Chapter 2

Oh, Mother"Oh, Mother! how I wish I was an angel!""Darling! what makes you say that?""Oh, because then, Mother, I could drop bombs on the Germans."

"Oh, Mother! how I wish I was an angel!""Darling! what makes you say that?""Oh, because then, Mother, I could drop bombs on the Germans."

"Oh, Mother! how I wish I was an angel!"

"Darling! what makes you say that?"

"Oh, because then, Mother, I could drop bombs on the Germans."

OVERWORK.

The poets having indicated that they were going to take a few moments off, the words were free to stand at ease also. They did so with a great sigh of relief, especially one whom I recognised by his intense weariness and also by the martial glow on his features, his muddied and torn clothes and the bandage round his head.

"You're 'war,'" I said, crossing over to speak to him.

"Yes," he replied, "I'm 'war,' and I'm very tired."

"They're sweating you?" I asked.

"Horribly," he replied. "In whatever they're writing about just now, both poets and song-writers, they drag me in, and they will end lines with me. Just to occur somewhere and be done with I shouldn't so much mind; but they feel in honour bound to provide me with a rhyme. Still," he added meditatively, "there are compensations."

"How?" I asked.

"Well," he said, "I find myself with more congenial companions than I used to have. In the old days, when I wasn't sung at all, but was used more or less academically, I often found myself arm-in-arm with 'star' or 'far' or 'scar,' and I never really got on with them. We didn't agree. There was something wrong. But now I get better associates; 'roar,' for example, is a certainty in one verse. In fact I don't mind admitting I'm rather tired of 'roar,' true friends as we are.

"But I can see the poor young poetical fellows' difficulty; and, after all, I do roar, don't I? Just as my old friend 'battle' here"—I bowed to his companion—"is attached to 'rattle.'

"Of course," he went on, "I'm luckier than 'battle' really, because I do get a few other fellows to walk with, such as 'corps'—very often—and 'before' and—far too often—'gore'; but 'battle' is tied up to 'rattle' for the rest of his life. They're inseparable—'battle' and 'rattle.' Directly you see one you know that the other is only a few words away. We call them the Siamese Twins."

I laughed sympathetically.

"There's 'cattle,'" I said, remembering 'The War-song of Dinas Vawr.'

"No use just now," said 'war.' "'Rattle' is the only rhyme at the moment; just as GeneralFrenchhas his favourite one, and that's 'trench.' If 'battle' and 'rattle' are like the Siamese Twins, 'French' and 'trench' are like Castor and Pollux. Now and then theCommander-in-chiefmakes the enemy 'blench,' but for one 'blench' you get a thousand 'trenches.' No, I feel very sorry, I can tell you, for some of these words condemned to such a monotony of conjunction; and really I oughtn't to complain. And to have got rid of 'star' is something."

I shook him by the hand.

"But there's one thing," he added, "I do object to, which not even poor old 'battle' has to bear, and that's being forced to march with a rhyme that isn't all there. I have to do that far too often; and it's annoying."

I asked him to explain.

"Well," he said, "those poets who look forward are too fond of linking me to 'o'er'—'when it's 'o'er,' don't you know (they mean 'over'). That's a little humiliating, I always think. You wouldn't like constantly going about with a man who'd lost his collar, would you?"

I said that I shouldn't.

"Well, it's like that," he said, "I am not sure that I would not prefer 'star' to that, or 'scar,' after all. They, at any rate, meant well and were gentlemanly. But 'o'er'? No.

The new book for schools: "Kaiser: De Bello Jellicoe."

WHO FORBIDS THE BANDSWHO FORBIDS THE BANDS?["A band revives memories, it quickens association, it opens and unites the hearts of men more surely than any other appeal can, and in this respect it aids recruiting perhaps more than any other agency."—Mr.Rudyard Kiplingat the Mansion House meeting promoted by the Recruiting Bands Committee.]

WHO FORBIDS THE BANDS?["A band revives memories, it quickens association, it opens and unites the hearts of men more surely than any other appeal can, and in this respect it aids recruiting perhaps more than any other agency."—Mr.Rudyard Kiplingat the Mansion House meeting promoted by the Recruiting Bands Committee.]

WHO FORBIDS THE BANDS?

["A band revives memories, it quickens association, it opens and unites the hearts of men more surely than any other appeal can, and in this respect it aids recruiting perhaps more than any other agency."—Mr.Rudyard Kiplingat the Mansion House meeting promoted by the Recruiting Bands Committee.]

THE AMATEUR POLICEMAN.

Friend Robert, if mere imitationExpresses one's deepest regard,How oft has such dumb adorationBeen shown on his beat by your bard;In dress, though the semblance seems hollow,How oft since my duties beganHave I striven, poor "special," to followThe modes of the Man.I have aped till my muscles grew rigidYour air of Olympian calm;Have sought, when my framework was frigid,To "stand" itsansquiver or qualm;I have also endeavoured to copyThe stealthiest thud of your boot;And, with features as pink as a poppy,Your solemn salute.In vain. Every effort is futile,And, while I am "doing my share"To guard (after midnight) a mute isle,Or the bit of it close by my lair,'Tis perfectly plain that, although itIs easy to offer one's aid,The P.C., alas! like the poet,Is born and not made.

Recruit speaking of his late employerRecruit(speaking of his late employer). "An' 'e says to me, 'It wants a coal-hammer to knock it into your 'ead.'"Friend."Did 'e say that?"Recruit."Yes, 'e did. But I let 'im 'ave it back. I says, 'It 'ud blooming well take more than you to do it!'"

Recruit(speaking of his late employer). "An' 'e says to me, 'It wants a coal-hammer to knock it into your 'ead.'"Friend."Did 'e say that?"Recruit."Yes, 'e did. But I let 'im 'ave it back. I says, 'It 'ud blooming well take more than you to do it!'"

Recruit(speaking of his late employer). "An' 'e says to me, 'It wants a coal-hammer to knock it into your 'ead.'"

Friend."Did 'e say that?"

Recruit."Yes, 'e did. But I let 'im 'ave it back. I says, 'It 'ud blooming well take more than you to do it!'"

THE UNLIKELY DUKE.

The proposal, made the other day at the annual meeting of Lloyds Bank at Birmingham, that a dukedom should be conferred upon Mr.Lloyd George, in recognition of his skilful handling of the financial crisis, has aroused intense interest both in Park Lane and in the Welsh valleys.

Even among certain of the right honourable gentleman's colleagues in the Cabinet the idea meets with warm approval.

There has not yet been a meeting of Dukes to consider how to deal with any situation that may arise; but there is little doubt that their Graces are keeping a keen look-out, and it may be expected that when the time comes their plans will be found to be more or less complete.

Down in Wales there is considerable rivalry already concerning the title theChancellorshould take. A strong local committee is being formed at Criccieth to urge the claims of that delightful resort; but it may expect to receive strenuous opposition from the people of Llanpwllwynbrynogrhos, who argue that, while Mr.Lloyd George'sconnection with their village may be slight, it would be highly desirable that there should exist the obstacle of such a name whenever the new Duke's fellow Dukes wished to refer to him.

Since it was at the annual meeting of Lloyds Bank that the idea was put forward, we are inclined to think that whenever a title is required theChancellormight select the "Duke of Lloyds;" and on the other hand, of course, a bank professing such admiration for Mr.Lloyd Georgecould not pay a prettier compliment than by styling itself "Lloyd George'sBank."

We profoundly hope that there may be no truth in the ugly rumour that one of theChancellor'sservants, who has been in the family for many years and imbibed its principles, has declared emphatically that it would be against her principles to serve in a ducal household.

Needless to say there has been a flutter among estate agents. Already vast tracts of deer-forest in Scotland have been offered at astonishing terms to the proposed Duke, and these not only comprise some of the finest scenery in the British Isles, but afford opportunity for thoroughly interesting agricultural development.

Mr.Lloyd George'sown views on the whole subject were uttered in Welsh, and we have no doubt our readers will quite understand that they cannot be printed here.

Our Dumb Friends.

The tradition of strong language established by our armies in Flanders seems to be well kept up to-day, if we may judge by the following Army Order issued at the Front:—

"Though on occasion it is necessary to tie horses to trees, this should be avoided whenever possible, as they are sure to bark and thus destroy the trees."

A TERRITORIAL IN INDIA.

III.

My dearMr. Punch,—Although, being no longer a soldier in anything but name (and pay), I pursue in India the inglorious vocation of a clerk, I am nevertheless still in a position to perceive the splendid qualities of the British Officer. Always a humble admirer of his skill and bravery in the field, I have now in addition a keen appreciation of his imperturbablesangfroidwhen confronted with conditions of great difficulty in the office.

Patriotic Old PersonPatriotic Old Person(to individual bespattered by passing motor-bus). "There, young feller! It'd never 'ave bin noticed if you'd bin in khaki!"

Patriotic Old Person(to individual bespattered by passing motor-bus). "There, young feller! It'd never 'ave bin noticed if you'd bin in khaki!"

I am working in the Banana (to circumvent the Censor I am giving it an obviously fictitious name) Divisional Area Headquarters Staff Office, which is situated in the town of ——. Suppose we call it Mango. There are four brigades in the Banana Divisional Area, one of which is the Mango Brigade. Now it so happens that the General Officer Commanding the Banana Divisional Area is at present also the General Officer Commanding the Mango Brigade; consequently this is the sort of thing which is always happening. The G.O.C. of the Mango Brigade writes to himself as G.O.C. of the Banana Divisional Area: "May I request the favour of a reply to my Memorandum No. 25731/24/Mobn., dated the 3rd January, 1915, relating to paragraph 5 of Army Department letter No. S.M.—43822/19 (A.B.C.), dated the 12th December, 1914, which amplifies the Annexure to Clause 271, Section 18 (c), of A.R.I., Vol. XXIII.?" Next morning he goes into the Divisional Office and finds himself confronted by this letter. A mere civilian might be tempted to take a mean advantage of his unusual situation. Not so the British Officer. The dignified traditions of the Indian Army must not lightly be set aside. The G.O.C. of the Brigade and the G.O.C. of the Divisional Area must be as strangers for the purposes of official correspondence.

So he writes back to himself:—"Your reference to Army Department letter No. S.M.—43822/19 (A.B.C.), dated the 12th December, 1914, is not understood. May I presume that you allude to Army Department letter No. P.T. 58401/364 (P.O.P.), dated the 5th November, 1914, which deals with the Annexure to Clause 271, Section 18 (c), of A.R.I., Vol. XXIII.?"

Later on he goes to the Brigade Office and writes—"... I would respectfully point out that Army Department letter No. S.M.—43822/19 (A.B.C.), dated the 12th December, 1914, cancels Army Department letter No. P.T. 58401/364 (P.O.P.), dated the 5th November, 1914."

At his next visit to the Divisional Office he writes back again:—"... Army Department letter No. S.M.—43822/19 (A.B.C.), dated the 12th December, 1914, does not appear to have been received in this office. Will you be so good as to favour me with a copy?"

So it goes on, and our dual G.O.C., like the gallant soldier he is, never flinches from his duty, never swerves by a hair's-breadth from his difficult course. This surely is the spirit which has made the Empire.

But I expect you are weary of this subject. Still, you must please not forget that we are officially on active service, and active service means perhaps more than you people at home imagine. Last Sunday, after tiffin, I came upon one of my colleagues lounging in an easy-chair, one of those with practical extensions upon which you can stretch your legs luxuriously. With a cigarette between his lips and an iced drink beside him, he sat reading a magazine—a striking illustration of the fine resourcefulness of the Territorials in adapting themselves to novel conditions.

"What I object to about active service," he said, as I came up, "is the awful hardship we have to put up with. When we were mobilised I didn't anticipate that our path would be exactly strewn with roses, but I confess I never expected this. I shall write toThe Times. The public ought to know about it;" and he settled himself more deeply into his chair, blew out a cloud of smoke, and with a resolute expression sipped his iced lemonade.

Mr. Punch, you will be pained to hear that I have lost my hard-earned reputation for sobriety through no fault of my own. A few days ago I went up to the barracks to draw my regimental pay, and found that a number of articles of clothing, issued by the Army authorities, had accumulated for me during my absence—a pair of khaki shorts, a grey flannel shirt with steel buttons the size of sixpences, a pair of worsted socks and three sheets (yes, sheets for the bed; so luxuriously do we fare in India). Perhaps you can guess what happened.

"Oh, by the way, have you drawn your clothing?" asked the Lieutenant, when he had paid me.

"Yes, Sir," I replied.

"What have you got?"

"Sheets, shirt, shorts and shocks—shots, sheeks and shirks——"

"That will do," he interrupted sternly. "You had better come to me again when you are in a condition to express yourself clearly."

Thus easily is a reputation acquired by years of self-control destroyed by the pitfalls of our native tongue.

On the other hand, some people have enviable reputations thrust upon them. This is the case with my friend, Private Walls. The other night, half of what remains of the Battalion were called out to repel an expected attack on the barracks by the other half. Walls chanced to be placed in a rather isolated position, and, armed with six rounds of blank, he took cover behind a large boulder, after receiving whispered orders from his officer not to fire if he suspected the approach of the enemy, but to low like an ox, when assistance would immediately be sent to him.

Though a little diffident of his powers of lowing, Walls determined to do his best, and fell sound asleep.

Now, if you or I had been in his position, an officer would certainly have discovered us in no time, and direpunishment would have followed. But Walls slumbered on undisturbed, until a terrific roar in his ear caused him to wake with a start. What had happened? He seized his rifle and peered into the darkness. Then, to his amazement, he saw the boulder before him rise to its feet and shamble off into the night. It was an ox, and it had lowed!

You might think his luck finished there. But no. The officer and his men came stealthily up, and Walls unblushingly declared that he had heard the foe approaching. It may sound incredible, but it is a fact that a few minutes later the enemy did actually appear, and were, of course, driven back after the customary decimation.

And Walls unhesitatingly accepted the congratulations of his superior on his vigilance, and did not even blench when assured that his was the finest imitation ever heard of the lowing of an ox.

Yours ever,One of thePunchBrigade.

Officer. "Didn't I tell yer 'e was no goodOfficer."Didn't I tell yer 'e was no good? Look at 'im—playin' football when us fellers is drillin'!"

Officer."Didn't I tell yer 'e was no good? Look at 'im—playin' football when us fellers is drillin'!"

"The German resistance is formidable but the allies' artillery has forced the enemy to retire from some trenches abandinging prisoners, dead, and wounded."—Buenos Aires Standard.

This gives the lie to the many stories of German callousness that we hear.

TURNS OF THE DAY.

[A fifteen-minutes' speech on affairs by a public man has been added to the programme of the Empire music-hall.]

There is no truth that the late Viceroy ofIrelandis to appear at the Alhambra in a brief address, explaining why he chose the title of "Tara."

All efforts to induce Mr.Mastermanto appear at the Holborn Empire next week in a burlesque ofThe Seats of the Mightyhave failed.

Great pressure is being brought to bear upon Mr.Bernard Shawto induce him to add gaiety to the Palladium programme next week by a twenty-minutes' exposure of England's folly, hypocrisy, fatuity and crime, a subject on which he knows even more than is to be known.

Up to the present moment Mr.H. G. Wellshas refused all offers to appear at the Palace in the song fromPatience, "When I first put this uniform on."

Any statement that Mr.Edmund Gosseis to appear at the Coliseum at every performance next week, in a little sketch entitledSwinging the Censor, is to be taken with salt.

A similar incredulity should probably be adopted in regard to the alluring rumour that Mr.Compton Mackenziewill also contribute at the same house a nightly telephonic sketch from Capri, "What Tiberius thinks of 'Sinister Street.'"

Negotiations are still pending, though with little chance of success, between the management of the Hippodrome and CanonRawnsley, with a view to his giving a brief address nightly on the subject "How to write a War sonnet in ten minutes."

We have good reason to fear that, in spite of reiterated announcements of their engagement, Mr.Max Pembertonand Mr.Max Beerbohmwill not appear on Valentine's Day, and subsequently, at the Chiswick Empire in a topical War duologue as "The Two Max."

Omar Khayyam on the North Sea battle.

They say theLionand theTigersweepWhere once the Huns shelled babies from the deep,AndBlücher, that great cruiser—12-inch gunsRoar o'er his head but cannot break his sleep.

YUSSUF.

"Look here," exclaimed the latest subaltern, hurling himself at the remains of the breakfast, "those rotters have sent me a putrid sword!"

"A putrid sword, dear?" his mother repeated.

"Yes, confound them!"

"I don't see why you want a sword at all," Dolly chipped in. "Captain Jones says the big guns are the only weapons that count."

"And how will Archie toast his crumpets?" retorted Henry.

"Oh, shut up, you kids! I say, do you mind having a look at it?" The latest subaltern was actually appealing to me. I stifled a blush, and thought I should like to, very much.

After breakfast Archibald and myself retired to the armoury.

"There!" he exclaimed indignantly. "What do you think of that?" It was lying on the bed with a black-and-gold hilt and a wonderful nickel scabbard with gilt blobs at the top. I looked at it.

"Well," I ventured, "it's a sword."

Archibald sniffed.

"And," I continued hastily, "it's very nice. Perhaps they've run out of the ordinary ones. Does it cut?"

He drew it, and I, assuming the air of a barber's assistant, felt its edge.

"Of course," I remarked, "I don't know much about it, but if thereisanything left to cut when you go out I think it should be stropped a bit first."

"Well," said the proud owner, "I ordered it at Slashers', and they ought to know. Suppose we rub it up on young Henry's emery wheel?"

"Wait a minute," I cried; "I should like to see it on."

Archibald buckled on the scabbard and I slapped the trusty blade home.

It certainly looked a bit odd. I surveyed it in profile.

"No!" I exclaimed, "there is something about it ... a Yussuf air ... that little bend at the tip is reminiscent of Turkestan."

We found Henry in the workshop.

"My fairy godmother," he shouted, "did you pinch it from the pantomime?"

We did not deign to reply. Gingerly, very gingerly, we applied Yussuf to the emery wheel.... Little flakes came off him—just little flakes.

It was very distressing.

The gardener joined us and advised some oil; then the coachman brought us some polishing sand; bath-brick and whitening we got from the cook.

It was no good. Nothing could restore those little flakes. So we went indoors to have a look at the Encyclopædia. But there was nothing there to help us. Yussuf was suffering from an absolutely unknown disease.

We put him to bed again.

After lunch Archibald received the following letter:—

"Dear Sir,—We learn with regret that, by an inadvertence, the wrong sword has been despatched to you. We now hasten to forward yours, trusting that the delay has not inconvenienced you. At the same time our representative will, with your permission, collect the sword now in your possession as it is of exceptional value, and also has to be inscribed immediately for presentation.

Your obedient Servants,Slasher and Co."

"For presentation," I repeated; "then it's not meant to cut with, and those blobs really are gold." I touched one respectfully.

The latest subaltern pulled himself together and rang the bell. "When a man calls here for a sword," he told the servant, "give him this"—pointing dramatically at Yussuf. "And Jenkins!"

"Yes, Sir."

"Tell him that I have just sailed for ... er—for the Front."

LE DERNIER CRI.

Being the Soliloquy of the Oldest Parrot.

Hallo! Hallo! Hallo! Polly-olly-wolly! Scratch a poll!It isn't that I shout the loudest, though I fancy Icouldkeep my end up in the monkey-house if it came to that. Many a parrot wastes all his energy in wind. It's brains, not lungs, that make a full crop. Extend your vocabulary. Another thing—don't make yourself too cheap. The parrot that always gives his show free lives the whole of his life on official rations—and nothing else.Half-a-pint o' mild-an'-bitter! Pom! Pom!

I'm the oldest inhabitant, and I've the biggest waist measurement for my height in Regent's Park. That's my reward. I'll admit I've a bad memory; most parrots have, except the one that used to sing "Rule Britannia" and knew the name of every keeper in the Zoo—andhewent into hospital with something-on-the-brain. ButI've moved with the times. There aren't many catch-phrases I haven't caught. "Walker," "Who's Griffiths?" and drawing corks in the old "Champagne Charlie" days; and "You're another," "Get your hair cut," "Does your mother know you're out?" "My word, if I catch you bending!" "After you with the cruet." But I've a bad memory.Have a banana? I don't think!...

I'm never quite sure of myself, and so just have to say what comes uppermost.Shun! Stanterteeze! Form-forz, you two! Half-a-pint o'....

I've found it doesn't do to repeateverythingthe sergeant says. We had a Naval parrot once.... Why, take for instance that young man with his greasy feathers brushed back like a parrakeet's. He looked good for a few grapes any day, but when, just to encourage him, I chortled, "Kitchenerwants yer!" he frowned and walked away. I did good business later, though. Pulled up a bunch of Khaki people by just shouting "'Alt!" I admired their taste in oranges.Down with theKaiser!By the way, I've shouted "Down with" almost everybody in my time.Johnny, get your gun; Goobye, Tipperlairlee.

But the best is "Veeve la Fronce." Last week one of those foreign officers heard me "veeving" softly to myself. In half a minute he'd collected a dozen of his friends and relatives, and I could see more coming in the distance. The excitement! My tail! "Marie! Alphonse!" he shouted. "Regarday dong ce brave wozzo!" They gave me butterscotch; they gave me muscatels; they gave me a meringue, and lots of little sweet biscuits (I don't take monkey-nuts these days, thank you!) and they all talked at once. Then a lovely creature with a cockatoo's crest on her head bent forward and coaxed me in a voice like ripe bananas. And there was I sitting like a fool, my mouth crammed and my mind a blank! The crowd was growing every minute. The cockatoo girl ran to the kiosk and bought me French nougat; I ate it. Then I made a desperate effort—"Has anybody here seen Kelly?"

Bless the camel-keeper! At that very moment I heard him ringing the "all-out" bell.

The Timessays that theBlücherwas the reply of the German Admiralty to the first BritishDreadnought.

Admiral SirDavid Beattybegs to state that he has forwarded this reply to the proper quarter.

We have pleasure in culling the following extract from the account of a wedding, as set forth inThe Silver Leaf(published at Somerset West, Cape Province):—

"Whilst the register was being signed, Mme. Wortley, of Cape Town, sang 'Entreat me not to leave thee' with great feeling."

It seems perhaps a little early to discuss the question of marital separation.

HOW TO KEEP FIT. FOR REALLY BUSY MENHOW TO KEEP FIT. FOR REALLY BUSY MEN.1.On the way to the station.2.Waiting for the train.3.On the 'bus—"with deep breathing—neck wrists."4.At the office—the correspondence.5.Weighing business propositions.6.Waiting at the telephone.

HOW TO KEEP FIT. FOR REALLY BUSY MEN.

1.On the way to the station.

2.Waiting for the train.

3.On the 'bus—"with deep breathing—neck wrists."

4.At the office—the correspondence.

5.Weighing business propositions.

6.Waiting at the telephone.

THE VOLUNTEERS.

Time: 7.30P.M.Scene: A large disused barn, where forty members of the local Volunteer Training Corps are assembled for drill. They are mostly men well over thirty-eight years of age, but there is a sprinkling of lads of under nineteen, while a few are men of "military age" who for some good and sufficient reason have been unable to join the army. They are all full of enthusiasm, but at present they possess neither uniform nor arms. Please note that in the following dialogue the Sergeant alone speaks aloud; the other personthinks,but gives no utterance to his words.

The Sergeant.Fall in! Fall in! Come smartly there, fall inAnd recollect that when you've fallen inYou stand at ease, a ten-inch space betweenYour feet—like this; your hands behind your back—Like this; your head and body both erect;Your weight well poised on both feet, not on one.Dress by the right, and let each rear rank manQuick cover off his special front rank man.That's it; that's good. Now when I say, "Squad, 'shun,"Let every left heel swiftly join the rightWithout a shuffling or a scraping soundAnd let the angle of your two feet beJust forty-five, the while you smartly dropHands to your sides, the fingers lightly bent,Thumbs to the front, but every careful thumbKept well behind your trouser-seams. Squad, 'shun!The Volunteer.Ha! Though I cannot find my trouser-seams,I rather think I did that pretty well.Thomas, my footman, who is on my left,And Batts, the draper, drilling on my right,And e'en the very Sergeant must have seenThe lithe precision of my rapid spring.The Sergeant.When next I call you to attention, noteYou need not slap your hands against your thighs.It is not right to slap your thighs at all.The Volunteer.He's looking at me; I am half afraidI used unnecessary violenceAnd slapped my thighs unduly. It is badThat Thomas should have cause to grin at meAnd lose his proper feeling of respect,Being a flighty fellow at the best;And Batts the draper must not——The Sergeant.Stand at ease!The Volunteer.Aha! He wants to catch me, but he——The Sergeant.'Shun!The Volunteer.Bravo, myself! I did not slap them then.I am indubitably getting on.I wonder if the Germans do these things,And what they sound like in the German tongue.The Germans are a——The Sergeant.Sharply number offFrom right to left, and do not jerk your heads.

[They number off.

The Volunteer.I'm six, an even number, and must doThe lion's share in forming fours. What luckFor Batts, who's five, and Thomas, who is seven.They also serve, but only stand and wait,While I behind the portly form of BattsInsert myself and then slip out againClear to the front, observing at the wordThe ordered sequence of my moving feet.Come let me brace myself and dare——The Sergeant.Form fours!The Volunteer.I cannot see the Sergeant; I'm obscuredBehind the acreage of Batts's back.Indeed it is a very noble backAnd would protect me if we charged in foursAgainst the Germans, but I rather thinkWe charge two deep, and therefore——The Sergeant.Form two deep!The Volunteer.Thank Heaven I'm there, although I mixed my feet!I am oblivious of the little thingsThat mark the due observance of a drill;And Thomas sees my faults and grins again.Let him grin on; my time will come once moreAt dinner, when he hands the Brussels sprouts.

[The drill proceeds.

Now we're in fours and marching like the wind.This is more like it; this is what we needTo make us quit ourselves like regulars.Left, right, left, right! The Sergeant gives it outAs if he meant it. Stepping out like thisWe should breed terror in the German hordesAnd drive them off. The Sergeant has a gleamIn either eye; I think he's proud of us.Or does he meditate some stratagemTo spoil our marching?The Sergeant.On the left form squad!The Volunteer.There! He has done it! He has ruined us!I'm lost past hope, and Thomas, too, is lost;And in a press of lost and tangled menThe great broad back of Batts heaves miles away.

[The Sergeant explains and the drill proceeds.

The Volunteer.No matter; we shall some day learn it all,The standing difference 'twixt our left and right,The bayonet exercise, the musketry,And all the things a soldier does with ease.I must remember it's a long, long wayTo Tipperary, but my heart's——The Sergeant.Dismiss!

R. C. L.

MARCH AIRS.

AT long last the War Office is waking up to the value of bands for military purposes, and a good deal of interest will be aroused by the discussion now proceeding as to the best airs for use on the march.

The following suggestions have been hastily collected by wireless and other means:—

From the Trenches: "Why not try 'Come into the garden mud'?"

From a very new Subaltern: "I had thought of 'John Brown's Body,' but personally I am more concerned just now with Sam Browne's Belt."

From a Zeppelin-driver: "There's an old Scotch song that I have tried successfully on one of our naval lieutenants. It runs like this:—

O, I'll tak the high road and you'll tak' the low road,An' I'll be in Yarmouth afore ye."

From the Captain of theSydney: "What's the matter with 'The Jolly Müller'?"

From PresidentWilson: "Have you thought of 'The little rift within the lute,' as played by our Contra-band?"

From Admiralvon Tirpitz: "A familiar air with me is 'Crocked in the cradle of the deep.'"

From SirEdward Grey: "If it could be done diplomatically, I should like to see recommended, 'Dacia, Dacia, give me your answer, do.'"

From the Crew of theLion: "For England, Home, and Beatty."

From an East Coast Mayor: "Begone, dull scare!"

From the King ofRumania: "Now we shan't be long."

Old Farmer-to village Military CriticOld Farmer(to village Military Critic). "Strateegy? Dod, man, ye havena as muckle strateegy as wad tak' ye across Argyle Street unless a polisman helpit ye."

Old Farmer(to village Military Critic). "Strateegy? Dod, man, ye havena as muckle strateegy as wad tak' ye across Argyle Street unless a polisman helpit ye."

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

(By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks.)

The German War Book(Murray) is a work in whose authenticity many of us would have refused to believe this time last year. It is a pity indeed that it was not then in the hands of all those who still clung to the theory that the Prussian was a civilised and humane being. However, now that everyone can read it, translated and with a wholly admirable preface by ProfessorJ. H. Morgan, it is to be hoped that the detestable little volume will have a wide publicity. True, it can add little to our recent knowledge of the enemy of mankind; but it is something to have his guiding principles set down upon the authority of his own hand. Cynical is hardly an adequate epithet for them; indeed I do not know that the word exists that could do full justice to the compound of hypocrisy and calculated brutishness that makes up this manual. It may at first strike the reader as surprising to find himself confronted by sentiments almost, one might say, of moderation and benevolence. He will ask with astonishment if the writer has not, after all, been maligned. Before long, however, he will discover that all this morality is very carefully made conditional, and that the conditions are wide. In short, as the Preface puts it, the peculiar logic of the book consists in "ostentatiously laying down unimpeachable rules, and then quietly destroying them by debilitating exceptions." For example, on the question of exposing the inhabitants of occupied territory to the fire of their own troops—the now notorious Prussian method of "women and children first"—theWar Book, while admitting pious distaste for such practice, blandly argues that its "main justification" lies in its success. Thus, with sobs and tears, like the walrus, the Great General Staff enumerates its suggested list of serviceable infamies. At the day of reckoning what a witness will this little book be! Out of their own mouths they stand here condemned through all the ages.

Mrs.Humphry Ward, chief of novelists-with-a-purpose, vehemently eschews the detachment of the Art-for-Art's-Saker, while a long and honourable practice has enabled her to make her stories bear the burden of her theses much more comfortably than would seem theoretically possible.Delia Blanchflower(Ward, Lock) is a suffrage novel, dedicated with wholesome intent to the younger generation, and if one compares the talented author's previous record of uncompromising, and indeed rather truculent, anti-suffrage utterances one may note (with approval or dismay) a considerable broadening of view on the vexed question. For her attack here is delivered exclusively on the militant position. Quite a number of decent folk in her pages are suffragistically inclined, and there is a general admission that the eager feet that throng the hill of the Vote are not by any means uniformly shod in elastic-sided boots, if one may speak a parable. It is a very notable admission and does the writer honour; for such revisions are rare with veteran and committed campaigners. The story is laid in the far-away era of the burnings of cricket pavilions and the lesser country houses.Deliais a beautiful goddess-heiress of twenty-two, with eyes of flame and a will of steel, a very agreeable and winning heroine. Her tutor,Gertrude Marvell, the desperate villain of the piece, a brilliant fanatic (crossed in love in early youth), wins the younger girl's affections and inspires and accepts her dedication of self and fortune to the grim purposes of the "Daughters of Revolt."Mark Winnington, her guardian, appointed by her father to counteract the tutor's baleful influence, finds both women a tough proposition. ForGertrudehas brainsto back her fanaticism, andDeliais a spirited handful of a ward. Loyalty to her consecration and to her friend outlast her belief in the methods of the revolting ones. Her defences are finally ruined by Cupid, forMarkis a handsome athletic man of forty or so, a paragon of knightly courtesy and persuasive speech and silences, and compares very favourably with the policemen in Parliament Square. PoorGertrudemakes a tragic end in a fire of her own kindling, so that the moral for the younger generation cannot be said to be set forth in ambiguous terms.

Arundel(Fisher Unwin) is one of those stories that begins with a Prologue; and as this was only mildly interesting I began to wonder whether I was going to be as richly entertained as one has by now a right to expect from Mr.E. F. Benson. But it appeared that, like a cunning dramatist, he was only waiting till the audience had settled into their seats; when this was done, up went the curtain upon the play proper, and we were introduced to Arundel itself, an abode of such unmixed and giddy joy that I have been chortling over the memory of it ever since. Arundel was the house at Heathmoor where livedMrs. Hancockand her daughterEdith; andMrs. Hancockherself, and her house and her neighbourhood and her car and her servants and her friends—all, in fact, that is hers, epitomize the Higher Suburbia with a delicate and merciless satire that is beyond praise. I shall hurry over the actual story, because that, though well and absorbingly told, is of less value than the setting. Next door to theHancockslived a blameless young man calledEdward, whom for many reasons, not least because their croquet-lawns, so to speak, "marched,"Mrs. Hancockhad chosen as her daughter's husband. So blamelessly, almost without emotion, these were betrothed, walking among the asparagus beds on a suitable May afternoon "ventilated by a breath of south-west wind and warmed by a summer sun," and the course of their placid affection would have run smooth enough but for the sudden arrival, out of the Prologue, ofElizabeth, fiercely alive and compelling, the ideal of poorEdward'sdreams. Naturally, therefore, there is the devil to pay. But, good as all this is, it isMrs. Hancockwho makes the book, first, last and all the time. She is a gem of purest ray serene, and my words that would praise her are impotent things. Only unlimited quotation could do justice to her sleek self-deception and little comfortable meannesses. In short, as a contemporary portrait, the mistress of Arundel seems to be the best thing that Mr.Bensonhas yet given us; worth—if he will allow me to say so—a whole race ofDodos. For comparison one turns instinctively toJane Austen; and I can sound no higher praise.

Love never seems to run a smooth course for girls of the name ofJoan; their affairs of heart, whatever the final issue may be, have complex beginnings and make difficult, at times dismal, progress. I attribute the rejection of the great novel of my youth to the fact that the heroine, a rosy-cheeked girl with no more serious problems in life than the organisation of mixed hockey matches, was ineptly given that unhappy name. MissMary Agnes Hamilton'sJoan Traquairis true to the type. From the start she is handicapped by a bullying father, an invalid sister, a lack of means and an excess of artistic temperament, the last of these being not just a casual tendency to picture galleries and the opera, but the kind of restless passion which causes people to prefer sunsets to meals and to neglect their dress. In due course she falls in love with a man calledSebastian, another name which, if less familiar, is yet a sufficient warning to the world that its owner is bound to be a nuisance on the hearth. ThisSebastianwas an artist, ambitious and of course poor; worse, he had a touch of genius and—worst of all—he knew it. NeverthelessJoanbecame his wife, supposing that this was just the sort of man to make her happy. Instead, he made her thoroughly miserable, at any rate for a good long time; but I doubt if any reader, even with all the facts before him, will anticipate exactly how he did it. I certainly didn't myself, although I feel now that I ought to have done. The point ofYes(Heinemann) is both new and true; I recommend the book with confidence to all interested in the Joans and Sebastians of this world.

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