>A TROPICAL TRAGEDY.</h2> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>On the tesselated slopes</p> +<p class="i2">Of the Isle of Tapioca,</p> +<p>Where the azure antelopes</p> +<p class="i2">Haunt the valley of Avoca,</p> +<p>Dwelt the maid Opoponax,</p> +<p>Only child of Brex Koax,</p> +<p class="i2">Far renowned in song and saga,</p> +<p>Ruler of ten million blacks,</p> +<p class="i2">Emperor of Larranaga.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>She could play the loud jamboon</p> +<p class="i2">With a fervour corybantic;</p> +<p>She could hurl the macaroon</p> +<p class="i2">Far into the mid-Atlantic;</p> +<p>More self-helpful than a SMILES,</p> +<p>She could ride on crocodiles,</p> +<p class="i2">Catch the fleetest flying-fishes;</p> +<p>She could cook, like EUSTACE MILES,</p> +<p class="i2">Wondrous vegetarian dishes.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>In the cool of eventide,</p> +<p class="i2">Gracefully festooned with myrtle,</p> +<p>In her sampan she would glide</p> +<p class="i2">Forth to spear the snapping turtle;</p> +<p>And her voice was blinding sweet,</p> +<p>Piercing as the parrakeet,</p> +<p class="i2">Fruity as old Manzanilla,</p> +<p>With a <i>soupçon</i> of the bleat</p> +<p class="i2">Of the African gorilla.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Eligible swains in shoals,</p> +<p class="i2">Victims to her fascination,</p> +<p>Toasted her in flowing bowls</p> +<p class="i2">Far beyond all computation;</p> +<p>There was valorous Hupu,</p> +<p>Xingalong and Timbalu,</p> +<p class="i2">And the peerless Popocotl,</p> +<p>Who had gained a triple blue</p> +<p class="i2">For his prowess with the bottle.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>But Opoponax, whose mind</p> +<p class="i2">Soared above her native tutors,</p> +<p>Imperturbably declined</p> +<p class="i2">All these brave and dusky suitors.</p> +<p>Finally she hailed a tramp</p> +<p>And, contriving to decamp</p> +<p class="i2">To the shores of Patagonia,</p> +<p>Finding them too chill and damp,</p> +<p class="i2">Perished of acute pneumonia.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>In an even darker doom</p> +<p class="i2">Tapioca's greatness ended,</p> +<p>For her father to the tomb</p> +<p class="i2">By swift leaps and bounds descended;</p> +<p>Xingalong and Timbalu</p> +<p>Both were slaughtered by Hupu,</p> +<p class="i2">Who was slain by Popocotl,</p> +<p>Who himself soon after slew</p> +<p class="i2">With an empty whisky bottle.</p> +</div> +<div class="stanza"> +<p>Every tale, we often hear,</p> +<p class="i2">Ought to have a wholesome moral;</p> +<p>And this truth is just as clear</p> +<p class="i2">In the land of palm and coral;</p> +<p>For this tragedy in tones</p> +<p>Louder than a megaphone's</p> +<p class="i2">Warns us that two things are risky,</p> +<p>If you dwell in torrid zones—</p> +<p class="i2">Change of climate, love of whisky.</p> +</div> +</div> +<hr /> +<h3>What to do with our Spare Teeth.</h3> +<p>From the window of an emporium of ivory articles:—</p> +<blockquote class="sc">"Customers' Own Tusks Mounted."</blockquote> +<hr class="short" /> +<blockquote>"Daily morning housework; wanted at once, temporarily +respectable person."—<i>Middlesex County +Times</i>.</blockquote> +<p>Everything is temporary in war-time.</p> +<hr class="short" /> +<p>From a drapery firm's advertisement:—</p> +<blockquote>"We are the hub-bub of the Universe."</blockquote> +<p>A distinct infringement of the KAISER'S prerogative.</p> +<hr class="short" /> +<blockquote>"The pilot of the Sopwith single-seater aeroplane +dropped his bombs and made off safely through a hail of +anti-aircraft shells, but not before his observer had been wounded +in the arm."—<i>Daily Express</i>.</blockquote> +<p>It is inferred that the observer, in default of other +accommodation, was seated upon the pilot's knee.</p> +<hr class="short" /> +<blockquote>"Many an Englishman who disliked hunting or shooting in +July, 1914, would have cheerfully pressed a button if he could +thereby kill 100,000 Germans of military age in July, +1915."—<i>The English Review</i>.</blockquote> +<p>But then, of course, there is no close time for Germans.</p> +<hr class="short" /> +<blockquote>"We were pleased to meet here lately Captain +——, R.E., who has been in France since near a couple of +years and has seen considerable service in H.M. forces. He left +last week en route for la belle Francaise. We wish the gallant +officer all future military success."—<i>Scotch +Paper.</i></blockquote> +<p>Our best wishes for the lady, too.</p> +<hr class="short" /> +<blockquote>"We have sunk more German submarines than ever before. +The Admiralty has begun to see its way to reduce the danger to +proportions, normal and negotiable, like other dangers. If that is +done within the next months the British flee will have gained the +most memorable, though the least evident, victory in all its +annals."—<i>Observer</i>.</blockquote> +<p>Good old insect! But what an odd way to spell it.</p> +<hr /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page261" id="page261"></a>[pg +261]</span> +<div class="figcenter" style="width:100%;"><a href= +"images/261.png"><img width="100%" src="images/261.png" alt= +"" /></a> +<h3>A CONSIDERATE FOE.</h3> +<p>"IS IT SAFE NOW, MISTER?"</p> +<p>"YES—IT WAS ALL CLEAR AT 9.20."</p> +<p>"GOOD ON 'EM! JEST GAVE MY OLE MAN TIME TO GIT 'IS FINAL."</p> +</div> +<hr /> +<h2>OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.</h2> +<h4>(<i>By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks.</i>)</h4> +<p>Mr. STEPHEN McKENNA, with the blushing honours of <i>Sonia</i> +still fresh upon him, has now turned his pen to a tale of farcical +adventure, the result being <i>Ninety-Six Hours' Leave</i> +(METHUEN), and I could find it in my heart to regret it. Because, +to speak frankly, the present volume will do little to add to the +reputation so deservedly won by the other. It is a tangle of +complications, which, since they have nothing solid to rest upon, +begin by baffling, and end by boring, the reader who strives to +keep pace with them. A young officer, wishful to dine at a smart +hotel and having no appropriate clothes, is struck with the idea of +pretending to be a foreign royalty, and thus incapable of sartorial +indiscretion. And, as all sorts of assassins and undesirable aliens +happened to be waiting about to kill the man whose style he +borrowed, you can make a fair guess at the subsequent action. There +is much dialogue, most of it sparkling, though even here I have to +report criticism from a young friend to whom I introduced the +story. He said, "People don't talk like that really." Which happens +to be undeniably true. Thus, while giving Mr. McKENNA credit for an +active invention and some really writty turns of phrase, I fear I +must repeat my warning that as a <i>farceur</i> he is below his +best form.</p> +<hr class="short" /> +<p>The clever lady who elects to call herself "RICHARD DEHAN" has +already secured a deserved reputation as a writer of short stories. +Her new book, <i>Under the Hermes</i> (HEINEMANN), gives us a +further selection of tales of various lengths, from one that is not +quite a novel to others that are as brief as ten pages. The themes +and settings are equally varied; but all—or almost +all—show the writer at her best in the vigorous, swift and +exciting development of some dramatic situation. The exception, I +may say at once, is the title-tale, to my mind a stilted +and—in a double sense—obviously "studio piece," quite +unworthy of its position at the opening of so attractive a volume, +where indeed it might easily discourage a questing reader. "Mr. +DEHAN" is far more fairly represented by such brilliant little +miniatures of historical romance as (to select three at random) "A +Speaking Likeness," "A Game of Faro" and "The Vengeance of the +Cherry Stone"—slight sketches ranging from France of the +Revolution to mediæval Bologna, but each most effective in +its vivid colouring and well-handled climax. Since one of these has +lingered for many years in my recollection from some else-forgotten +magazine, I suspect that most of the tales in the volume may be +making a second appearance. If so, it is in every way deserved.</p> +<hr class="short" /> +<p><i>Trench Pictures from France</i> (MELROSE) is by the late +Major WILLIAM REDMOND, M.P., and <i>The Ways of War</i> (CONSTABLE) +is by the late Professor T.M. KETTLE, M.P. Both these books are +memorials raised to their authors by the pious zeal of relations +and friends who thought it shame that so much nobility of purpose +and generous ardour should go unrecorded in a tribute more +permanent than the fleeting memories of contemporary survivors. +Both WILLIE REDMOND and TOM KETTLE were Irishmen and members of the +Nationalist Party and were to that extent foes of the British +Government; yet, when they were <span class="pagenum"><a name= +"page262" id="page262"></a>[pg 262]</span> compelled to look the +Prussian menace in the face, neither the older man nor the younger +hesitated for a moment. Each, though there were many reasons that +might have pleaded against such a course, "joined up" in an Irish +regiment, each in due time went to France and each made the supreme +sacrifice, falling with his face to the foe. Neither doubted for a +moment that he was serving the cause of Ireland in fighting against +Prussianism and all that it implies. Their enthusiastic approval of +the justice of our cause should be to us a great assurance. I knew +them both and can say with the most complete sincerity that I never +knew two men better loved by all who had to do with them or more +worthy of this universal affection. It is in every way right that +they should be commemorated for future generations. WILLIE +REDMOND'S book consists of a series of sketches of the War +contributed by him to <i>The Daily Chronicle</i>. They are written +with great charm and, even in the gloomiest surroundings, reflect +the sunny nature of the man. There is a most appreciative +biographical memoir by E.M. SMITH-DAMPIER, and in an appendix will +be found the memorable and splendid speech delivered by WILLIE +REDMOND in the House of Commons on March 7th of this year—a +true salutation in view of death. KETTLE'S book is in the main a +reprint of articles that reveal a brilliant and versatile mind. +Mrs. KETTLE contributes a very interesting and sympathetic account +of her gallant husband's life. It would have been impossible for +such a man not to have hated the German tyranny.</p> +<hr class="short" /> +<p>Mr. Stacy Aumonier takes for his theme the development of a +clever neurotic, <i>Arthur Gaffyn</i>, who stands, in relation to +normal life and normal feelings, <i>Just Outside</i> +(METHUEN)—a common modern type, perhaps a commoner type in +all ages than the obvious records show. The author handles with +real subtlety the phases of Arthur's marriage with a woman much +older than himself, a marriage in which the hunger of the woman for +love was a greater factor than the not deeply stirred passion of +the man. Then, with the appearance of the destined mate, beauty and +youth and desire carry the day against duty, but neither callously +nor flippantly. The insight and sympathy displayed in the analysis +of motive are remarkable. The author has a real gift for +portraiture. In particular he touches in his minor folk with +extraordinarily deft defining lines. Perhaps in general there is a +little hesitancy in craftsmanship, a slight quavering between the +fashionable modern realism and an older romanticism. But the +seriousness of his artistic intention, the solidity of his work +(which is by no means to say stodginess, quite the contrary) will +commend Mr. AUMONIER to all who care to listen to people who have +the one thing necessary, something to say; and the other thing +desirable, a pleasant way of saying it.</p> +<hr class="short" /> +<p>In its quiet unobtrusive way <i>When Michael Came to Town</i> +(HUTCHINSON) is a most excellent specimen of Madame ALBANESI's art. +No sound of war is to be heard in it, and when I think how +completely some of our novelists have failed when trying to deal +with contemporary events I cannot be too thankful that this novel +is laid in a period before the Germans became an uncivilised +nation. <i>Olive</i>, the heroine, a delightful girl, is the +supposititious child of <i>Sir James Wenborough</i>, whose wife, in +his absence and without his knowledge, secured her as a substitute +for their own child, who died at its birth. The secret is disclosed +by an unscrupulous minx, who uses the knowledge she has obtained to +push her way into the <i>Wenborough</i> household. Men are not +Madame ALBANESI'S strongest points, but in <i>Roderick Guye</i> and +<i>Michael Wenborough</i> we have well-contrasted characters, and +the worst that can be said of them is that they belong to rather +stock types. Altogether a book which many people will describe as +"perfectly sweet;" but, because of its sympathetic qualities and +sound workmanship, it deserves a more distinctive label.</p> +<hr class="short" /> +<p>When the lean brown hero with the hawk lip extends an arm of +steel from the six-cylinder Rolls-Royce in which he is lounging and +snatches the beautiful mannequin from between the very jaws of an +omnibus, we realise that we are in the presence of Romance in its +purest form. A spin in the Park and a cosy dinner in a Soho +restaurant are quite sufficient to convince hero and heroine that +they are each other's own. Some novelists would let it go at that, +but not Mr. ARTHUR APPLIN, who has only got to chapter II, and +wishes to give us value for our money. What's to come is, as +SHAKSPEARE says, still unsure, but apparently the heroine, who has +gone to break the happy news to a poor but respectable aunt in +Devonshire, is met at the country station by a chauffeur, who calls +her "Lady Alice" and waves her towards a large Limousine. She knows +she isn't Lady Alice and has no car to meet her, but she hops in +nevertheless. She doesn't know where she is going, but she is on +her way. There is a smash, and when the heroine comes to she is +being called Lady Alice in an ancestral castle. Everything has been +obliterated from her memory, including her own identity and that of +the hero, and the author can now make a fresh start. If you wish to +know how it all ends you must get <i>The Woman Who Was Not</i> +(WARD, LOCK), but there is no compelling reason why you should.</p> +<hr /> +<div class="figcenter" style="width:100%;"><a href= +"images/262.png"><img width="100%" src="images/262.png" alt= +"" /></a> +"OH, YOU AWFUL BOY—YOU'VE LEFT THE TACKS IN THE ROAD, AND +NOW THE TANK'LL GET A PUNCTURE."</div> +<hr /> +<h3>Air-Raid Fashions at Manchester.</h3> +<blockquote>"Monday commences the final week of Sir Thomas +Beecham's<p/><p class="sc">Season of Nighty Promenade Concerts."</p> +<p class="author"><i>Manchester City Press</i>.</p></blockquote> +<hr class="short" /> +<blockquote><p class="sc">"Wensleydale Blue-Faced Sheep-Breeders' Show."</p> +<p class="author"><i>Yorkshire Post</i>.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>We cannot conceive why these breeders should look blue with +prices at their present height.</p> +<hr class="short" /> +<h3>War-time Frugality.</h3> +<blockquote>"Before an interested and applauding public on the +verandah of the Club-house Mrs. MacDonald, who had also provided +tea, distributed the cups and other insignia of victory to the +successful competitors."—<i>Standard (Buenos +Aires)</i>.</blockquote> + +<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 10721 ***</div> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/10721-h/images/217.png b/10721-h/images/217.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..cf5cb05 --- /dev/null +++ b/10721-h/images/217.png diff --git a/10721-h/images/219.png b/10721-h/images/219.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7c9a6f --- /dev/null +++ b/10721-h/images/219.png diff --git a/10721-h/images/220.png b/10721-h/images/220.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..3ef56f2 --- /dev/null +++ b/10721-h/images/220.png diff --git a/10721-h/images/221.png b/10721-h/images/221.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..ecb3119 --- /dev/null +++ b/10721-h/images/221.png diff --git a/10721-h/images/223.png 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