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<pre>

The Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 150,
June 21st, 1916, by Various

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re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org


Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 150, June 21st, 1916

Author: Various

Release Date: February 19, 2012 [EBook #38899]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH, OR THE LONDON ***




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</pre>


  <hr class="full" />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page401" id="page401"></a>[pg 401]</span>

<h1>PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.</h1>

<h2>VOL. 150</h2>

<hr class="medium" />

<h4>JUNE 21, 1916</h4>

 <hr class="full" />

<h2 class="sans">CHARIVARIA.</h2>

<p>An "Iron Scheer" is to be erected
at Cuxhaven in honour of the "victor"
of the Battle of Horn Reef. It is
thought, however, that lead would be
more appropriate than iron for the
occasion. It runs more easily under
fire.</p>

<hr class="short" />

<p>"I want," said Mr. <span class="sc">Roosevelt</span>, at
Oyster Bay, "to tell you newspaper
men that it is useless to come to see
me. I have nothing to say." As however
some of them had come quite a
long way to see him, he might at least
have made a noise like a Bull Moose.</p>

<hr class="short" />

<p>Asked as to the nature of his disability,
an appellant informed
one of the London
Tribunals that he was a
member of the V.T.C. This
studied insult to a fine body
of men was, we are happy
to say, repudiated by the
Tribunal, which advised the
applicant to try to join a
"crack" regiment.</p>

<hr class="short" />

<p>No civilians being available
for the work, fifty men
of the Royal Scots regiment
laid half-a-mile of water
main at Coggeshall Abbey
in record time. This incident
should finally dispose
of a popular superstition
that among the Scotch
water is only a secondary
consideration.</p>

<hr class="short" />

<p>The Water Board has
spent £70 in renovating
some Chippendale chairs
belonging to the New River Company.
The poor shareholders are quite helpless
in the matter.</p>

<hr class="short" />

<p>On an acre of ground, a man told the
Farnham Tribunal, he kept 9 sows,
34 pigs and 1 horse, and grew a quarter-of-an-acre
of mangolds and a quarter-of-an-acre
of potatoes. Asked where he
kept himself the man is understood to
have reluctantly named an exclusive
hotel in the West End.</p>

<hr class="short" />

<p>"The extra hour of daylight is turning
every City man into a gardener,"
says <i>The Daily Mail</i>. This must be
a source of great concern to our contemporary,
according to which, if we
read aright, the majority of our public
men do their work like gardeners.</p>

<hr class="short" />

<p>"A wave of temperance might come
by sending drunkards to prison for
a second offence," said Mr. <span class="sc">Mead</span> at
the West London Court. This remark
will cause consternation in those select
circles in which a second offence is
usually an indication of a discriminating
dilettantism.</p>

<hr class="short" />

<p>"Mr. Hughes," says <i>The Daily Mail</i>,
"goes to the Paris Conference with the
British ideals in his pocket." Personally,
we have an idea that things of this sort
ought to be left in the Cabinet.</p>

<hr class="short" />

<p>"This war," says <i>The Fishing Gazette</i>,
"is going to provide protection to fish
from the trawlers in all places where
ships sink on trawling-grounds." That,
however, is not the real issue, and we
cannot too strongly deprecate such an
unscrupulous attempt on the part of
our contemporary to draw a red herring
across the trail.</p>

<hr class="medium" />

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"><a href="images/401-1000.png"><img src="images/401-500.png" width="500" height="389" alt="PUNCTUALITY." /></a>
<h4>PUNCTUALITY.</h4>

<p><i>Sergeant.</i> "<span class="sc">Fall in agin at 'leven o'clock. An' when I say,
'Fall in at 'leven o'clock,' I mean fall in at 'leven. So
<i>fall in at 'alf-past ten</i>!</span>"</p></div>

<hr class="medium" />

<p>According to a New York cable,
President <span class="sc">Wilson</span> last week headed
a procession in favour of military
preparedness as an ordinary citizen
in a straw hat, blue coat, cream pants,
and carrying an American flag on his
shoulders. The intensely militant note
struck by the cream pants is regarded
as a body blow to the hope of the
pacificists in the party and astonished
even the most chauvinistic of
<span class="sc">President's</span> admirers.</p>

<hr class="short" />

<p>"For anyone to keep a cow for their
private supply of milk is a luxury, and
there is no necessity for it," said the
Chairman of the Chobham Tribunal,
and, as a result of this ruling, a maiden
lady in the district who has long
cherished the ambition of keeping a
bee for her private supply of honey
has reluctantly decided to abandon the
idea.</p>

<hr class="short" />

<p>Berlin's newest attraction is said to
be a young woman named <span class="sc">Anna von
Bergdorff</span>, who has revealed extraordinary
powers of memory, and whose
chief accomplishment is to "remember
and repeat without error from
twenty-five to fifty disconnected words
after hearing them once." In these
circumstances it would seem to be a
thousand pities that the lady was not
present when the <span class="sc">Kaiser</span> received the
news of the famous "victory" of his
Fleet in the Battle of Jutland.</p>

<hr class="short" />

<p>In St. Louis, U.S.A., the Democratic
National Convention is claiming on
behalf of President <span class="sc">Wilson</span>
that he has "successfully
steered the ship of State
throughout troublous times
without involving the
United States in war." Or,
as the hyphenateds put it
more tersely, "Woodrow
has delivered the goods."</p>

<hr class="short" />

<p>In a bird's-nest in a
water-pipe at Sheffield a
workman has discovered a
£20 Bank of England note,
which, we understand, has
since been claimed by various
people in the neighbourhood
who have lately been
troubled by mysterious
thefts of £1 and 10s. Treasury
notes, as well as by a
man who alleges that he
was recently robbed of that
exact sum in silver and
copper coins.</p>

<hr class="short" />

<p>A traveller who has arrived in Amsterdam
from Berlin states that in that
city placards have been pasted on all
the walls explaining that the <span class="sc">Kaiser</span>
is not responsible for the War. We
hope however that now it has been
brought to his notice it is not unreasonable
on our part to express
the hope that he will promptly decide
to go a step further and declare his
neutrality.</p>

<hr class="short" />

<p>At an Exhibition of Substitutes now
being held in Berlin a special department
displayed stage decorations,
scenery and costumes made mostly
out of paper instead of wool. As a
counterblast to the alleged German
superiority in matters of this sort, it
is pleasant to be able to record the
fact that in our English theatres it
is no uncommon thing to see an
audience made mostly out of the same
material.</p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page402" id="page402"></a>[pg 402]</span>

<hr class="medium" />

<h2 class="sans">HEART-TO-HEART TALKS.</h2>

<p>(<i>Marshal <span class="sc">von Hindenberg</span> and Admiral <span class="sc">von Scheer</span>.</i>)</p>

<p><i>The Admiral.</i> The beer, at any rate, is good.</p>

<p><i>The Marshal.</i> Yes, the beer is good enough, Heaven be
thanked! I only wish everything else was as good as the beer.</p>

<p><i>The Admiral.</i> So then there is grumbling here too. It was
in my mind that I should find everything here in first-rate
order and everybody delighted with the condition of things.</p>

<p><i>The Marshal.</i> So? Then all I can say is that you expected
too much. You do not seem to realise how things
are going with us. I suppose you had thought the Russians
were absolutely done for after what happened to them last
year. So thought the All-highest, who has a mania for
imagining complete victories and talking about them in
language that makes one ashamed of being a German.
As if&mdash;&mdash;</p>

<p><i>The Admiral.</i> Yes, that's quite true. I'll tell you a
little story about that later on.</p>

<p><i>The Marshal.</i> Well, he saw complete victory over the
Russians, and what does he do? He withdraws some of
my best divisions to the Western Front and throws them
into that boiling cauldron at Verdun, where they have all
perished to the last man, and leaves me with my thinned
line to hold out as best I can; and, not content with this,
he permits those accursed Austrians to rush their troops,
if indeed they are worthy to be called by that name, headlong
into Italy on a mad adventure of their own and to
get stuck there far beyond the possibility of help. And
then what happens? The moment arrives when the new
and immense Russian armies are trained, and when they
have rifles and cannons and ammunition in plenty, and one
fine day they wake up and hurl themselves against the
Austrians, and helter-skelter away go the whole set of
Archdukes and Generals and Colonels and men, each trying
to see who has the longest legs and can use them quickest
for escaping. And I'm expected to bring up my fellows,
who have quite enough to do where they are, and to
sacrifice them in helping this rabble. "<span class="sc">Hindenburg</span>," said
the All-highest to me, "be up and doing. Show yourself
worthy of your ancient glory and earn more golden nails
for your wooden statue." "Majesty," I replied, "if you
will leave me my fighting men, you can keep all the golden
nails that were ever made." But at this he frowned,
suspecting a joke: I have often noticed that he does not
like jokes.</p>

<p><i>The Admiral.</i> Yes, I have noticed that myself, and I
always do my best to take him quite seriously. But I was
going to tell you a little story about our speechmaking hero.
Here it is. As you know, he ordered us out to fight the
naval battle off Jutland.</p>

<p><i>The Marshal.</i> Yes, I know&mdash;the great victory.</p>

<p><i>The Admiral.</i> Hum-hum.</p>

<p><i>The Marshal.</i> Well, wasn't it?</p>

<p><i>The Admiral.</i> Ye-e-s, that is to say, not exactly what one
understands by great and not precisely what is meant by
victory. However, we can discuss that another time.
What I wanted to tell you was this. The speech our
friend and <span class="sc">Kaiser</span> made&mdash;&mdash;</p>

<p><i>The Marshal.</i> It was a highly coloured piece of fireworks.</p>

<p><i>The Admiral.</i> Well, it was all prepared and written down
days before the fight was fought. I heard this from a sure
source, from someone, in fact, who had seen the manuscript
and had afterwards caught sight of the Imperial one rehearsing
it before a looking-glass. Whatever might have
happened, the speech would have been the same, even if we
had returned into harbour with only one ship&mdash;and there
was a time when I thought we should hardly be able to do
even that.</p>

<p><i>The Marshal.</i> I wonder what would have happened to
him if he had not been able to deliver the speech at all.</p>

<p><i>The Admiral.</i> He would have burst himself.</p>

<p><i>The Marshal.</i> Yes, that is what would have happened to
him.</p>

<p><i>The Admiral.</i> Well, anyhow, the beer is good here.</p>

<p><i>The Marshal.</i> Oh, yes, the beer is all right.</p>

<hr class="medium" />

<h2 class="sans">THE ONLY WAY.</h2>

<p>Judkins was the last man in the world one would have
expected to meet in the fashionable costume of the day.
To begin with, he was well over age. And then he was on
the quiet side, usually looking for some odd, old thought
which had gone astray, and possessed of one of those
travelling mentalities which take note of all sides of a subject.
Yet there he stood in khaki.</p>

<p>"The very last man in the world I expected to see like
this," I said. It was quite true. Judkins was the sort
who would have attempted dreamy analyses with the drill-instructor.</p>

<p>"Don't blame me, old thing," he said with a shade of
melancholy. "I know I am stiff and over age and all that,
but the recruiting fellow said he would willingly overlook
a decade. There was nothing else for it. It was the only
way."</p>

<p>"How do you mean, 'the only way'?" I asked.</p>

<p>Judkins sighed.</p>

<p>"It was like this," he explained sadly. "I should have
joined up before, but I have always tried to keep to the
truth ever since I was seven and told a lie, and felt that
I was lost. But I gave in at last. If Lord <span class="sc">Derby</span>
looks at my papers he will think I am forty. So I am,
and a bit more. I meant to deceive his lordship, though
it went against the grain. I am sure I don't know what
Mr. <span class="sc">Walter Long</span> will say if he ever finds out what I have
done. I can picture him exclaiming, 'Here's this man,
Private Judkins, declaring he is only forty, when to my
certain knowledge he was born in '66.'</p>

<p>"I am risking all that because life became insupportable.
There was hardly anybody left I cared about. The one
waiter at my favourite restaurant who didn't breathe down
one's neck when he was holding the vegetables&mdash;he had
joined; and the person who understood cigars at the corner
shop, he is in it too. The new man doesn't know the difference
between a Murias and a Manilla. It was the same
all round. There was nobody to cut my hair. My barber
was forming fours. It is a wonder to me why the War
people have had to hunt the slippers, the chaps who have
held back, for there is very little to tempt one to keep out
of the crowd now. I've joined so as to be with the fellows
I know. Don't go and put it all down to patriotism; it
was just sheer loneliness. The man who sold me my evening
paper&mdash;you remember him? he had a squint and used
to invest in Spanish lotteries and get me to translate the
letters he received&mdash;he is a soldier now; and so is the
bootblack who asked for tips for the races, and the door-keeper
at the offices. They're all wearing khaki, all in; and
it wasn't the same world without them, only a dreary
make-believe, and so I decided to deceive the War Office
and join my friends. Every day I am finding the folk I'd
lost. The Corporal with whom I do most business was
checktaker at a theatre I used to frequent&mdash;always told
me whether the show was worth the money before I parted.
And the life is suiting me fairly well. Last week's route-march
in the rain was a far, far wetter thing than I had
ever done, but&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>He turned and gravely saluted an officer who was
coming up on the wind....</p>

<hr class="full" />
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page403" id="page403"></a>[pg 403]</span>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"><a href="images/403-1500.png"><img src="images/403-500.png" width="500" height="664" alt="THE TABLES TURNED." /></a>
<h2>THE TABLES TURNED.</h2></div>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page404" id="page404"></a>[pg 404]</span>

<hr class="full" />

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"><a href="images/404-1000.png"><img src="images/404-600.png" width="600" height="510" alt="NEWS FOR THE ENEMY." /></a>
<h4>NEWS FOR THE ENEMY.</h4>

<p><i>Mrs. Brown.</i> "<span class="sc">Have you heard as how our Jim has got his
stripe?</span>"</p>

<p><i>Mr. Smith.</i> "<span class="sc">Hush, woman! Don't you see that notice?</span>"</p></div>

<hr class="medium" />

<h2 class="sans">THE WATCH DOGS.</h2>

<h4>XLII.</h4>

<p><span class="sc">My dear Charles,</span>&mdash;No "Tourists'
Guide to Northern France" would be
complete without some mention of the
picturesque town of A., a point at
which even the most progressive traveller
is likely to say that he's had a
very pleasant journey so far, but now
thinks of turning back. It boasts a
small but exceedingly well-ventilated
cathedral, many an eligible residence to
let, and the relics of what was once a
busy factory, on the few remaining bricks
of which you are particularly requested
to "afficher" no "affiches." It is approached
by a railway, prettily overgrown
with tall grasses and
wild-flowers, and never
made hideous these days by
the presence of hustling,
smoky trains. Entering
daintily from the back, the
tourist will soon find himself
in its main street, devoid
of ladies out shopping, but
not without its curious collection
of exuberant drain-pipes
and recumbent lamp-posts.
It lies, pleasantly
dishevelled, in the sun,
having the appearance of
the bed of a restless sleeper
who has shifted about somewhat
in the night and made
many abortive efforts to
get up in the morning. Its
streets are decorated with a
series of dew ponds, dotted
about with no apparent regard
to the convenience
of the traffic, and you may
while away many an idle
hour trying to discover
where the street ends and
the houses begin. You will not be interrupted
if you detach, for your collection
of curios, a yard or so of the
dislodged statue of the leading municipal
genius, and even the old man at
the barrier of the eastern gate will only
attempt to deter you by friendly advice
if you persist in ignoring the notice,
"This Road is Unfit for Vehicular Traffic."
I am told that discipline is
automatic at this point; it requires no
browbeating military policemen to control
the traffic here.</p>

<p>The town of A. has given up work.
It has also given up trying to look
smart. It still spreads itself over
many acres and it has a population of
twenty-five, not including the Town
Major.</p>

<p>Town Majors, of the more permanent
sort, are a race apart. Being older
men, who have done their turn in the
trenches and are now marked down for
the less actively quarrelsome life, they
nevertheless prefer to live in this sort
of place. When a man gets to their
age he has apparently grown too fond
of his old friends, the shells, to be
parted from them altogether till he absolutely
must; also he likes a row of
houses to himself to live in. A street
cannot be so quickly demolished as to
give him no time to select another one,
and business can always be carried on
at the one end while structural alterations
are taking place at the other.
This fluctuation of town property is a
thing to be reckoned with in his life; and
so on his office wall you will find a list
of billets occupied by units, and where
you see a blue mark you'll know the
unit has gone, and where you see a red
mark, you'll know the billet has.</p>

<p>The Town Major of A. is a great
friend of mine; fortunately we are able
to reserve our differences of opinion for
the telephone, and even so neither can
ever be sure whether the other lost his
temper or the "cutting off" was done
elsewhere. When we meet I find him
the victim of so many other troubles
that I always spare him more. He
is one of those little old Majors, more
like walnuts than anything else&mdash;the
hardest, most wrinkled but best filled
walnuts. He acts as the medium
between the relentless routine of a
high administrative office and the
complex wants of the local warrior. I
don't think he has ever yet decided
whether his true sympathies lie with
the machine or with the men. Once I
was in his office when a weather-beaten
young Subaltern arrived, requiring fuel
for his R.E. Company. He knew of
the whereabouts of just the very thing.
True, it was a standing door at the
moment, but no doubt that condition
was only temporary. It led from a
room, which was half demolished, into
a passage which had ceased to exist. But
the Town Major did not concern himself
with this. An order was an order, and
a door was a door, and the order decreeing
that doors should remain, the
Subaltern had better get quick. He tried
arguing, but you don't crack a walnut
that way. He tried pleading, and the
walnut creaked a little, yet remained
whole. "Understand," said he, very
authoritatively, "not only do I forbid
you to enter that house for the purpose
you propose, but I have
stationed at the front entrance
a picket to prevent
you. If you so much as set
foot on the front doorstep
he will arrest you and bring
you here. I shall know
how to deal with you, Sir."
The Subaltern, who had no
doubt suffered much, turned
away with a weary sigh;
the Town Major ignored his
salute, but, before his complete
withdrawal, did happen
to mention (so to speak)
that he'd been told there
was a <i>back</i> entrance to
the house in question and
he had some idea of putting
another picket there
to-morrow.</p>

<p>The Subaltern heard all
right, and, from the further
and additional salute he
now gave, it appeared that
he knew how to deal with
that. The Town Major
looked at me, faintly representing
for the moment the machine,
and, blushing dismally, bribed me into
silence with a cigarette. Yet here I am
telling you all about it! Never mind;
the house and all its entrances and exits
have long since disappeared, and as to
the Subaltern himself&mdash;who knows?</p>

<p>On Saturday, June 3rd (that black
Saturday which was not quite so black
as it was painted) he received an urgent
call, as if he was a doctor, to attend the
oldest and least movable inhabitant in
the acuteness of her distress. Town
Majors are good for anything; though
I suppose I oughtn't to mention it, I
knew of one who assisted single-handed
at a birth, mother and son both doing
well notwithstanding interim bombardment.
They are at anybody's disposal
for any purpose; it is merely a question
of first come first served. He went to
the old lady's house; he found her in
a paroxysm of tears over the news of
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page405" id="page405"></a>[pg 405]</span>
the Naval disaster. For an hour he
tried to comfort her, being limited to
the methods of personal magnetism, in
the absence of his interpreter and the
scarcity of his French. She refused to
take comfort; it was not sorrow for
the gallant dead, but terror of the
atrocious living which moved her. She
was mortally afraid, she to whom
salvoes of big guns were now matters
of passing inconvenience. The English
Navy had taken a knock; the War was
therefore over and we had lost. There
was no hope for any of us, and any
moment the Bosch might be expected
on her threshold, arriving presumably
from the rear. The magnificence of
the Army of France had been in vain;
it was no use going on at Verdun. She
was still weeping spasmodically when
the better news arrived.</p>

<p>Now, Charles, if that is how a French
peasant took the first news, how do you
suppose the German peasants are digesting
the second and better version?</p>

<p class="author1">Yours ever,</p>
<p class="author"><span class="sc">Henry</span>.</p>

<hr class="medium" />

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"><a href="images/405-1500.png"><img src="images/405-600.png" width="600" height="398" alt="Shivering Tommy (to red-headed pal). 'Urry up, Ginger, and dip yer 'ead under. It'll warm the water!'" /></a>
<p><i>Shivering Tommy (to red-headed pal).</i> "<span class="sc">'Urry up,
Ginger, and dip yer 'ead under. It'll warm the water!</span>"</p></div>

<hr class="medium" />

<blockquote><p>
"Athens, Monday.&mdash;I learn in a well-informed
quarter that the Allies are expected
to communicate to the Greek Government
almost immediately a further Note relative to
the restrictions imposed on Greek sipping."
</p></blockquote>

<p class="author2"><i>Provincial Paper.</i></p>

<p class="ind2">At present, we understand, Greek sippers
are strictly confined to Port.</p>

<hr class="medium" />

<h3>THE NEWEST HOPE.</h3>

<div class="poem">  <div class="stanza">
<p>Dear Betty, in the good old days,</p>
<p class="i2">Before this Armageddon stunt,</p>
<p>We floated down still water-ways</p>
<p class="i2">Ensconced within a cushioned punt;</p>
<p>With mingled terror and delight</p>
<p class="i2">I felt the toils around me closing,</p>
<p>Until one starry moonlit night,</p>
<p>Discreetly veiled from vulgar sight,</p>
<p class="i6">I found myself proposing.</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p>You heard my ravings with a smile,</p>
<p class="i2">And then confessed you liked my cheek,</p>
<p>But thought my nose denoted guile</p>
<p class="i2">And feared my chin was rather weak;</p>
<p>My character with fiendish glee</p>
<p class="i2">You treated to a grim dissection,</p>
<p>Then as a final <i>jeu d'esprit</i></p>
<p>You cynically offered me</p>
<p class="i6">A sisterly affection.</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p>But now within my faithful heart</p>
<p class="i2">New hope has sprung to sudden life;</p>
<p>In fancy (somewhat <i>à la carte</i>)</p>
<p class="i2">I see you more or less my wife;</p>
<p>The way is found, the path is clear,</p>
<p class="i2">The resolution moved and carried&mdash;</p>
<p>If you have pluck enough, my dear,</p>
<p>To risk a rather new career ...</p>
<p class="i6">We might be <i>slightly</i> married.*</p>
  </div>  </div>

<p class="note">*  In his book, <i>What is Coming</i>, Mr. <span class="sc">H. G.
Wells</span> sees "a vision of the slightly-married woman."</p>

<hr class="medium" />

<h3>In a Good Cause.</h3>

<p>The Veterans' Club, for which the
<span class="sc">Lord Mayor</span> is to hold a meeting at the
Mansion House on Thursday, June 22nd,
at 3.30, is the nucleus of a movement to
offer the chance of rest and convalescence
to those who have fought and suffered
in defence of their country; to secure
suitable employment for those whose
service is finished, and friendly help
in the hour of need. The Club at
Hand Court, Holborn, has already welcomed
seven thousand men of the Navy
and Army to its membership. A great
effort is needed to enlarge this scheme
for providing a centre of reunion and
succour for our fighting men from
all parts of the United Kingdom and
its Dominions&mdash;a scheme which, if
generously supported, should serve as
an Imperial Memorial of the nation's
sacrifice.</p>

<p>Gifts and inquiries should be addressed
to the Organising Secretary,
Veterans' Club Association, 1, Adelphi
Terrace House, Adelphi, W.C.</p>

<hr class="medium" />

<blockquote><p>
"Mr. Balfour ... revealed that a number
of the guns on monitors came from America
and stated that certain of Churchill's speeches
are so faulty that they are unuseable."
</p></blockquote>

<p class="author2"><i>Montreal Gazette.</i></p>

<p class="ind1">Mr. <span class="sc">Balfour</span> may have thought this,
but we don't remember his saying it.</p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page406" id="page406"></a>[pg 406]</span>

<hr class="medium" />

<h2><i>LYRA DOMESTICA.</i></h2>

<p><span class="sc">Dear Mr. Punch,</span>&mdash;I cordially welcome
your efforts to extend the horizon
of Nursery Rhymes. At the same time
it has always seemed to me rather unfair
that one room in the house, though
I readily acknowledge its importance,
should practically monopolise the attention
of our domestic poets. If
Nursery Rhymes, why not Dining-room,
Drawing-room and Kitchen Rhymes?
I am convinced that they could be
made just as instructive, didactic and
helpful. Hence, to make a beginning,
I venture to submit the following specimens
of prudential and cautionary
Dining-room Rhymes. Should they
meet with approval I propose to deal
with other apartments in the same
spirit, excepting perhaps the Box-room,
which does not seem to me to offer
facilities for lyrical treatment.</p>

<h4><span class="sc">Preliminary.</span></h4>

<div class="poem1">  <div class="stanza">
<p class="i2">If desirous of succeeding</p>
<p class="i2">In the noble art of feeding</p>
<p>With dignity and breeding of a Jove,</p>
<p class="i2">You will find all information</p>
<p class="i2">For your proper education</p>
<p>In the admirable works of Lady <span class="sc">Grove</span>.</p>
  </div>  </div>

<h4><span class="sc">Of Porridge.</span></h4>

<div class="poem1">  <div class="stanza">
<p>Eat your porridge standing</p>
<p class="i2">If you are a Scot;</p>
<p>To be frank it's only rank</p>
<p class="i2">Swank if you are not.</p>
  </div>  </div>

<h4><span class="sc">Of the Use of the Knife.</span></h4>

<div class="poem1">  <div class="stanza">
<p>Unless you wish to shorten your life</p>
<p>Don't eat your peas or your cheese with a knife,</p>
<p>Like greedy Jim, who cut his tongue</p>
<p>And died unseasonably young.</p>
  </div>  </div>

<h4><span class="sc">Of Disguised Dishes.</span></h4>

<div class="poem1">  <div class="stanza">
<p>Be alert to scrutinize</p>
<p>Food in unfamiliar guise.</p>
<p>Death may lurk within the pot</p>
<p>If you eat the <i>papillote</i>.</p>
  </div>  </div>

<h4><span class="sc">Of the Virtues of Silence.</span></h4>

<div class="poem1">  <div class="stanza">
<p>Jack and Tom were two pretty boys;</p>
<p>But Jack ate his soup with a horrible noise,</p>
<p class="i6">While Tom was a silent eater.</p>
<p>Now Jack is a poor insurance tout,</p>
<p>While Tom drives splendidly about</p>
<p class="i6">In a Limousine seven-seater.</p>
  </div>  </div>

<h4><span class="sc">Of a Forbidden Word.</span></h4>

<div class="poem1">  <div class="stanza">
<p>No one mentioned in <i>Debrett</i></p>
<p>Talks about a "serviette."</p>
  </div>  </div>

<h4><span class="sc">Of Timely and Untimely Mirth.</span></h4>

<div class="poem1">  <div class="stanza">
<p>Be cheerful at lunch and at dinner,</p>
<p class="i2">Be cheerful at five-o'clock tea;</p>
<p>But only a social beginner</p>
<p class="i2">At breakfast indulges in glee.</p>
  </div>  </div>

<h4><span class="sc">Of Punctuality.</span></h4>

<div class="poem1">  <div class="stanza">
<p>Late for breakfast shows your sense,</p>
<p>Late for luncheon no offence;</p>
<p>Late for well-cooked well-served dinner</p>
<p>Proves you fool as well as sinner.</p>
  </div>  </div>

<div class="poem2">  <div class="stanza">
<p>With much respect,</p>
<p class="i2">I am, dear Mr. Punch,</p>
<p class="i4">Yours devotedly,</p>
<p class="i6"><span class="sc">A. Dampier Squibb</span>.</p>
  </div>  </div>

<hr class="medium" />

<h2 class="sans">ARCHIBILL.</h2>

<p>His name was, so to speak, the fine
flower of Delia's imagination, and of
mine. Mrs. Mutimer-Sympson gave
him to Delia as a war-time birthday-present,
and he was at once acclaimed
as "fascinating," which he may have
been, and "lovely," which he certainly
was not. His usual abiding-place was
the kitchen, in comfortable proximity to
the range, which he shared with one of
his kind or of a lower order; but there
were occasions when he honoured the
dining-room with a visit.</p>

<p>"Though he mustn't come in when
we've callers," said Delia: this was in
the early days, when his title and
status were as yet nebulous.</p>

<p>"But why not?" I protested.
"William's all right, so long as he's
reasonably clean."</p>

<p>Delia raised her eyebrows <i>à la française</i>.</p>

<p>"William?"</p>

<p>"William," I repeated firmly. "What
else would you call him?"</p>

<p>"I should have thought," said Delia
coldly, "that it would have been plain,
even to the meanest intelligence, that
he was Archibald."</p>

<p>"On the contrary," I retorted, "no
sentient being can gaze upon him without
recognizing him as William."</p>

<p>At this moment the treasure in
question, who had been making contented
little purring noises near the
fire, was apparently startled by a falling
coal, for he raised his voice in a high
note of appeal.</p>

<p>"Did a nasty man call him out of
his name, then!" said Delia, snatching
him up.</p>

<p>"If you're not careful," I reminded
her, "William, will ruin your new
blouse."</p>

<p>"Of course," said Delia, with an air
of trying to be reasonable with an
utterly unreasonable person, "there'd
be no objection to his having a <i>second</i>
name."</p>

<p>"None whatever. 'William Archibald'
goes quite well."</p>

<p>"'Archibald William' goes better.
And it's going to be that, or just plain
'Archibald.'" Delia added defiantly
that she wasn't going to argue, because
she wanted her tea, and so did he.</p>

<p>For the next three days we refrained
from argument accordingly, sometimes
calling him one name, sometimes
another. The thing ended, perhaps
inevitably, in a compromise. He became
"Archibill."</p>

<p>It was curious how the charms of
Archibill grew upon us&mdash;how his personality
developed under Delia's care.
She insisted that he recognized her
step, and that the piercingly shrill cry
he gave was for her ear alone. Perhaps
it was so&mdash;women have more subtle
powers of perception than men. There
was real pathos in their first parting,
which came when an inconsiderate
grand-aunt in Scotland, knowing
nothing of Archibill's claims, made
Delia promise to pay her a ten-days'
visit.</p>

<p>"You mustn't mind Missis being
away, old boy," Delia told him, "because
she'll be coming back soon.
And, although Master's going to stay
with his sister, you won't be lonely.
There's a nice kind charlady who'll
look in every day to make sure that you
haven't been stolen by horrid tramps,
and that the silver spoons are safe."
Yet, from what she has told me since,
I know that her spirits were heavy with
foreboding when she left by the 11.23
from Euston.</p>

<p>We returned, later than we expected,
together. The nice kind charlady had
done her work for the day, and left, but
a fire burned cheerfully in the dining-room
and the table was laid for tea.</p>

<p>"And where," demanded Delia, "is
Archibill?"</p>

<p>Even as she spoke she sped into the
kitchen. A moment later I heard a
cry, and followed.</p>

<p>"Look!" said Delia.</p>

<p>He lay near the range, a wrecked and
worn-out shadow of his former self, incapable
of even a sigh. Tenderly she
lifted him.</p>

<p>"It's just neglect," she said. "Why
did I leave him! Something always
happens when one leaves such treasures
as Archibill."</p>

<p>"It mayn't be too late to do something,"
I said; "I'll run down with
him to Gramshaw's after tea."</p>

<p>"<i>After</i> tea!" echoed Delia reproachfully.
I went at once.</p>

<p>A fortnight has passed since then.
Once more Archibill makes cheerful
murmuring noises on the hearth. He
looks, I fancy, older; otherwise there
is little change to record.</p>

<p>Yesterday morning I received Gramshaw's
bill: "<i>To putting new Bottom
to patent Whistling Kettle, and repairing
Spout</i>&mdash;£0 2<i>s.</i> 9<i>d.</i>"</p>

<p>Delia says it's worth twenty two-and-ninepences
to listen to Archibill
calling her when he boils.</p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page407" id="page407"></a>[pg 407]</span>

<hr class="full" />

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"><a href="images/407-1500.png"><img src="images/407-600.png" width="600" height="415" alt="THE FAR-REACHING EFFECT OF THE RUSSIAN PUSH." /></a>
<h3 class="sans">THE FAR-REACHING EFFECT OF THE RUSSIAN PUSH.</h3></div>

<hr class="medium" />

<h2 class="sans">CONSOLATIONS.</h2>

<p><span class="sc">Dear Mr. Punch,</span>&mdash;In order to guard
against the snares of a too facile optimism
I have made a point ever since
the War began of taking all my information
solely from German sources, as
I have a feeling somehow that they
may be confidently relied upon not to
err upon the side of underrating their
own success. But, having started with
this handicap, I consider that I am the
more justified in looking upon the bright
side of things whenever possible. I
am writing to you to-day to point out
a very important aspect of the many
recent German victories which seems
to have been overlooked. It is full of
promise of an early termination of the
War.</p>

<p>I wish to analyse the ingredients of
the German Celebration Days, which
have followed each other with such
bewildering rapidity of late. As far as
I can gather, the whole nation has
turned out to celebrate the fall of
Verdun (in the first week of March),
which was the key to Paris; the advance
in the Trentino, which was the
key to Rome; and the destruction of
the British Fleet, which was the key
to London, along with the going out of
the electric spark of the British nimbus
and all that. Meanwhile certain cities
and districts&mdash;the thing seems to move
round from one to another&mdash;have celebrated
in force the various times that
the Mort Homme was captured (while
it was still held by the French), the
great diplomatic victory over America,
the success of the last War Loan and
countless other triumphs. The thing
has been going on ever since the sinking
of the <i>Tiger</i> eighteen months ago.</p>

<p>Now, Sir, there are five main ingredients
in these celebrations&mdash;flags, the
ringing of bells, the distribution of iron
crosses, fireworks, and school holidays.
The efficient organisation of civilian
<i>morale</i> demands them all. Let us look
into these.</p>

<p>First, let us take the widest view and
look forward to the contest for supremacy
that will follow the War. What
is it that we have to fear? Why,
German education. They have often
told us so. Yet the very magnitude of
their present successes is robbing their
chief weapon of its edge. It is not too
much to say that, should the summer
campaign follow the lines expected of
it, bringing victory on every front,
education will come to a standstill
owing to the rapid succession of school
holidays. Already parents are complaining
that their children think it
hardly worth while to turn up at school
until they have had a look at the paper
to see if there is anything much going
on, and patriotic truants are always
able to point to the capture of a battery
or the sinking of a ship as justification
for taking the day off. Should the
War be prolonged we have to face the
fact that we may have to do with a
Germany in which the rising generation
can neither read nor write.</p>

<p>But in a far more immediate sense
the great number of German victories
is sapping the very sources of German
power. I ask you, first of all, what are
these flags made of? They are made
of <i>cotton</i>; and more than that, they are
rapidly wearing out. Much flapping in
all weathers&mdash;victories have too often
been allowed to occur in bad weather&mdash;has
torn them to ribbons. The situation
is serious: reserves are exhausted,
and an attempt to introduce flag-cards
has met with no support.</p>

<p>Then let us consider fireworks. Is
it not clear that the supply cannot be
maintained without a steady munitionment
of high explosives, more especially
in the case of rockets?</p>

<p>I need not labour the fact, which
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page408" id="page408"></a>[pg 408]</span>
is sufficiently ominous, that iron crosses
are made of iron, but I may point out
that this expenditure cannot be made
good by drawing upon the belfries, as
the necessity for periodical bell-ringing
has immobilized the bells.</p>

<p>These facts should be more widely
known. They have given me much
comfort. Even the deplorable loss of
the <i>Warspite</i>&mdash;the vast, latest hyper-super-Dreadnought
of the Fleet and the
pillar and the key, as I learn from my
authorities&mdash;cannot wholly depress me.
For well I know the dilemma that confronts
our enemies, and that neither by
victory nor defeat can they escape their
doom.</p>

<p class="author1a">I am, dear Mr. Punch,</p>

<p class="author">Yours as usual, <span class="sc">Statistician</span>.</p>

<hr class="full" />

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"><a href="images/408-1500.png"><img src="images/408-600.png" width="600" height="415" alt="Tommy. 'Rats, Mum? I should say there was&mdash;and whopers!!" /></a>
<p><i>Tommy.</i> "<span class="sc">Rats, Mum? I should say there was&mdash;and
whoppers! Why, lor' bless yer, only the day afore I got
knocked out I caught one of 'em trying on my great-coat!</span>"</p></div>

<hr class="medium" />

<h4>Saving their Bacon.</h4>

<p class="center">"<span class="sc">The German Destroyers Retire to
Pork.</span>"</p>

<p class="ind4"><i>Provincial Paper.</i></p>

<hr class="medium" />

<blockquote><p>
"<span class="sc">St. Augustine's Sale of Work.</span>&mdash;This
important annual event takes place in the
Rectory grounds on June 14th, and everything
indicates a successful day, if Father
Neptune only smiles on the efforts now being
put forward."&mdash;<i>Penarth Times.</i>
</p></blockquote>

<p class="ind2">We hope Uncle Ph&oelig;bus will not be
jealous.</p>

<hr class="medium" />

<h3>A CONSCIENTIOUS OBJECTOR.</h3>

<div class="poem">  <div class="stanza">
<p>'Tis sad to read of these young lives</p>
<p class="i2">Poured out to please a tyrant's whim;</p>
<p>My manly soul within me strives</p>
<p class="i2">To burst its bonds and have at him.</p>
<p>But peace, my soul! we must be strong,</p>
<p>For conscience whispers, "War is wrong."</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p>Poor lads! Poor lads! Their duty calls;</p>
<p class="i2"><i>Their</i> duty calls&mdash;no more they know;</p>
<p>No fear of death their faith appals;</p>
<p class="i2">All the clear summons hear, and go.</p>
<p>'Tis right, of course, they should; but I&mdash;</p>
<p>I serve a duty still more high.</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p>And yet not all. Some few, I fear,</p>
<p class="i2">In this their country's hour of need</p>
<p>Keep undemonstratively clear,</p>
<p class="i2">Or, if they're called, exemption plead.</p>
<p>For these&mdash;no conscience-clause have they&mdash;</p>
<p>Conscription is the thing, I say.</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p>But worse than these, who simply shirk,</p>
<p class="i2">Are those employed to fashion arms,</p>
<p>Who tempt their fellows not to work,</p>
<p class="i2">And give us all such grave alarms&mdash;</p>
<p>Traitors! If their deserts they got</p>
<p>They would be either hanged or shot.</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p>The wind blows shrewdly here to-night,</p>
<p class="i2">My heart bleeds, as I think, perchance,</p>
<p>How numbed with cold our heroes fight;</p>
<p class="i2">How chill those trenches, there in France.</p>
<p>The thought unmans me. Ere I weep,</p>
<p>I'll drink my gruel&mdash;and to sleep.</p>
  </div>  </div>

<hr class="medium" />

<p class="ind3">An officer in Egypt writes:&mdash;</p>

<blockquote><p>
"Cairo is a gay city, at least so they say.
The chief hotels put up boards showing the
amusements to be enjoyed. A sample of an
eventful week follows:&mdash;</p></blockquote>

<h4>'<span class="sc">Coming Events.</span></h4>

<div class="block">
<span class="sc">Monday.</span><br />
<span class="sc">Tuesday.</span><br />
<span class="sc">Wednesday.</span><br />
<span class="sc">Thursday.</span><br />
<span class="sc">Friday.</span> Museum will not open.<br />
<span class="sc">Saturday.</span><br />
<span class="sc">Sunday.</span>
</div>

<p class="ind3a">&mdash;&mdash;, <i>Manager</i>, &mdash;&mdash; <i>Hotel</i>.'"</p>

<hr class="medium" />

<blockquote><p>
"A very interesting cricket-match took
place at Ghain Tuffieha on Wednesday last,
24th inst., when eleven Nursing Sisters played
eleven officers. The game throughout was
very keen and the Sisters have nothing to
learn from the Officers in the way of wicket-keeping,
batting and yielding."</p>
</blockquote>
<p class="author2"><i>Daily Malta Chronicle.</i></p>

<p class="ind2">In the last-mentioned art British soldiers
notoriously do not excel.</p>

<span class="pagenum"><a name="page409" id="page409"></a>[pg 409]</span>

<hr class="full" />

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"><a href="images/409-1500.png"><img src="images/409-500.png" width="500" height="691" alt="THE SHADOW ON THE WALL." /></a>
<h2>THE SHADOW ON THE WALL.</h2></div>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page410" id="page410"></a>[pg 410]</span>

<hr class="full" />

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"><a href="images/410-1500.png"><img src="images/410-600.png" width="600" height="387" alt="Job's Comforter. 'If they keep on stopping your leave like this you'll never see your new kid till the War's over." /></a>
<p><i>Job's Comforter.</i> "<span class="sc">If they keep on stopping your leave
like this you'll never see your new kid till the War's over.</span>"</p>

<p><i>Job.</i> "<span class="sc">Oh, yes, I expect I shall. He'll be coming out here in
1934.</span>"</p></div>

<hr class="medium" />

<h2 class="sans">A SOLUTION.</h2>

<p>Among the many Government changes
that are imminent it is to be hoped that
the <span class="sc">Prime Minister</span> will appoint someone
to an office of the highest importance
for the well-being of the Cabinet
in the public eye. Far too long has
the man-in-the-street been encouraged
in an attitude of scorn for the efforts
of the Twenty-three. It is not suggested
that the new official shall be
added to that mystic number and bring
it up to twice-times-twelve, or four-times-six,
or even three-times-eight.
There is no need for him to have Cabinet
rank, but he must be permitted some
inside knowledge or his labours will
not be fully fruitful. Only by such
labours can the Twenty-three really
expect a fair reputation. As it is, everyone
is more or less suspicious of them,
led by the papers in their self-imposed
sacred task of leaders or leader-writers
of the Opposition; while the music-halls
are of course frankly against
any but a purely Tory Government, as
they have always been, and so whole-heartedly
and superior to detail that
even to this day at one of the leading
variety houses of London a topical
song is being sung and loudly applauded
in which Mr. <span class="sc">Asquith</span> is still taunted
with his inability to come to a decision
about conscription. The fact that the
conscription problem was long since
settled is immaterial to these loud-lunged
patriots. Any stick is good for
such a dog. True there has of late been
rather less venom in certain of the anti-Premier
papers, which now substitute
for their ancient scoldings a bland
omniscience and kindliness in their
reminders of the obvious, but none the
less contrive still to insert the knife
and even to give it a furtive twist.</p>

<p>The fact then remains that what the
Government need is a friend, a trumpeter,
a fugle-man, a pointer-out of
merits, a signaller of This-way-to-the-virtues,
in short, a Callisthenes. They
should take a lesson from the self-sacrificing
zeal of that other Callisthenes
who serves a certain London
emporium so faithfully, awaking every
morning to a new and rapturous vision
of its excellence, which nothing can
stop the discoverer at once putting
into words for the evening papers.
Such <i>trouvailles</i> must not be kept
for private use; all the world must
know. How it is that editors are so
complacent in printing these rhapsodies,
which, truth to tell, are sometimes
very like each other, no one
knows; but there it is. They see the
light, and everyone rejoices to think
that in a country which has been a
good deal blown upon there is, at any
rate, one perfect thing.</p>

<p>Why should there be two?</p>

<p>There could be if the Government
would appoint a Callisthenes of their
own and set the eager pen similarly
to work. Then every day we should be
assured of the extraordinary vigour and
vitality of our rulers. Doubt would
vanish and the nation would blossom
as the rose. For if all editors are so
ready to print the present-day eulogies
of the emporium, how much readier
should they be to print to-morrow's
eulogies of the Empire!</p>

<p>One can see the new Callisthenes inspiring
confidence and heartening the
public with some such words as these;
for of course the new one should, if possible,
be modelled on the old&mdash;it might
even be (daring thought!) the same:&mdash;</p>

<h4><span class="sc">The Personal Touch.</span></h4>
<blockquote>
<p>About all kinds of paid service
there must be a <i>certain</i> monotony;
such service implies something that
one does for other people over and
over again. But though action may
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page411" id="page411"></a>[pg 411]</span>
become, in time, almost automatic,
<i>thought</i> need never lose its volition.
And it is one's thought or attitude of
mind that counts.</p>

<p>The service at the Firm of <span class="sc">Asquith</span>
&amp; Co., is, I think, so good because
Ministers are encouraged tremendously
to give their work the <i>personal
touch</i>. They are not afraid to give
their individuality full rein, to let it
inform their particular jobs, so that
each one is enlivened thereby.</p>

<p>If you knew the Cabinet as well as
I do, you would appreciate the fact
that it is remarkable for the number
of distinct personalities among its
members&mdash;men of marked character
and distinction, who are known not
only throughout the House, but to a
great many members of the London
Public as well.</p>

<p>They stand out among their fellow-workers
because their service <i>is distinguished</i>.
It is not necessarily that
their abilities are so especially superior,
excellent though they may be.
<i>It is that all they do is infused with
character.</i> Their voices have <i>timbre</i>;
they don't drawl. Their manners are
good. They carry out the smallest
transaction as though it held infinite
interest for themselves as well as you.
They never for a moment allow their
intelligence to sag. They give to
their least varying work that personal
touch which is so transforming.</p>

<p>The Firm of <span class="sc">Asquith</span> thoroughly
appreciates their worth, and openly
rejoices in the prestige these <i>star
workers</i> attach to themselves. It
would have every member of the
Staff do likewise&mdash;act not merely as
a minister, but as a very definite and
valued personality.</p>

<p>For that is service as it should be
in a modern Government, as spontaneous
to-day as it was servile yesterday&mdash;<i>intelligent,
forceful and gay</i>.</p>

<p>Example is the greatest factor in
its fine development. The Cabinet
Minister, however young, who can
answer every query with a pretty
deference, put off an Irish Member
with good effect, who in checking
your ill-advised inquisitiveness seems
to welcome you&mdash;such a one receives
as much and more, every time, as he
gives. He gets smiles, thanks, even
deference in return, and very often
friendship. His companions notice
that. They see how his buoyancy
never flags, because it is all the while
met with response, stimulated, liked.
And the habit of success is very
catching. <i>Voilà tout!</i>
</p></blockquote>

<p class="author2"><span class="sc">Asquith &amp; Co., Ltd.</span></p>

<p class="ind2">Had the Cabinet such a watchful
and industrious exponent and commender
as Callisthenes, never wearying,
except possibly on Sunday, its
success would be certain.</p>

<hr class="medium" />

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"><a href="images/411-1200.png"><img src="images/411-400.png" width="400" height="656" alt="With amateur theatricals at the Front and war-work at home,..." /></a>
<p><span class="sc">With amateur theatricals at the Front and war-work at home,
the exchanged
souvenirs are in startling contrast to those of 1840.</span></p></div>

<hr class="medium" />

<blockquote><p>
"<span class="sc">Accordions.</span>&mdash;Sale or exchange, Busson's
beautiful flutina, 23 white piano keys, 15
black, portable, light to carry, nice for open
air; large ass wanted."&mdash;<i>Exchange and Mart.</i>
</p></blockquote>

<p class="ind2">We are not sure that the last phrase
is quite the right one for attracting a
purchaser.</p>

<hr class="medium" />

<h4>Our Economical Army.</h4>

<blockquote><p>
"In one hospital there is a complete tin-smith's
shop running full blast. There empty
biscuit-tins are remade into tin plates, pans
and drinking-cups. Even the soldier is melted
down and used a second time."
</p></blockquote>

<p class="author2"><i>Darling Downs Gazette (Queensland).</i></p>

<hr class="medium" />

<blockquote><p>
"<span class="sc">Farriers.</span>&mdash;Wanted, a good doorman;
quiet job, 7 or 8 days a week."
</p></blockquote>

<p class="author2"><i>Daily Chronicle.</i></p>

<p class="ind2">And all the rest of the time to himself.</p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page412" id="page412"></a>[pg 412]</span>
<hr class="full" />

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"><a href="images/412-1500.png"><img src="images/412-600.png" width="600" height="361" alt="Visitor. 'We're having a Mothers' Sale of Work on Saturday.'" /></a>
<p><i>Visitor.</i> "<span class="sc">We're having a Mothers' Sale of Work on
Saturday. Will you come and bring your husband?</span>"</p>

<p><i>Wife of Wounded Soldier.</i> "<span class="sc">Thanks so much. We'd love to, but the
doctor was most emphatic in warning my husband
to avoid any form of excitement.</span>"</p></div>

<hr class="medium" />

<h2 class="sans">CONCERT TICKETS.</h2>

<p>I'm beginning to think that Petherton
has taken a dislike to me, and it is not
at all pleasant in a more or less country
retreat to be on bad terms with a
neighbour.</p>

<p>It is especially trying, when one has
made every endeavour to be friendly,
to meet with a chilling response. I'm
sure I have written him some very
genial letters on matters which less
good-tempered individuals than I might
have taken more seriously.</p>

<p>The Annual Concert in the village,
a great event in local circles, has been
another cause of unnecessary friction
between Petherton and myself.</p>

<p>As one of the older residents and
knowing most of the people here, I am
usually consulted as to the programme,
sale of tickets and other details of the
concert, and my house is often used
for rehearsing the solos, part songs
and choruses which are rendered by
the local Carusos and Melbas.</p>

<p>Our passage of arms was over the
tickets. We who are on the Committee
are supplied with so many
tickets each, which we endeavour to
sell. I sent two to Petherton, half-crown
ones. I forgot to enclose the
printed notice that usually accompanies
them, but evidently he recognised my
handwriting on the envelope, and sent
the tickets back. He wrote a letter
with them:&mdash;</p>

<p>
<span class="sc">Sir,</span>&mdash;I received the enclosed, presumably
from you, because the almost
illegible scrawl on the envelope was
yours without a doubt. Why you
should try to bribe me with five shillings-worth
of tickets for the Annual
Concert I cannot conceive. Perhaps
you are going to sing at it and are
anxious that I should come to hear
you. I shall deny myself that pleasure.
I hear quite enough of you in the
afternoons (this, no doubt, referred to
the rehearsals). Should I change my
mind, which is unlikely, I am quite
able to purchase tickets.
</p>

<p>I replied:&mdash;</p>

<p>
<span class="sc">Dear Mr. Petherton,</span>&mdash;I am beginning
my letter, as you see, in the
formal way, but from your opening
move I foresee that a more affectionate
tone will supervene before we are
through with the matter in hand. This
will be in accordance with the immemorial
custom that has prevailed in
the delightful intercourse between us
on various subjects. Now, as to the
Concert. My suggestion, mutely expressed
through a little forgetfulness
on my part, missed fire. If this isn't
expressed clearly I mean I hoped you
would understand that I sent the
tickets because I hoped that you would
buy them. Or, to put the matter very
plainly, I sent you two tickets. Have
you 5<i>s.</i> that's doing nothing? If so,
send it me for goodness' sake, and keep
the tickets, which I'm sending back in
this. If the 5<i>s.</i> is busy with the War
Loan, don't disturb it of course, but
send me the tickets back, or sell them
to somebody else. I think that's all
clear, so now we'll get on to the next
point. I don't sing&mdash;outside a church.
I fancy it's Wright, the blacksmith, a
fine upstanding bass with full-throated
movement, that you can hear. He
leaves his spreading chestnut-tree on
Wednesdays and Fridays for rehearsals
in my drawing-room, and it's difficult
to keep his voice from straying over
into your premises, even with the
windows shut. I'm sorry if he annoys
you, but, anyway, as the Concert
takes place next Wednesday, he won't
worry you much longer. I hope you
will come in your group. I can send
you more tickets if you need them.</p>

<p class="author1">Yours faithfully,</p>      <p class="author"><span class="sc">H. J. Fordyce</span>.</p>

<p class="ind">I hope your hens are fruit-bearing.
Eggs are a terrible price just now,
aren't they?
</p>

<p>The tickets came back next day with
a curt note:&mdash;</p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page413" id="page413"></a>[pg 413]</span>

<p>
Mr. Petherton begs to return the
concert tickets and requests that Mr.
Fordyce will not send them back again,
as otherwise Mr. Petherton will not
hold himself responsible in the event
of their being lost or destroyed.
</p>

<p>So I wrote again:&mdash;</p>

<p>
<span class="sc">Dear Petherton,</span>&mdash;How perfectly
splendid! Everything has worked out
beautifully up till now. Your first
note was pitched in just the proper
key, and now comes your second, a
perfect gem in its way. Your style
reminds me more than ever of <span class="sc">Chesterfield</span>,
to whom a chair was a chair
and nothing more, but a couch was
an inspiration. I enclose two yellow
tickets this time. Perhaps you didn't
like the others. Some people don't
care for pink tickets. These jolly little
yellow chaps are only 1<i>s.</i> each, a consideration
in these hard times.
</p>

<p class="author1">Yours very sincerely,</p>
<p class="author"><span class="sc">Harry Fordyce</span>.</p>

<p class="ind">
P.S.&mdash;We have a job line of green
tickets at 6<i>d.</i> each to clear. Perhaps
you would care to look at some. We
are selling quite a lot of them this year.
</p>

<p>Petherton's reply to this was an
envelope containing the fragments of
two yellow tickets and a sheet of notepaper
inscribed "With Mr. Frederick
Petherton's compliments."</p>

<p>As the tickets would have to be
accounted for, of course there was
nothing for it but to send him a bill,
so I sent him one:&mdash;</p>

<p class="ind3">
<span class="sc">F. Petherton</span>, Esq.,</p>

<p class="ind3"><i>In a/c with the Purbury Concert
Committee.</i></p>

<p class="ind3"><span class="outdent">To 2 tickets</span> in yellow cardboard,
3 in. by 2-1/2 in., printed in black,
with embellishments, the whole
giving right of entry to the
Purbury Annual Concert to be
held on June 28, 1916 ... 2<i>s.</i></p>

<p class="ind3">Your kind attention will oblige.
</p>

<p>To this Petherton made no reply, so
after a few days I bought the tickets
for (and from) myself, and wrote to
Petherton:&mdash;</p>

<p>
<span class="sc">Dear Freddy,</span>&mdash;You will be glad to
hear that I have found someone to
take your yellow tickets off my hands
at the full market price. Sorry to find
that the War has hit you so badly.
Certainly two bob is two bob, as you
apparently wish me to infer. However
it is a blessing to know that the
Tommies will get the extra cigarettes,
isn't it? It's a pity you won't be at
the concert. Your cheery presence
will be greatly missed, especially by
</p>

<p class="author1">Your old pal,</p>
<p class="author"><span class="sc">Harry</span>.</p>

<p>The reply I received:&mdash;</p>

<p>
Who the devil said I shouldn't be at
the concert? I bought a dozen pink
tickets from the Vicar as soon as I
heard you were not going to perform.
</p>

<p class="author1"><span class="sc">Frederick Petherton.</span></p>

<p>It seems evident that Petherton has
taken a dislike to me for some reason
or other.</p>

<hr class="medium" />

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"><a href="images/413-1500.png"><img src="images/413-600.png" width="600" height="397" alt="Doctor (to wounded soldier who is on 'low diet'). 'Is there anything you want, my lad?'" /></a>
<p><i>Doctor (to wounded soldier who is on "low diet").</i> "<span class="sc">Is
there anything you want, my lad?</span>"</p>

<p><i>Irishman.</i> "<span class="sc">Och, doctor, if ye'd be givin' me a nice fat goose for me
dinner, now?</span>"</p>

<p><i>Doctor.</i> "<span class="sc">Ah, and I suppose you'd like it stuffed with something
special, eh?</span>"</p>

<p><i>Irishman.</i> "<span class="sc">Indeed and I would. I'd like it stuffed with another
wan!</span>"</p></div>

<hr class="medium" />

<h4>"Latet Anguis in Herba."</h4>

<blockquote><p>
"<span class="sc">Rock Plants</span> in pots; 12 different, 2s. 6d.
Cobra, rapid growing Climber, 4d. and 6d.
each.&mdash;Horticultural School, Swaythling."
</p></blockquote>

<p class="author2"><i>Provincial Paper.</i></p>

<p class="ind1">Our gardening friends tell us that
<i>Cobæa scandeus</i> is much safer as a
horticultural pet.</p>

<hr class="medium" />

<p class="center">From a description of a mine explosion
under the German trenches:&mdash;</p>

<blockquote><p>
"Tons of earth were flung hundreds of feet
high, carrying away trenches, dugouts and
handbags."
</p></blockquote>

<p class="author2">&mdash;<i>Baltimore Paper.</i></p>

<p class="ind1">The American correspondent who sends
us the cutting says, "I am glad to see
that the Hun is losing his grip."</p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page414" id="page414"></a>[pg 414]</span>

<hr class="medium" />

<h2 class="sans">THE BOOKLOVER.</h2>

<div class="poem">  <div class="stanza">
<p>By Charing Cross in London Town</p>
<p>There runs a road of high renown,</p>
<p>Where antique books are ranged on shelves</p>
<p>As dark and dusty as themselves.</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p>And many booklovers have spent</p>
<p>Their substance there with great content,</p>
<p>And vexed their wives and filled their homes</p>
<p>With faded prints and massive tomes.</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p>And ere I sailed to fight in France</p>
<p>There did I often woo Romance,</p>
<p>Searching for jewels in the dross,</p>
<p>Along the road to Charing Cross.</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p>But booksellers and men of taste</p>
<p>Have fled the towns the Hun laid waste,</p>
<p>And within Ypres Cathedral square</p>
<p>I sought but found no bookshops there.</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p>What little hope have books to dwell</p>
<p>'Twixt Flemish mud and German shell?</p>
<p>Yet have I still upon my back,</p>
<p>Hid safely in my haversack,</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p>A tattered Horace, printed fine</p>
<p>(Anchor and Fish, the printer's sign),</p>
<p>Of sage advice, of classic wit;</p>
<p>Much wisdom have I gained from it.</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p>And should I suffer sad mischance</p>
<p>When Summer brings the Great Advance,</p>
<p>I pray no cultured Bosch may bag</p>
<p>My Aldus print to swell his swag.</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p>Yet would I rather ask of Fate</p>
<p>So to consider my estate,</p>
<p>That I may live to loiter down</p>
<p>By Charing Cross in London Town.</p>
  </div>  </div>

<hr class="medium" />

<h4>The Reward of "Frightfulness."</h4>

<blockquote><p>
"Amsterdam, Sunday.&mdash;Admiral von Tirpitz
has been offered the degree of doctor
hororis."
</p></blockquote>

<p class="author2">&mdash;<i>Provincial Paper.</i></p>

<hr class="medium" />

<h4>Taking it Badly.</h4>

<blockquote><p class="center">
"AUSTRIAN DEFENCES GRUMBLING
BEFORE THE RUSSIANS."
</p></blockquote>

<p class="author2"><i>Scotch Paper.</i></p>

<hr class="medium" />

<p class="ind3">"What is Port?" asks an evening
paper. According to Admiral <span class="sc">von
Scheer</span> it is "A very present help in
time of trouble."</p>

<hr class="medium" />

<h4>The Chameleon.</h4>

<p class="ind3">From a feuilleton:&mdash;</p>

<blockquote><p>
"The black sheep had flushed crimson, but
the hot colour soon died down leaving him
very pale."
</p></blockquote>

<p class="author2">&mdash;<i>The Daily Mirror.</i></p>

<hr class="medium" />

<blockquote><p>
"Experienced nurses wanted immediately;
temporary £1 to 15<i>s.</i> weekly. Also excellent
situations for ladies' first babies, £40 to £28."
</p></blockquote>

<p class="author2"><i>Daily Paper.</i></p>

<p class="ind2">The demand for juvenile labour is surely
being overdone.</p>

<hr class="medium" />

<h2 class="sans">RUIN O' ENGLAND.</h2>

<h4>(<i>At "The Plough and Horses."</i>)</h4>

<p>"Upper classes be stirrin' o' theirselves
to rights now, seemin'ly."</p>

<p>"'Ow be you meanin', George?"</p>

<p>"Squire be by my place 'tother day
when I be 'avin' a bit o' quiet pipe by
my gate, same as you might be, Luther
Cherriman, an' 'e stops&mdash;which 'e ain't
been in the 'abit o' doin'&mdash;an' 'e says,
''Ullo, George,' 'e says, 'bain't you the
man as allus used to keep a pig ereabouts?'
An' I answers 'im as I cert'nly
did use to keep a pig pretty constant
when food-stuffs was cheaper than what
they be now."</p>

<p>"What's 'e say to that, George?"</p>

<p>"'E says, 'My good man, if you was
a bit more thrifty like, an' wasn't above
collectin' 'ouse'old scraps,' 'e says, 'an',
moreover, if you wasn't so blamed penny
wise an' poun' foolish,' 'e says, 'you'd
be keepin' y'r pigs&mdash;breedin' of 'em&mdash;now,
when you could get biggest price
for 'em. You'd be doin' o' y'rself a
good turn an' settin' a 'xample to y'r
neighbours,' 'e says, 'as they badly
needs. Well, any'ow, think it over,'
'e says&mdash;an' away 'e goes."</p>

<p>"You been thinkin' it over, George?"</p>

<p>"In a manner o' speakin' I be thinkin'
it over now, this very minute. In a
manner o' speakin' I were thinkin' it
over when I goes up to the Court over
a bit o' business yesterday. 'Owever,
I were really doin' no more 'n airin' my
mind, as you might say, to the Cook&mdash;a
decent 'nough young woman. I 'adn't
no idea o' nothin' more."</p>

<p>"What you say to 'er, then?"</p>

<p>"I were lookin' at a bit of a lawn
they 'as up there to the left o' their
back-door. Middlin' poor bit o' lawn
it be, not like them in front, an' I says
of it what I've often said afore. 'Too
much lawn to this 'ere 'ouse,' I says, 'to
please me. Ruin o' England,' I says,
'lawns do be. Orter be dug up,' I says.
'Sow a matter o' fower bushels o' taters,'
I says, 'on that poor little bit 'lone.
Don't like t' see all this waste o' groun','
I says, 'an' us at war.'"</p>

<p>"What did Cook say to that? Some'at
saucy, I be bound."</p>

<p>"'You be very practical, George,' she
says, 'but food ain't everything, even in
times o' war. You did ought to have
seen wounded soldiers,' she says, 'settin'
'bout on all these 'ere lawns last summer
time, like a lot o' bluebottles, 'joyin'
o' theirselves to rights,' she says. 'An'
'ow could they a-done it, poor chaps,'
she says, 'if we'd 'ad nothin' but an
ol' tater patch to offer 'em?'"</p>

<p>"You'd got y'r answer to that, I
dessay."</p>

<p>"I 'ad. 'They soldier chaps could
very well 'ave sat on the paths,' I says&mdash;for
the paths be wasteful wide to my
thinkin'. 'A bit of a bench or a chair
or so, an' they'd 'ave been right as
rain, with some'at to look at as was
sensible, too. A close-cut lawn ain't no
manner o' interest to a thinkin' man,
not like a medder or a few rows o' good
early taters be.'"</p>

<p>"What did Cook say to that 'ere?"</p>

<p>"She laughs, an' she says, 'You be
done courtin' then, George, I can see.
You ain't got no thought of a second
wife, seemin'ly.' ''Ow d' you know
that?' I asks; an' she laughs again an'
says she knows, 'cos if 'twasn't so I'd
like the thought of a bit o' lawn to sit
out on warm evenings an' such. An'
then she says, 'You think too much
o' y'r stomach, George'&mdash;which fair
rattled me."</p>

<p>"What you say?"</p>

<p>"I says again, 'They lawns be the
ruin o' England, I tell ye'&mdash;an' then
I see 'er start an' go red 's a poppy, an'
then she sort o' plunges in at 'er door.
An' then I looks round for first time
an' I sees Squire standin' there, 'earin'
all as 'ad been said, an' for the moment
I'd 'ave been glad 'nough for a back-door
too&mdash;so I would."</p>

<p>"Lord-a-mercy, George, you're a
rare-un for puttin' y'r foot in it wi'
gentry! What to gracious did 'e make
o' it?"</p>

<p>"'E sort o' smiled&mdash;but crooked like.
An' then 'e says, 'No but what you're
right, George'&mdash;which were 'bout
'undred miles from what I 'spected
'im to say. 'Look 'ere,' 'e goes on,
'I'll make a bargain wi' ye. You send
me up 'alf-a-bushel o' seed potatoes,'
'e says, 'to start on, an' I'll send you a
young sow out o' the last litter. What
d' you say?'"</p>

<p>"What did ye say?"</p>

<p>"I says, 'Thank ye kindly, Sir.
An' if I've done my bit to save England
from ruin I be fine an' glad.' And so
I be."</p>

<hr class="medium" />

<h4>More Tampering with the Calendar.</h4>

<blockquote><p>
"Among the objections to flag days is that
they have detracted from the novelty of Alexandra
Rose Day, which this year is being held
on June 31."&mdash;<i>Daily Paper.</i>
</p></blockquote>

<p class="ind1">This attempt to shove Alexandra Day
right off the calendar, has, we are glad
to say, been unsuccessful; and to-day,
June 21st, sees roses, roses all the
way as usual.</p>

<hr class="medium" />

<h3>From a concert programme:&mdash;</h3>

<div class="poem">  <div class="stanza">
<p>"<span class="sc">Ballet.</span>  (for which Miss Gladys Groom</p>
<p class="i10">        has won the Challenge Cub in</p>
<p class="i10">        connection with Lady Rachel</p>
<p class="i10">        Byng's Olympic Game Tests)</p>
  </div><div class="stanza">
<p><span class="sc">Song.</span>    'Show us how to do the Fox Trot'</p>
<p class="i10">        (Miss Ruby Groom and chorus)."</p>
  </div>  </div>

<p class="ind2">It seems to us that Miss <span class="sc">Gladys's</span> reward
would have been more appropriate
to Miss <span class="sc">Ruby</span>.</p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page415" id="page415"></a>[pg 415]</span>

<hr class="medium" />

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"><a href="images/415-1500.png"><img src="images/415-600.png" width="600" height="348" alt="GIVEN AWAY." /></a>
<h3 class="sans">GIVEN AWAY.</h3>

<p><i>Boy.</i> "<span class="sc">Mother, we oughtn't to be in this carriage, ought we? It's
first-class.</span>"</p>

<p><i>Mother.</i> "<span class="sc">Oh, darling, you mean we ought to be economising in
war-time?</span>"</p>

<p><i>Boy.</i> "<span class="sc">But, Mother, we <i>are</i> economising, aren't we? We've only
got third-class tickets.</span>"</p></div>

<hr class="medium" />

<h2 class="sans">OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.</h2>

<h4>(<i>By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks.</i>)</h4>

<p>There is no doubt that one of the greatest pieces of luck
that has come the way of the Empire is <span class="sc">Louis Botha</span>.
Mr. <span class="sc">Harold Spender's</span> legitimately uncritical biography,
<i>General Botha: The Career and the Man</i> (<span class="sc">Constable</span>), fills
in the details of the romance; and astonishing details they
are. <span class="sc">Botha</span>, the anti-Krugerite, one of the seven in the
Volksraad who voted against the fateful ultimatum in
October, 1899, threw himself, when war was unavoidable,
with all his energy into the task of his country's defence.
Rapidly proving himself, he succeeded his sick chief,
<span class="sc">Joubert</span>, with at first, and luckily for us, a mitigated
authority. Here was no mere slim guerilla playing little
disconcerting tricks on a clumsy enemy, but a general to
respect, as <span class="sc">Buller</span> found at Colenso and <span class="sc">Benson</span> at
Bakenlaagte. And his staff college was just his own
occiput. When the inevitable end came, long delayed by
his and his brother-generals' skill and courage, he laboured
for a lasting peace, and took a line of steady fealty to the ideal
of British citizenship, which he has unfalteringly pursued
to this day. It is good, by the way, to recall the admirable
and patient diplomacy, at and after Vereeniging, of Lord
<span class="sc">Kitchener</span>, who was the chief pleader for generous concessions
to the gallant beaten enemy&mdash;an attitude <span class="sc">Botha</span>
never forgot. <span class="sc">Botha</span> is indeed the pilot of modern South
Africa&mdash;the first Premier of the Transvaal after the gift of
responsible government, the first Premier of the Union after
the federation of the four states. To him has fallen the honour
(and the task) of crushing the rebellion, wherein he had
the supreme wisdom to throw the burden upon the loyal
Dutch in order not to risk reopening racial bitterness by
using British elements against the rebels. He has entered
Windhuk a conqueror. May his old luck follow him in
the still difficult days of the youngest of the Dominions!
I've forgotten Mr. <span class="sc">Spender's</span> book. But of course this is
all out of it. And there's plenty more good stuff in it.</p>

<hr class="medium" />

<p>I have for some time now had my prophetic eye upon
Mr. <span class="sc">J. C. Snaith</span> as a writer from whom uncommon things
were to be looked for. So it has pleased me to find this
belief entirely justified by <i>The Sailor</i> (<span class="sc">Smith</span>, <span class="sc">Elder</span>),
which is as good and absorbing a tale as anything I have
encountered this great while. It is the life-history of one
<i>Henry Harper</i> that Mr. <span class="sc">Snaith</span> sets out to tell; incidentally
it is also the record of the development of a popular
novelist out of a slum child, through such seemingly unpromising
stages as tramp-sailor and professional footballer.
There is a strength and (to use the most fitting term)
a punch about the telling of it that carries the reader
forward quite irresistibly. Moreover, like all histories of
expanding fortune, it is cheery reading for that sake alone.
Personally, I think I liked most the football section. I
knew from <i>Willow the King</i> that Mr. <span class="sc">Snaith</span> knew all about
cricket; for his football mastery I was unprepared. There
is a fresh poignancy in Mr. <span class="sc">Snaith's</span> handling of professional
sport in its most frankly gladiatorial aspect that gives one
a new sympathy with the young giants who are now
mostly engaged upon another and nobler contest. What I
I liked least about the book were the <i>Sailor's</i> two matrimonial
adventures. His entrapment by the detestable <i>Cora</i> is so
painful that perhaps I was glad to think it also slightly
incredible. Even the lady whose hand is his ultimate
great reward failed to rouse me to any enthusiasm. But
the <i>Sailor</i> himself is so human and likeable a figure that
he perhaps absorbed my interest to the exclusion of the
other characters, which I hope is as Mr. <span class="sc">Snaith</span> intended it.</p>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="page416" id="page416"></a>[pg 416]</span>

<p>In <i>Verdun to the Vosges</i> (<span class="sc">Arnold</span>) <span class="sc">Mr. Gerald Campbell</span>
has paid a generous tribute to the indomitable courage of
our French Allies. His position as Special Correspondent
of <i>The Times</i> gave him opportunities&mdash;strictly limited, of
course, but unique&mdash;of recording in particular the earlier
phases of the War on the fortress frontier of France; and
he has produced a volume which shows no trace of civilian
authorship, except in those qualities which confess the art
of a trained writer. Never obtruding his own personality,
he gives us here and there a glimpse of privileged
experiences and happy relationships with the French
authorities, civil and military, notably the Préfet of Meurthe
et Moselle, whose letter to the author, published as an
epilogue, is a document of astounding force and eloquence.
If I have a complaint to make it is that in a serious history&mdash;the
kind that you must follow very closely on the map&mdash;Mr.
<span class="sc">Campbell</span> should have spent so much time on general
reflections and homilies which might just as well have been
compose in Fleet Street or the salient of Ypres. And it is
perhaps a pity that, where his subject gave him no chance
of dealing with his own
country's share in the
War, he should have exposed
at considerable
length certain defects in
the English character
which delayed the adoption
of national service.
It is true that universal
compulsion had not been
adopted at the time when
Mr. <span class="sc">Campbell</span> was writing,
and it is certain that
no one who knows the
good work he has done
in helping the two nations
to a better understanding
of one another will question
his motives; but I
think that these reflections
upon England, very
English in their candour,
have no proper place in a
history of the achievements
of France; and I hope that they may be cut out of
the French translation which is shortly to appear. For
the rest (and a good big rest) it is an enthralling book; and
if I were a Frenchman I should read it with a very great
pride. Even as it is, and notwithstanding what I have
said, I am proud enough that an Englishman should have
written it.</p>

<hr class="medium" />

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"><a href="images/416-1000.png"><img src="images/416-600.png" width="600" height="434" alt="Painful predicament of Mnemo, the world-famed memoriser,..." /></a>
<p><span class="sc">Painful predicament of Mnemo, the world-famed memoriser,
who, after a hard day at a matinee and two evening performances,
forgets the name and number of his house.</span></p></div>

<hr class="medium" />

<p><i>The Scratch Pack</i> (<span class="sc">Hutchinson</span>) is another of those
jovial, out-door stories, for which Miss <span class="sc">Dorothea Conyers</span>
has already endeared herself to a considerable public. As
before, her scene is Ireland. It is somewhere on the south
coast of that emotional island that a maiden called <i>Gheena
Freyne</i> determines, in the war-absence of the local M.F.H.,
to do her bit by dealing faithfully with the foxes, who are
rather above themselves through neglect. So she, and one
<i>Darby Dillon</i>, who is crippled and unable to do anything but
ride (and adore <i>Gheena</i>), get together a very scratch pack
of the farmers' foot-dogs. What sport results, and how
buoyantly it is told, those with experience of Miss <span class="sc">Conyers'</span>
vigorous gifts can easily imagine. There is however another
thread to the story. A second suitor pervades the scene,
one <i>Basil Stafford</i>, who, though hale and vigorous, persists,
even under white-feather provocation, in an attitude of
taciturn reserve about the War. Also he takes mysterious
walks at night on the cliffs, somewhere off which a German
submarine is said to be hiding, <i>Gheena</i> accordingly suspects
him of being (i) a shirker, (ii) a spy. Apparently, as
far as young ladies on the South coast of Ireland are concerned,
Messrs. <span class="sc">Vedrenne</span> and <span class="sc">Eadie</span> have simply lived
in vain. The more sophisticated reader, while not sharing
<i>Gheena's</i> astonishment at the climax, will none the less
enjoy some pleasant thrills that lead up to it. In short
<i>The Scratch Pack</i> can show you an excellent day's sport.</p>

<hr class="medium" />

<p>I suppose we owe our grotesquely insular ignorance of
the Art of Russia (other than music) to the fact that hitherto
no one has been so enterprising as <span class="sc">Rosa Newmarch</span>. In
<i>The Russian Arts</i> (<span class="sc">Jenkins</span>), she sets out to give us a brief
history of painting in Russia, from the ikon to the Futurist
diagram, with a preamble on architecture and a postscript
on sculpture. It is indeed a dismal thing to be brought to
realise, even from quite inadequate illustrations in monochrome
half-tone, that one does not know anything of such
artists as <span class="sc">Repin</span> and <span class="sc">Nesterof</span>&mdash;to take but two widely
differing types of a notable
family. Art, such triumphant
art, say, as the ballet
with the gorgeous scenic
accessories that we know,
does not spring into being
without ancestry, and this
book gives us some notes
on artistic pedigree&mdash;enough
perhaps to save us
from abject shame when,
after this war, we sit at
dinner next some knowledgeable
Russian guest....
And this is likely
often to happen. It is
odd that Mrs. <span class="sc">Newmarch</span>
seems to be interested in
the literary rather than
the graphic content of the
pictures she describes&mdash;odd
because she seems to
know the painter's creed.</p>

<hr class="medium" />

<h4>An Impending Apology.</h4>

<p class="center">Extract from a soldier's letter recently received by the
wife of a distinguished retired officer:&mdash;</p>

<blockquote><p>
"Please tell Colonel W&mdash;&mdash; I was asking for him. Tell him this is
a rough war, not the same as in his time. It is all brains now, and
machinery."
</p></blockquote>

<hr class="medium" />

<p class="center">Extract from <i>The Seamanship Manual</i>, vol. ii., chap, vii.,
"Disembarking Troops":&mdash;</p>

<blockquote><p>
"This method is satisfactory for horses, mules, or cattle, but does
not answer with the camel. The latter, if not drowned on the way
ashore, is very little use when landed."
</p></blockquote>

<p class="ind1">This disparaging remark about the "ship of the desert"
is attributable, we fear, to professional jealousy.</p>

<hr class="medium" />

<blockquote><p>
"The impression I carried away was that the Kiel Canal was a
splendid bit of engineering, and that in case of war it would be invaluable,
not only as a refuge for the German Fleet, but also as a
quick means of getting the Kiel squadron quickly into the North
Sea, or <i>vice versâ</i>."&mdash;<i>Sunday Chronicle.</i>
</p></blockquote>

<p class="ind1">The British Fleet has proved even better than the Kiel
Canal as a quick means of accomplishing the vice-versá
operation.</p>

<hr class="medium" />

<blockquote><p class="center">

"The last sale of home mad cooking will take place on Saturday."</p>
</blockquote>

<p class="author2"><i>Avonlea Advocate (Saskatchewan).</i></p>

<p class="ind2">If only it were the last!</p>
<hr class="full" />








<pre>





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