“Dear Sir—You have changed my little boy into a little girl. Will it make any difference?“Respectfully yours,”—— ——.““My Bill has been put in charge of a spittoon. Will I get more pay?” [“Platoon” was meant.]“I am glad to tell you that my husband has been reported dead.”“If I don’t get my husband’s money soon I shall be compelled to go on the streets and lead an Imortal life.”“Dear Sir—In accordance with instructions on paper, I have given birth to a daughter last week.“Truly yours,”—— ——.“
“Dear Sir—You have changed my little boy into a little girl. Will it make any difference?
“Respectfully yours,”—— ——.“
“My Bill has been put in charge of a spittoon. Will I get more pay?” [“Platoon” was meant.]
“I am glad to tell you that my husband has been reported dead.”
“If I don’t get my husband’s money soon I shall be compelled to go on the streets and lead an Imortal life.”
“Dear Sir—In accordance with instructions on paper, I have given birth to a daughter last week.
“Truly yours,”—— ——.“
“Yes, sah,” said one negro, “a friend of mine who knows all about it says dis heah man Edison has done gone and invented a magnetized bullet dat can’t miss a German, kase ef dere’s one in a hundred yards debullet is drawn right smack against his steel helmet. Yes, sah, an’ he’s done invented another one with a return attachment. Whenever dat bullet don’t hit nothin’ it comes right straight back to de American lines.”
“Dat’s what I call inventin’,” exclaimed his colored listener. “But how about dem comin’-back bullets? What do dey do to keep ’em from hittin’ ouah men when dey come back?”
“Well, Mr. Edison made ’em so he’s got ’em trained. You don’t s’pose he’d let ’em kill any Americans, do you? No, sah. He’s got ’em fixet so’s dey jes’ ease back down aroun’ de gunner’s feet an’ sort o’ say: ‘Dey’s all dead in dat trench, boss. Send me to a live place where I’se got a chancet to do somethin’.’”
A soldier was brought up for stealing his trench bunkie’s liquor.
“I’m sorry, sor,” he said. “But I put the liquor for the two of us in the same bottle. Mine was at the bottom, an’ I was obliged to drink his to get mine.”
At a church adjacent to a big military camp a service was recently held for soldiers only.
“Let all you brave fellows who have troubles stand up,” shouted the preacher.
Instantly every man rose except one.
“Ah!” exclaimed the preacher, peering at this lone individual. “You are one in a thousand.”
“It ain’t that,” piped back the only man who had remained seated, as the rest of his comrades gazed suspiciously at him. “Somebody’s put some cobbler’s wax on the seat, and I’m stuck.”
An army chaplain was trudging along a hot, dusty road with a company of soldiers. As they stopped to rest and to get a drink of water at a farm house the farmer’s wife said to the chaplain:
“You go everywhere the soldiers go, I suppose?”
“No, ma’am,” answered the preacher, “not everywhere; only in this world.”
The subject of rifle shooting often crops up at one of the training camps.
“I’ll bet anyone here a box of cigars,” said Lieut. A., “that I can fire twenty-one shots at 200 yards and tell without waiting for the marker the result of each one correctly.”
“Done!” cried Maj. B. And the whole mess turned out early the next morning to witness the experiment.
The lieutenant fired.
“Miss!” he announced calmly.
Another shot.
“Miss!” he repeated.
A third shot.
“Miss!”
“Here, hold on!” put in Maj. B. “What are you trying to do? You’re not firing for the target!”
“Of course not!” was the cool response. “I’m firing for those cigars!”
Two “kilties” from the same town met in a rest camp “somewhere in France” and started exchanging confidences.
“Whit like a sendoff did yer wuman gie ye, Sandy, when ye left for France?” asked Jock presently.
Sandy lit a fresh cigaret before he replied frankly:
“Says she, ‘Noo, there’s yer train, Sandy; in ye get, an’ see an’ do yer duty. By jingo, ma mannie, if I thocht ye wed shirk it oot yonder I wud see ye was wounded afore ye gang off.’ That’s the sendoff she gaed me, Jock.”
United States Senator Howard Sutherland, of West Virginia, tells a story about a mountain youth who visited a recruiting office in the Senator’s State for the purpose of enlisting in the regular army. The examining physician found the young man as sound as a dollar, but that he had flat feet.
“I’m sorry,” said the physician, “but I’ll have to turn you down. You’ve got flat feet.”
The mountaineer looked sorrowful. “No way for me to git in it, then?” he inquired.
“I guess not. With those flat feet of yours you wouldn’t be able to march even five miles.”
The youth from the mountains studied a moment. Finally he said: “I’ll tell you why I hate this so darned bad. You see, I walked nigh on to one hundred and fifty miles over the mountains to git here, and gosh, how I hate to walk back!”
Two men went to the Y. M. C. A. director in one of the camps and said that they were in the habit of kneeling down and saying their prayers at home. What ought they to do here?
“Try it out,” was the advice.
They did; the second night two others in the barracks joined them; the third night a few more; gradually the number increased until considerably more than half the men resumed the habit of childhood and knelt by their cots in prayer before turning in.
A company captain in one of the cantonments the first evening his men stood at attention for retreat said: “Men, this is a serious business we are engaged in; it is fitting that we should pray about it.” There and then this Plattsburg Reserve officer made a simple and earnest prayer for the divine blessing upon their lives and their work. The impression upon themen was described as tremendous. Such incidents indicate the general spirit of the new armies.
They are telling the story in London taprooms of a German soldier who laughed uproariously all the time he was being flogged. When the officer, at the end, inquired the cause of the private’s mirth, the latter broke into a fresh fit of laughter and cried:
“Why, I’m the wrong man!”
A French soldier who came proudly up to an American in a certain headquarters town the other day asked:
“You spik French?”
“Nope,” answered the American, “not yet.”
The Frenchman smiled complacently.
“Aye spik Eengleesh,” he said. The American grinned and the Frenchman looked about for some means to show his prowess in the foreign tongue. At that moment a French girl, very neat and trim in her peaked hat, long coat, and high laced boots, came along. The Frenchman jerked his head toward her, looked knowingly at the American, and said triumphantly: “Chicken.”
The American roared.
“Shake,” he said, extending his hand. “You don’t speak English; you speak American.”
The grit of the British Tommy is amazing, as told by a Swiss correspondent who found himself with fourteen soldiers in a barn. A huge German shell suddenly “found” the barn in the very center and wrecked it. It was pitch dark; the Swiss was seriously wounded and decided to lay still until help should come. Suddenly a voice spoke out of the dark:
“Anyone left here?”
“Right here, old chap,” came an answer.
“Ah.” Then silence, and in a few moments came: “Say, old man, think you could give me a bit of a lift. Seems both of my pins are gone.”
“Sorry, old chap,” came the answer. “Wish I could, but they found both of my hands.”
“Oh,” came the answer. Then, after a pause: “That’s a bit inconvenient, isn’t it?”
“Somewhat,” was the reply.
After a few moments:
“Hell of a rumpus, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, quite.”
“Well,” came the final word, “someone will come along and find us.”
And “someone” did.
A padre passing up and down among the wounded at a field hospital asked a wounded Jock whether he would like to dictate a letter home. The Jock assented.Thereupon the minister prepared to take down the letter, but found Jock tongue-tied and unable to begin.
“Come along, now!” said the padre kindly. “We must make a start. What shall I say?”
No reply.
“Shall I begin ‘My Dear Wife?’”
“Ay,” said Jock, “pit that doon. That’ll amuse her!”
“Any restitution Germany offers to the Allies will be offered, you may be sure, in the spirit of Griggs.”
The speaker was Edward Hungerford, the advertising expert.
“Griggs and Miggs,” he went on, “were kidnapped by bandits and shut up in a cave.
“‘They’ll take every cent we’ve got on us,’ moaned Miggs. ‘Every blessed cent.’
“‘They will, eh?’ said Griggs, thoughtfully.
“‘They sure will.’
“Griggs peeled a ten-spot from his roll.
“‘Here, Miggs,’ he said, ‘here is that ten dollars I’ve been owin’ you for so long.’”
“Charley, dear,” said young Mrs. Torkins, “I have thought up a witticism for you to tell at the club.”
“Do I have to tell it?”
“Of course not. But you’ll miss a great chance if you don’t. It’s this: Baseball players ought to be put into the navy instead of the army. Go on; ask me ‘Why?’”
“Why?”
“So that they can steal submarine bases.”
The word came that a company of soldiers in an Eastern camp would leave the next morning on a transport for France. One soldier came from Portland, Ore. Quickly he went to the public telephone pay station and put in a call for his mother. For an hour he paced back and forth before that booth, and then came the word “Portland is on the wire.” Slowly but impressively this boy in khaki dropped one hundred 25-cent pieces in the slot, and for a precious five minutes that boy heard his mother’s voice and she heard the good-by of her boy. Then, dripping wet from the nervous strain, he ran for his barracks to get ready for France and the trenches.
He was a strikingly handsome figure in his uniform as he started out upon his round of farewell calls.
“And you’ll think of me every single minute when you’re in those stupid old trenches?” questioned the sweet young thing upon whom he first called.
He nodded emphatically. “Every minute.”
“And you’ll kiss my picture every night?”
“Twice a night,” he vowed rashly, patting the pretty head on his shoulder.
“And write me long, long letters?” she insisted.
“Every spare minute I have,” he reassured her, and hurried away to the next name on his list.
There were ten in all who received his promises.
When it was over he sighed. “I hope,” he murmured wearily, “there won’t be much fighting to do ‘over there.’ I’m going to be so tremendously busy.”
The adjutant was lecturing to the subalterns of the battalion.
“In the field,” he said, “it is now incumbent upon an officer to make himself look as much like a man as possible.”
Everybody laughed.
“That is, I mean,” he explained, “as much like a soldier as possible.”
One of the brightest young business men of Pittsburgh enrolled as a volunteer and by his quick intelligence soon won an officer’s commission. He led his troops in the attack on Bouresches, and so hot was the fight that a major was sent from headquarters to learn the worst. He met the young officer comingout of the town with part of his company. The major happened to be a pompous gentleman, well known for his egotism. Having no faith in anyone to “finish a job,” he asked the young officer:
“What’s the condition of Bouresches?”
“In our hands, sir. I left a detachment to guard the town,” replied the young officer.
“Any boches left?” was the next question.
The young officer hesitated and then said:
“Yes, sir.”
A lurid interlude followed. “Did not your orders from me say that no Germans were to be left there?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the young officer.
“Then why in hell have you disobeyed my orders, hey?” asked the irate major.
The young Pittsburgher looked the major in the eye and replied: “The burying patrol has not arrived yet, sir.”
The recruiting had been good and the orator of the occasion felt well satisfied with himself. It would be graceful, he thought, to speak a few concluding words to the crowd of men who had dedicated themselves to “king and country.”
“And what will you think when you see the flag of the empire standing out from its staff above the field of battle?” the speaker demanded, his face alight with patriotic fervor.
“Standin’ straight out, guv’nor?” a stolid recruit questioned earnestly.
“Why—er—yes!” the orator responded, in some confusion.
“I should think, then,” the future Tommy announced gravely, “that the wind was blowin’ ’ard.”
We’re glad to see that General Foch is studying this column for ideas to help speed up the winning of the war. A month or so ago we quoted a paragraph of Jack Blanton’s, advising General Foch that, while defensive fighting was all right for awhile, all the great battles of the world had been won by the armies which took the offensive. Yesterday’s papers quoted General Foch to the same effect. We’ve suspected all along that the unofficial boards of strategy in Paris, Mo., and other country towns knew lots more about the war-problems than anybody in Paris, France, and this proves it.—Kansas City Times.
When the lad came to in the shell hole he thought at first somebody had emptied a bucket of warm water on his face and breast. But it happened to be blood from a nasty wound running down his cheek and along his chin. He’d not known, naturally, when it had happened. A little wabbly, he was reachingfor his rifle when a field surgeon slid down the bank and confronted him.
“Can you walk?” he asked.
“Sure, why not?” was the reply.
“Why, man, you’re wounded!” the surgeon exclaimed.
The kid’s eyes flashed. “No, sir,” he said with a gory grin; “I was leaning against the German barrage when the Huns lifted it and I fell and cut my chin. That’s all. Please let me stay.”
This subject is discussed by W. H. Berry, an actor whose “High Jinks” has been going strong with London theater-goers.
“It is far more necessary for a comedian to get the laughs in time of war,” says Berry, “and I know that many of our comedians have worked their hardest on the nights when there was bad news in the papers.
“There are only a few subjects taboo, but they should be shunned absolutely. I object, for example, to a joke I heard not long ago about wounded soldiers who had to wear glass eyes. I consider such jokes offensive in the highest degree. As a wag of my acquaintance remarked the other day, ‘Some of these war jokes are too warful for words.’
“There are, however, certain subjects allied to the war on which I consider it perfectly legitimate to jest. There is the censorship. There are our pitchy streets at night time.
“For instance, I myself have perpetrated wheezelets’ on these topics in ‘High Jinks,’ of which the following are fair samples:
“‘Would you believe it, it’s so dark now in London that when I dined at the Carlton the other night I had to put luminous paint on my potatoes to stop myself putting them in the mouth of the gentleman next to me.
“‘It’s so dark that when I go to the opera I take a trained glow worm with me.
“‘He’s a wealthy man, indeed—he’s got a whole box of matches in his pocket.’”
His Honor—“Rufus, didn’t you hear that you had to work or fight?”
Rufus—“Yaas, boss, I sho’ dun hyer dat. So I goes an’ gits married right away.”
During a fierce engagement on the Somme battlefield a British officer saw a German officer impaled on the barbed wire between the lines, writhing in anguish. The fire was heavy, but still the wounded man hung there. At last the Englishman could stand it no longer. He said quietly: “I can’t bear to look at that poor chap.” He went out under the storm of shell fire, released the sufferer, took him on his shoulders and carried him to the German trench. Thefiring ceased. Both sides watched the act with wonder. Then the commander in the German trench came forward, took from his own bosom the Iron Cross, and pinned it on the breast of the British officer.
“Yes,” said Simpkins, “I want to do my bit, of course, so I thought I’d raise some potatoes.”
“Well, I thought I would do that,” said Smith, “but when I looked up the way to do it I found that potatoes have to be planted in hills, and our yard is perfectly flat.”
Jean is a typical French soldier: alert, daring; a keen, educated youth. He is equally at home with the German and the French languages, which accounts for what follows:
One dark night, shortly after midnight, Jean—on a solitary patrol—was lying just outside the wire, about ten meters from the German trench, listening to locate the sentries. There was a faint starlight. Suddenly a whisper came from beyond the wire, a low voice speaking in broken French:
“Why do you lie so quiet, my friend? I saw you crawl up and have watched you ever since. I don’t want to shoot you. I am a Bavarian.”
“Good evening, then,” Jean whispered back in his perfect German.
“So,” said the sentry, “you speak our language. Wait a moment, till I warn the rest of my squad, and I will show you the way through the wire; there are no officers about at this hour.”
Probably not one man in a thousand would have taken such a chance, but Jean did, and ten minutes later was standing in the trench in a German cloak and fatigue cap (in case of passing officers), chatting amiably with a much interested group of Bavarian soldiers. They gave him beer, showed him their dugouts, and arranged a whistle signal for future visits, before bidding him a regretful good night. “We are Bavarians,” they said; “we like and admire the French, and fight only because we must.”
Two soldiers caused some amusement at a golf course the other way. The first man teed up and made a mighty swipe, but failed to shift the ball. The miss was repeated no fewer than three times.
His pal was unable to stand it any longer.
“For heaven’s sake, Bill,” he broke out, “hit the bloomin’ thing. You know we have only four days’ leave.”
She was a sweet young thing, and having come down to see her soldier brother, who was on duty at that time, she was being taken round by his chum. She was, of course, full of questions.
“Who is that person?” she asked, pointing to a color sergeant.
“Oh! he shook hands with the king; that is why he is wearing a crown on his arm, you see!” replied the truthful man.
“And who is that?” she asked, seeing a gymnastic instructor with a badge of crossed Indian clubs.
“That is the barber; do you not see the scissors on his arm?”
Seeing yet another man with cuffs decorated with stars, she asked, “And that one?”
“Oh, he is the battalion astronomer; he guides us on night maneuvers!”
“How interesting!” replied the maiden, when seeing her companion’s badge, that of an ancient stringed instrument, she asked, “And does that thing mean you are the regimental liar?”
“Anything I can do for you?” asked a surgeon as he passed the bed of a smiling but badly wounded soldier.
“Yes, doctor; perhaps you can tell me something I’d very much like to know,” answered “Sammie.”
“Fire ahead,” replied the doctor. “What is it?”
“Well, doctor, when one doctor doctors another doctor, does the doctor doing the doctoring doctor the other doctor like the doctor wants to be doctored, or does the doctor doing the doctoring doctor theother doctor like the doctor doing the doctoring wants to doctor him?”
While some Scottish regiments were disembarking in France, several French officers were watching them. One observed: “They can’t be women, for they have mustaches; but they can’t be men, for they wear skirts.”
“I have it,” said another. “They’re that famous Middlesex regiment from London.”
Sing a song of baseball,Good old Yankee game;Rain or shine, war or peace,Play it just the same.Out behind the trenches,Swat the little pill,Helps to boost the spiritFor swatting Kaiser Bill.
Sing a song of baseball,Good old Yankee game;Rain or shine, war or peace,Play it just the same.Out behind the trenches,Swat the little pill,Helps to boost the spiritFor swatting Kaiser Bill.
Sing a song of baseball,Good old Yankee game;Rain or shine, war or peace,Play it just the same.Out behind the trenches,Swat the little pill,Helps to boost the spiritFor swatting Kaiser Bill.
Sing a song of baseball,
Good old Yankee game;
Rain or shine, war or peace,
Play it just the same.
Out behind the trenches,
Swat the little pill,
Helps to boost the spirit
For swatting Kaiser Bill.
Two colored troopers in France called upon the Chaplain.
“Look here, Mr. Chaplain, we wants you for to settle an argument,” said one of them. “Dis here man says lots of saints were colored folks. Would you please tell me how many of dem ’postles were niggers?”
“None of them was a darky,” said the Chaplain.
“Well, Sir, that settles it. Dis man wanted me to believe that St. Peter was a nigger, and I just told him: ‘No, Sah, St. Peter was no nigger, ’cause I heard you say about St. Peter and dat rooster crowin’ twice. If St. Peter was a nigger I jest know dat rooster would never have a chance to crow a second time; no, Sah.’”
A wife whose husband is on active service recently presented him with a bouncing baby boy. She wrote to ask him when he should get leave, and also when the war would be over. His reply was as follows:
“Dear Lucy:—I don’t know when I shall get leave or when the war will be over, but if the baby should be called up before I get leave, give him a parcel to bring out to me. Your loving husband, Bill.”
The Post School for Soldiers gathered for the afternoon session. The teacher was the Chaplain. The lesson, he said, was about the adverb. “What is an adverb?” There was an eloquent silence. At last a weary voice ventured: “That’s a word that ends in ly. I learned that back in Missouri.”
“Can you give me a definition?” said the Chaplain.
“No, Sir.”
“Can you give me an example of an adverb?”
“Yes, Sir,” came the response; “Kelly.”
Some months afterward, while in camp overseas, the Chaplain addressed a sentry and inquired who was Corporal of the guard. And the answer came: “Kelly, the adverb, Sir.”
Scene: A smoking compartment in a British railway carriage.
Old Gent (to Pat going home to Monaghan on furlough)—“Young man, allow me to inform you that out of every ten cases of men suffering from paralysis of the tongue, nine are due to smoking.”
Pat—“Allow me to inform you, sir, that out of every ten men suffering from broken noses, nine are due to the habit of not minding their own business.”
The Canadians are credited with the story of the stupid Yorkshire sentry:
The first night he stood guard he hailed an approaching officer in proper form:
“’Oo goes there?”
“Canadian rifles.”
There was a moment of silence. Then the Yorkshireman repeated:
“’Oo goes there?”
“The Canadian Rifles,” was the impatient answer. More silence. Then the Yorkshireman again challenged:
“’Oo goes there?”
“The Canadian rifles, you qualified blighter,” shouted the enraged officer.
There was a long period of quiet while the Canadian watched the Yorkshireman’s obviously ready rifle. Then there was a moan from the sentry:
“Blowed if I hain’t forgot what to say next!”
William Thaw, the young Pittsburgh millionaire who has done such wonderful flying in France, was being praised at a luncheon party.
“Mr. Thaw,” said a pretty girl, “is as brave as he is witty. I saw him make a splendid flight one day, and on his descent I said to him:
“‘Flying requires some special application, doesn’t it?’
“‘Oh, no,’ said he. ‘Any old kind of horse liniment will do.’”
A company of very new soldiers were out on a wide heath, practicing the art of taking cover. The officer in charge of them turned to one of the rawest of his men.
“Get down behind that hillock there,” he ordered, sternly, “and, mind, not a move or a sound!”
A few minutes later he looked around to see if they were all concealed, and, to his despair, observed something wriggling behind the small mound. Even as he watched the movements became more frantic.
“I say, you there,” he shouted, angrily, “do you know you are giving our position away to the enemy?”
“Yes, sir,” said the recruit, in a voice of cool desperation, “and do you know that this is an anthill?”
A certain drill sergeant, whose severity had made him unpopular with his troops, was putting a party of recruits through the funeral service. Opening the ranks so as to admit the passage of the supposed cortege between them, the instructor, by way of explanation, walked slowly down the lane formed by the two ranks, saying, as he did so:
“Now, I’m the corpse. Pay attention.”
Having reached the end of the path, he turned round, regarding them steadily with a scrutinizing eye for a moment or two, then exclaimed:
“Your ’ands is right, and your ’eads is right, but you haven’t got that look of regret you ought to ’ave.”
A squad of rookies, composed of various nationalities, mostly Italian, on being given the command“mark time!” all executed the command with the exception of one small dark-skinned son of Naples.
The sergeant asked him why he did not execute the movement and he replied:
“Donna wan to.”
“Why not?” sharply demanded the sergeant.
“Cause-a we walk-a like deuce and don’t-a get-a no place!”
Before entering the Army this rookie was a peaceful lad, but rising at 5:15 in the morning went against his principles. On this particular morning, as he fell in line by the light of the moon, his bunkie heard him mutter:
“It’s clear to me now. Why didn’t I think of that long ago?”
Bunkie (puzzled)—“What’s clear to you now?”
Rookie—“The reason why all great battles begin at daybreak.”
Bunkie—“Why?”
Rookie—“Because, when men have to get up that time, they feel so much like fighting.”
Bess: “That’s Mrs. Grabbit—she’s a great war-worker.”
Bob: “Indeed!”
Bess: “Yes; she’s married four of her daughters to soldiers.”
Sandy M’Tavish was a highly-skilled workman in a new aeroplane factory. It happened one day that he was asked if he would care to accompany the works aviator on one of his trial flights in a machine. Sandy, after some hesitation, agreed to do so.
During the flight the aviator asked how he was enjoying the trip.
“To tell the truth,” answered the Scot, “I wad rather be on the groun’.”
“Tut, tut,” replied the flying man. “I’m just thinking of looping the loop.”
“For heaven’s sake don’t dae that!” yelled the now very serious M’Tavish. “I’ve some siller in my vest pocket, an’ I micht lose it.”
Brown was transferred to another unit his adjutant wrote to the adjutant of the new regiment saying: “We are sending you Brown. He is a nice boy, but he has a shocking bad habit of betting on every conceivable subject. Try and choke him off.”
Brown arrived. At mess on the first night he sat next the colonel and, turning the conversation on India, made the astounding assertion that every white man who went there developed a curious green patch between the shoulder-blades. This rubbish annoyed the colonel. He said that he certainly had no greenpatch on his back. Brown, with all deference, offered to bet him ten pounds that he had! The bet was accepted by the indignant officer, and in the ante-room afterwards he pulled off his shirt. There was no patch. Brown apologized and paid up. Next day the adjutant wrote to Brown’s former regiment: “Brown turned up. * * * I think we have choked him off. Last night he bet the colonel, etc. * * * and lost.”
The reply came: “Thanks for yours. Before Brown left here he bet us ten pounds apiece all round the mess that he would make the colonel take off his shirt in the ante-room on the first night he arrived.”
A soldier was pleading with his O. C.
“You are always on leave,” exclaimed the officer. “What on earth do you want special leave for now?”
“My sister’s baby going to be vaccinated, sir.”
“And what has that got to do with you?”
“She’s my sister, sir,” explained Tommy, with a hurt look.
“What, the baby?”
“No, sir, the baby’s sister’s my brother—I mean I’m the mother’s baby—er—the father’s my sister. No, I mean—”
“You mean,” broke in the O. C., angrily. “What do they want you for? That is the point.”
“For a godmother, sir.”
Private McGuire, lying in hospital, was very fractious. He pointedly refused to take a second dose of medicine, which was inordinately nasty. Several smiling nurses bent over him and urged him to be good.
“Come,” pleaded one, “drink this and you’ll get well.”
“And rosy, too!” chimed in a second.
M’Guire visibly brightened, and actually sat up in bed.
After surveying the pretty group, he inquired, eagerly, “What wan o’ yez is Rosy?”
Mr. Meek was not very well, and the doctor had advised him to take a glass of beer occasionally “for his stomach’s sake.”
“It can’t be done, doctor; it can’t be done,” said Mr. Meek. “Although there is a barrel of beer in the cellar, my wife insists on my being teetotal for the duration of the war.”
“Tut, tut,” said the doctor, as he took his leave; “you must invent a way to overcome your wife’s scruples; an easy matter enough, surely?”
A few days later the medical man received a visit from Mrs. Meek, who was greatly concerned as to the state of her husband’s health. “I am afraid, doctor,” she said, “that the poor man has had a nervous breakdown.He’s continually fancying that he can hear Zeppelins, and goes to hide in the cellar; besides which he often appears to be somewhat strange and aggressive in his manner.”
In a small village in Ireland the mother of a soldier met the village priest, who asked her if she had had bad news.
“Shure, I have,” she said. “Pat has been killed.”
“Oh, I am very sorry,” said the priest. “Did you receive word from the War Office?”
“No,” she said, “I received word from himself.”
The priest looked perplexed, and said, “But how is that?”
“Shure,” she said, “here is the letter, read it for yourself.”
The letter said: “Dear Mother—I am now in the Holy Land.”
The American Red Cross has inaugurated so many different kinds of bureaus since its arrival in France, that it is difficult to enumerate them or to know what their duties consist of, but its newest bureau, according to the last issue of the Bulletin, appears to be dabbling in matrimonial matters. The following paragraph is taken from the Red Cross Bulletin, showing that anything might be called for at the headquarters:
“Wanted—An American husband.”
“No kidding. It’s a fact. If you are an eligible young man of American nationality who wants a wife but cannot find anybody that wants to marry you, apply to the office of the Secretary General.
“The office of the Secretary General has not become a matrimonial agency, but received a letter from a French woman in which the writer extolled her excellent qualities and asked that she be found an American husband.”
A soldier in hospital, on recovering consciousness, said:
“Nurse, what is this on my head?”
“Vinegar cloths,” she replied. “You have had fever.” After a pause.
“And what is this on my chest?”
“A mustard-plaster. You have had pneumonia.”
“And what is this at my feet?”
“Salt-bags; you have had frost-bite.”
A soldier from the next bed looked up and said:
“Hang the pepper-box to his nose, nurse, then he will be a cruet.”
A certain soldier always looked on the dark side of things. One day a friend tried to cheer him.
“Why don’t you do as the song says, ‘Pack allyour troubles in your old kitbag, and smile, smile, smile’?”
“I tried that once,” he said, sadly, “but the Quartermaster didn’t have enough kitbags.”
A soldier was waiting for the Muddleton train, the only one of the day. After he had waited for an unreasonable time the porter hove in sight.
“How long will I have to wait,” the soldier asked, “for that bally train?”
“How long have you got?” asked the porter, with apparent irrelevance.
“Fourteen days.”
“Well,” said the porter, “you’d better walk.”
A young but distinguished major on furlough was visiting a house where the family consisted of several eligible daughters. The good lady of the house was quick to notice that one of her daughters seemed to be making a favorable impression on her visitor. So before he took his departure the artful mother whispered to him: “There’s a story going the rounds, major, that you are going to marry my daughter Hilda. What shall I say?”
“Just say, my dear madam, that your charming and beautiful daughter refused me,” was the tactful reply.
A young British private was on night guard at a lonely outpost in France, when suddenly he heard the tramp of an advancing regiment. “Halt!” he called. “Who goes there?”
“Irish Fusiliers.”
“Pass, Irish Fusiliers, all’s well.”
Silence reigned for some minutes and then he heard another regiment advancing. “Halt! Who goes there?”
“London Scottish.”
“Pass, London Scottish, all’s well.”
For some time there was silence, and then another regiment was heard. “Halt! Who goes there?”
“None of your d—— business!”
“Pass, Canadians, all’s well.”
“Don’t keep calling me ‘general.’ I’m only a colonel.”
“’Scuse me, boss. I ain’t disputin’ yo’ word, but any military gent’man dat gives dis old waiter a dollar tip is jes natcherly a ‘gen’ral.’”
The Khaki Gentleman: “Do you love me, darling?”
She: “Yes, Jack, dear.”
The Khaki Gentleman: “Jack! My name’s Harold!”
She (who has numerous admirers—one for each day of the week): “Oh, yes, of course! I keep thinking this is Saturday!”
A boy who had a habit of leaving food on his plate was told by his nurse that Mr. Hoover would get after him.
“Well, that makes five,” despondently said the boy.
“Five?” asked the nurse. “What do you mean?”
“Well,” was the answer, “I’ve always had to mind daddy and mother and Aunt Mary and God, and now here comes along Mr. Hoover.”
A young recruit, fresh from a New Hampshire farm, sat watching a group of men in camp, engaged in the usual pastime—“the great American game.” After watching the game silently for a time he inquired: “Is that poker you fellows are playing?” On being informed that it was, he volunteered:
“Well, I’ll be darned! I’ve been watching this game carefully for about fifteen minutes, and I don’t believe I thoroughly understand it yet.”
Mrs. Will Irwin, speaking of women’s wartime costumes, said at a Washington Square tea:
“The more immodest fashions would disappear if men would resolutely oppose them.
“I know a woman whose dressmaker sent home the other day a skirt that was, really, too short altogether. The woman put it on. It was becoming enough, dear knows, but it made her feel ashamed. She entered the library, and her husband looked up from his work with a dark frown.
“‘I wonder,’ she said, with an embarrassed laugh, ‘if these ultra-short skirts will ever go out?’
“‘They’ll never go out with me,’ he answered in decided tones.”
When the wealthy Mrs. Beldon came to visit her son at his post, the gallant Lieutenant was so pleased that he arranged a theater party in honor of his mother. Officers and their ladies were in all the boxes. When the Lieutenant glanced over the audience he saw that every one was looking at his box. Women held handkerchiefs to their faces and men shook with laughter. Then he noticed that his mother, who held in one gloved hand a fan, rested the other arm upon the rail of the box. Her free hand, she thought, reposed on the lower rail, but in reality it rested upon the bald pate of an old man who sat in the box below. The old gentleman apparently was in agony, but he was very patient. Suddenly the audience started to applaud and the officer’s mother, in total abstraction, affectionately patted that poor bald head, which suddenly arose in crimson rage and left the theater.
A tired column of troops clambered down a rocky ledge and went into camp beside a delightful little pool of water. The commanding officer immediately placed his sentry at the pool. Soon more soldiers scrambled down the ledge and a tired Lieutenant quickly prepared for a plunge into that pool. But he was met with a sharp command from across the pond:
“Halt!”
“What are your orders?” said the Lieutenant.
“Sir,” came the answer, “my orders are to prevent all officers, soldiers, and natives from bathing in that pool. The water is reserved for the coffee for supper.”
“Why didn’t you tell me before I stripped?”
“Sir, I have no orders to prevent any man from stripping.”
It was bitterly cold. Captain Price was officer of the day. It was necessary for him to inspect the guard after midnight, and, fearful of the influenza, he sought prevention in hot toddy. Fate decreed that he should be reported drunk on duty. Now, the men in the troop thought much of their genial Captain. They petitioned McSweeny, orderly to the troop commander, to go to the court-martial and swear to anything, but to be sure to clear theCaptain. So it came to pass that McSweeny appeared as a witness. The Judge Advocate said he must swear to the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Then he thundered:
“Do you know the accused?”
“Yes, Sir,” came the answer, “he is my troop commander, Captain Price.”
“Did you see the accused on this date?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“What was the condition of the accused?”
“The Captain was sober, Sir.”
“The testimony reads that he was intoxicated.”
“No, Sir.”
“It is further stated that you helped the accused to his quarters.”
“No, Sir; I went over to the quarters with the Captain.”
“It is said that you helped the accused into his bunk.”
“No, Sir: I took off his boots.”
“Did the accused say anything that would lead you to suspect that he was intoxicated?”
“No, Sir; he only said one thing.”
“What was that?”
“When I was leaving, Sir, he said: ‘McSweeny, call me early. I am going to be Queen of the May.’”
Terry O’Neill was steward on an army transport. Before the mess call sounded Terry always visitedthe different staterooms. Pushing the door ajar, he would say to the officers: “Gentlemen, do you wish me to throw your luncheon overboard, or will you do it yourselves?”
“And did you have a good crossing?” asked the friend of the adventurous lady who had just returned from France.
“Oh, a most terrible crossing, terrible. The most awful storm I’ve ever been in. Yet I wasn’t a bit afraid. The other passengers were in a panic running all over the boat, till at last the captain, who had heard that I was a singer, asked me to sing to them and quiet them, and I did. And all the time I was singing the heavy seas were running.”
“I don’t blame ’em!” growled her father. “I don’t blame those heavy seas a bit.”
A Frenchwoman was torn by a shell while rendering service to the soldiers, and General Petain, of the French Armies, accompanied by his staff and by General Pershing as a guest, went to the woman’s bedside and pinned on her breast the Croix de Guerre, the soldiers’ cross of war.
“My general,” said the woman to Petain, “I am glad to have been struck so that you may see and know that the daughters as well as the sons of Franceare ready to suffer and, if need be, to die for France and for her liberty.”
A recruiting sergeant stationed in the south of Ireland met Pat and asked him to join the army. The latter refused, whereupon the sergeant asked his reason for refusing.
“Aren’t the King and the Kaiser cousins?” asked Pat.
“Yes,” said the recruiting sergeant.
“Well,” said Pat, “begorra, I once interfered in a family squabble, and I’m not going to do so again.”
Some time ago, when a British corps was reviewed by Sir Ian Hamilton, one officer was mounted on a horse that had previously distinguished itself in a bakery business. Somebody recognized the horse, and shouted, “Baker!” The horse promptly stopped dead, and nothing could urge it on.
The situation was getting painful when the officer was struck with a brilliant idea, and remarked, “Not today, thank you.” The procession then moved on.
“Mrs. Bing’s new baby is just in the fashion.”
“How do you mean?”
“It is such a red cross affair.”
The melancholy youth was lying in the hospital bed entertaining his visitors with tales of the battlefield.
“Yes,” he said, almost tearfully, “I have had a rough time. I was once so riddled with bullets the fellows behind me complained of the draft.”
The Presbyterians are having their day, it seems, if one looks over a list of the foremost men of today. Woodrow Wilson is a Presbyterian elder; Robert Lansing, Secretary of State, is likewise. Thomas R. Marshall, Vice President of the United States, is a Presbyterian; and so are General Pershing, in command of America’s legions abroad; General Peyton C. March, the new Chief of Staff; and General Hugh Scott. General Field Marshal Haig, of the British armies, is a member of the Church of Scotland, which is Presbyterian; and Field Marshal Joffre is a member of the Reformed Church, which in France is similarly nearest to the Presbyterian Church in the United States.
A Tommy on furlough entered a jeweler’s shop and, placing a much-battered gold watch on the counter, said, “I want this ’ere mended.”
After a careful survey the watchmaker said, “I’mafraid, sir, the cost of repairing will be double what you gave for it.”
“I don’t mind that,” said the soldier. “Will you mend it?”
“Yes,” said the jeweler, “at the price.”
“Well,” remarked Tommy, smiling, “I gave a German a punch on the nose for it, and I’m quite ready to give you two if you’ll mend it.”
“Lady (young) will gladlyMARRYand give up life to the care and happiness ofWOUNDED HERO, blinded or incapacitated by the war.—Genuine, Box M 770, the London Times.”
The captain of the SS. Piffle listened patiently to a passenger’s account of his shooting abilities, then he quietly remarked:
“I don’t think you could hit this bottle at twenty yards, placed on the taffrail, while the ship is heaving like this.”
“It would be only child’s play,” said the passenger.
“Well, I’ll bet you a guinea you don’t hit it three times out of six.”
“It’s a wager. Come along.”
The bottle was placed in position. Crack! The passenger hit it, and it disappeared in fragments into the sea.
“Trot out another one,” said the marksman.
“Not at all. The conditions were that you hit that one three times out of six. Five shots more.”
The called-up one volubly explained that there was no need in his case for a medical examination.
“I’m fit and I want to fight. I want to go over on the first boat. I want to go right into the front trenches, but I want to have a hospital close, so that if I get hit no time will be wasted in taking me where I can get mended right away, so that I can get back to fighting without losing a minute. Pass me in, doctor. Don’t waste any time on me. I want to fight, and keep fighting!”
The doctor, however, insisted, and, when he got through, reported a perfect physical specimen.
“You don’t find nothing wrong with me, doctor?”
“Nothing.”
“But, doctor, don’t you think I’m a bit crazy?”
She—“Yes, sir, I believe that woman’s place in this war is right beside the men on the battle line.”
He—“And suppose a commander sent a party of six men and six women out in the woods to see if the enemy were in sight, would you call that war? That would be a picnic!”
He—“And how are you getting on with your collecting for the soldiers?”
She—“Splendidly! I’ve had my name in the papers four times already.”
“I’ll put you in the commissary department if you’ll answer the following question: What would you do if you had one hundred soldiers and only ninety-nine eggs?”
“I’d shoot one of the soldiers!”