they'll still know you by your white featherThe Turkey Buzzard(to the Sea Eagle). "You may call yourself a Turkey Buzzard if you like, but they'll still know you by your white feather."
The Turkey Buzzard(to the Sea Eagle). "You may call yourself a Turkey Buzzard if you like, but they'll still know you by your white feather."
["The week-end was dull and much rain fell, but this did not spoil the visitors' pleasure. The sight of the sea in a turbulent mood was a great attraction."—Seaside note in daily paper.]
["The week-end was dull and much rain fell, but this did not spoil the visitors' pleasure. The sight of the sea in a turbulent mood was a great attraction."—Seaside note in daily paper.]
It has rained for a week down at Shrimpton;'Tis zero or less in the shade;You can paddle your feet in the principal streetAnd bathe on the stony parade;But still on our holiday pleasuresNo thoughts of discomfort intrude,As we whisper, "This sight is a bit of all right,"For the sea's in a turbulent mood.There's nobody harks to the pierrots;For music we don't care a straw;And the "comic" in vain chants the usual strainConcerning his mother-in-law.Unbought are the beach's bananas;Our souls are all far above food;Not a man of us dreams of consuming ice-creamsWhen the sea's in a turbulent mood.You may prate of the fervour of PhoebusOf days that are calm and serene,When a tint as of teak is imposed on the cheekThat is commonly pallid (when clean);Butwehave a taste that's æsthetic;Mere sunshine seems vulgar and crude,As we gather to gaze with artistic amazeOn the sea in a turbulent mood.
It has rained for a week down at Shrimpton;'Tis zero or less in the shade;You can paddle your feet in the principal streetAnd bathe on the stony parade;But still on our holiday pleasuresNo thoughts of discomfort intrude,As we whisper, "This sight is a bit of all right,"For the sea's in a turbulent mood.
It has rained for a week down at Shrimpton;
'Tis zero or less in the shade;
You can paddle your feet in the principal street
And bathe on the stony parade;
But still on our holiday pleasures
No thoughts of discomfort intrude,
As we whisper, "This sight is a bit of all right,"
For the sea's in a turbulent mood.
There's nobody harks to the pierrots;For music we don't care a straw;And the "comic" in vain chants the usual strainConcerning his mother-in-law.Unbought are the beach's bananas;Our souls are all far above food;Not a man of us dreams of consuming ice-creamsWhen the sea's in a turbulent mood.
There's nobody harks to the pierrots;
For music we don't care a straw;
And the "comic" in vain chants the usual strain
Concerning his mother-in-law.
Unbought are the beach's bananas;
Our souls are all far above food;
Not a man of us dreams of consuming ice-creams
When the sea's in a turbulent mood.
You may prate of the fervour of PhoebusOf days that are calm and serene,When a tint as of teak is imposed on the cheekThat is commonly pallid (when clean);Butwehave a taste that's æsthetic;Mere sunshine seems vulgar and crude,As we gather to gaze with artistic amazeOn the sea in a turbulent mood.
You may prate of the fervour of Phoebus
Of days that are calm and serene,
When a tint as of teak is imposed on the cheek
That is commonly pallid (when clean);
Butwehave a taste that's æsthetic;
Mere sunshine seems vulgar and crude,
As we gather to gaze with artistic amaze
On the sea in a turbulent mood.
The Beekeepers' Record, referring to the photograph of a group of prominent beekeepers, says:—"Mr. Dadant's well-known features are easily spotted." We are sorry, but a little cold cream will sometimes do wonders.
"For nuts."—The origin of this curious phrase to indicate incompetence in any pursuit or pastime—e.g., "He can't play for nuts," etc.—is obscure; but its antiquity is incontestable. Thus one of the fragments ofEnniusruns: "Nucibus non ludere possum." Perhaps the most plausible theory is that which views the phrase as a heritage from our simian ancestors, among whom nuts were the common medium of exchange. On this assumption a monkey—whether gorilla, chimpanzee, baboon or orangutan—who was described as unable to do anything "for nuts,"i.e., for pecuniary remuneration, was obviously inefficient. Another explanation, which we believe is supported by Mr.Eustace Miles, scouts the notion of an ancient origin of the phrase and fixes theterminus a quoby the recent introduction of vegetarian diet. Nuts being a prime staple of the votaries of this cult, a person who cannot do anything "for nuts" means, by implication, a carnivorous savage who is incapable of progress. Lastly, there remains the ingenious solution that the phrase as commonly employed involves a misspelling. It ought to be "four nuts," and playing four nuts was an ancient but simple game, which may be connected with the cognate phrase about knowing or not knowing "how many beans make five."
Polly Perkins: Was she a real person?—A careful search in the registers of Paddington in the early and mid-Victorian period reveals so many Mary Perkinses as to render the task of identification peculiarly difficult. It will be remembered, however, that the heroine of the famous ballad is described as not only "little," but "pretty;" indeed, she is spoken of as being "as beautiful as a butterfly and as proud as a queen." So far, however, these clues to her appearance have yielded no solid results. The representatives of the famous family of brewers have been unable to throw any light on the subject, and an application to the managing director of the London and General Omnibus Company has also proved unproductive. (Polly Perkins "married the conductor of a twopenny 'bus.") Her brilliant appearance suggests a possible relationship with Dr.Perkins, the famous pioneer of the aniline dye industry; but this, as well as the theory that she was a descendant ofPerkin Warbeck, is mere surmise.
THE OLD REFRAIN.THE OLD REFRAIN.First Old Lady."My dear, whatdoyou think of this war? Isn't it terrible?"Second Old Lady."Awful! But it can't last long;The Powers will surely intervene."
First Old Lady."My dear, whatdoyou think of this war? Isn't it terrible?"
Second Old Lady."Awful! But it can't last long;The Powers will surely intervene."
The first man who ate an oyster.—The most widely circulated account of this feat is that which ascribes it to the notorious Roman epicure Publius Esurius Gulo, who was nicknamed Bellipotens from the rotundity of his figure. According to the account given in theGastronomicaof Voracius Bulbo (ii. 18) Gulo was always making daring experiments, and, when bathing at Baiae on a very hot day, and seeing a bivalve which had rashly opened its jaws in the sun, he dexterously inserted a stone and conveyed the contents to his mouth on the point of the pin of hisfibula. He was subsequently created a proconsul byNero. The only drawback connected with this account is the fact that oysters were recognised as delicacies in Rome at least a hundred years beforeNero. It is right to add that the genuineness of Bulbo'sGastronomicahas been seriously impugned, the best authorities (includingFrancatelli) being convinced that the treatise was the work of a sixteenth-centuryfarceurwho belonged to the royal house of Paphlagonia.
Parlour Pathos, Specimens of.—The best specimens of this interesting emotional product are to be found in the words of Royalty Ballads. A good instance is to be found in the following choice quatrain:—
Nature cares not whence or how,Nature asks not why;'Tis enough that thou art thou,And that I am I.
Nature cares not whence or how,Nature asks not why;'Tis enough that thou art thou,And that I am I.
Nature cares not whence or how,
Nature asks not why;
'Tis enough that thou art thou,
And that I am I.
Comparative Couplets.—The correct form of this literary disease is as follows:—
A chair without a legIs like a hen without an egg.
A chair without a legIs like a hen without an egg.
A chair without a leg
Is like a hen without an egg.
But it is emphatically not to be encouraged, as excessive indulgence in the habit has been known to lead to the break-up of happy homes.
Names of Golf Clubs.—The latest addition to the list is, so far as we are aware, the "Sammy," but efforts are being made to induce the St. Andrews authorities to sanction the "Biffy," a combination of the jigger and the baffy, and the "Duncher," a powerful weapon for extricating the ball out of rushes, tar and other viscous lies.
The Juggins Family.—This family claims descent from Joskin ap Gwyggan, the last native prince who ruled in Dwffryn. The earlier lines in the descent are doubtful. The various families claiming to spring from Joskin adopted different patronymics in the fifteenth and succeeding centuries, amongst which may be noted Joskins, Gherkin, Guggenheimer, and Gaga.
Hoard my goldThe Patriot."Hoard my gold!I'd starve first!"
The Patriot."Hoard my gold!I'd starve first!"
Philip Renwick to Charles Holcombe.
Philip Renwick to Charles Holcombe.
Room 99, X.Y.Z. Offices,Whitehall,8th August, 1914.
Dear Charlie,—Can you possibly turn out for us on Thursday nextv.Paddlewick? We lost to them rather heavily in May last and are anxious to give them a sound beating. Their fast bowler is playing for them again, I hear, and we absolutely rely on your help. Can you get off for the day?
Yours ever, P. R.
Charles Holcombe to Philip Renwick.
Charles Holcombe to Philip Renwick.
Room 83, P.Q.R. Offices,Lombard Street,9th August, 1914.
My Dear Phil,—Thanks for yours. Will try to manage it next Thursday, but am doubtful. My chief, though a capable official, is no sport, and I anticipate difficulties. I had a day off only two weeks ago for cricket. Will do my best.
Thine, C. H.
Charles Holcombe to Philip Renwick.
Charles Holcombe to Philip Renwick.
P.Q.R.10th August, 1914.
My Dear Phil,—Awfully sorry; no luckreThursday. Boss hopeless. I broached the matter this morning (without actually asking for permission), but I fear the worst. You had better get another man for the Paddlewick match. So sorry.
Yours ever,Charlie Holcombe.
Philip Renwick to Charles Holcombe.
Philip Renwick to Charles Holcombe.
X.Y.Z.10th August, 1914.
My Dear Charlie,—We shall be absolutely in the cart without you. They've got an awfully hot fast bowler. Bartram now tells me he can't possibly turn out, and you are the only really decent bat I know. We simplycan'tlose to Paddlewick again—we shall never hear the last of it. (No one need know that you don't play regularly for Middlecombe.) Do try your best, old man. Mightn't your Aunt Martha be seriously ill?
Yours ever,Phil.
Charles Holcombe to Philip Renwick
Charles Holcombe to Philip Renwick
(wire.)
(wire.)
Aunt Martha dying. All well. Boss absent Thursday, so can explain to him afterwards.Holcombe.
Philip Renwick to Charles Holcombe
Philip Renwick to Charles Holcombe
(wire.)
(wire.)
Good boy. Funeral 11.30. Train Paddington 10.5. Lunch 1.30. Draw 6.30.Philip.
Charles Holcombe to Philip Renwick.
Charles Holcombe to Philip Renwick.
Room 83, P.Q.R. Offices,14th August.
My Dear Phil,—I regret that I was forced to leave somewhat hurriedly after the game last night. I have nothing to add to what I told you at lunch as to the identity of the Paddlewick Spofforth with my chief, of whose sporting talent I was in ignorance. But if you should hear of a good berth going anywhere I should be extraordinarily grateful.
Yours ever,Charlie Holcombe.
P.S.—It was doubly unfortunate (in a way) that I should have scored a six and three fours in one over from his bowling.
He.Has anyone seen the paper?
She.I haven't.
He.Didn't it come this morning?
She.Very likely not. The boy often forgets it. You're the only person who ever looks at it.
He.Well, I suppose I must wait till I get to the Club; but I dare say there isn't anything that matters in it.
She.Have you done with that paper, my dear?
He.Absolutely; there's nothing in it. There never is. I can't think why we waste money in taking it.
She.Then perhaps I may have it for a pattern?
He.Why, certainly. I've no use for it.
The whole family(all together).long bracketHas the paper come yet?Whats the news?where's the paper?What about Liége?I say, where's the paper?Isn't the paper here yet?What's the matter with the people?
The whole family(all together again).long bracketI say, father, you might read quicker.Can't you tear it in half?Do tell us the news.Do read it out loud.What about Liége? Quick!Oh dear, why don't we have ten copies of it?
"The 'Daily Telegraph' Algeciras correspondent, wiring yesterday, says news from Gibraltar reports a naval fight off the Canaries. One of the latter was sunk and the other captured and brought to Gibraltar."Liverpool Evening Express.
"The 'Daily Telegraph' Algeciras correspondent, wiring yesterday, says news from Gibraltar reports a naval fight off the Canaries. One of the latter was sunk and the other captured and brought to Gibraltar."
Liverpool Evening Express.
Our own canary protests indignantly at this treatment of its allies.
In order to be in the very admirable fashion the L.C.C. has decided, we understand, to change the name of Jermyn Street to Jellicoe Lane.
THE LOCAL TOUCH.THE LOCAL TOUCH.East Anglian."Tell yow what that is, Sir: that there Kaiser 'e 'ont never be satisfied until 'e's ruined Mudborough."
East Anglian."Tell yow what that is, Sir: that there Kaiser 'e 'ont never be satisfied until 'e's ruined Mudborough."
(By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks.)
(By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks.)
Mr. Dornford Yates, whose name I seem to recall as a contributor to the magazines, has written a book of the most agreeable nonsense which he has calledThe Brother of Daphne(Ward, Lock). For no specially apparent reason, sinceDaphneherself plays but a small part in the argument, which is chiefly concerned with the brother and his love affairs. This brother, addressed asBoy, was a bit of a dog, and an uncommonly lucky dog at that. The adventures he had! He apparently could not go out for the simplest walk without meeting some amiable young woman, divinely fair and supernaturally witty, with whom he presently exchanged airy badinage and, towards the end of the interview, kisses. What distressed me a little at first, till I tumbled to the spirit of the thing, was the discovery that the charmer was always a fresh one, and in consequence that these osculations had, so to speak, no matrimonial significance. Perhaps, however,Boyrecognised an essential similarity in each of his partners. He may, for example, have been deceived by the fact that they all talked exactly the same Dolly dialogue—light, frothy and just a little more neatly turned than is the common intercourse of mortals. You know the kind of speech I mean. It is vastly pleasant and easy to read; but I must decline to believe that any young man could have the amazing fortune to meet fifteen pretty girls who all had the trick of it. Still, that by no means lessened my enjoyment of an entertaining volume, notice of which would be incomplete without a word of praise for the illustrations of Mr. C. W.Wilmshurst, a favourite black-and-white artist of mine, whose name is unaccountably omitted from the title-page.
IfDorothea Conyersknew as much about English syntax as she does about Irish, and were as certain in the handling of a story as she is in the conduct of a horse,Old Andy(Methuen) might be taken at a single refreshing gallop. As it is, I advise the reader to tackle it piecemeal, a brisk run here and there, followed by a considerable breather. For the novel is put together in a scrambling fashion, being full of repetitions of almost identical scenes and making very little definite way in a forward direction. There are the usual Irish peasantry and farmers who worship the horse for pecuniary and sentimental reasons, as the Israelites worshipped the golden calf; the usual hunting people, who either ride straight and are grimly sarcastic or talk very big and go for the gates; and the usual English visitors, who astound by their guilelessness and simplicity when confronted by aboriginal horse-copers and native bogs and stone-walls. If cubbing be included, I should be afraid to say how many meets are described in this book, or how many hunt-breakfasts and heavy teas in Irish interiors—interiors of cottages, of course, I mean—resulting in how many tricky deals and harmless tosses in the heather and the mud. But if you follow my lead there is plenty of pure joy inOld Andy, and the most and the best of it perhaps is to be found in the remarks of grooms, servant-girls and casual country folk, who as often as not have no kind of connection with the thread of the tale. "'If meself an' the Masther wasn't rowlin' rocks all the day yestherday, he would be within long ago,' replied the covert keeper." "If there is one rabbit with a skinned nose there's a hundther, an' they runnin' by mistake to the door they're used to be at." Such scattered flowers of speech abound in a book whose very want of construction is perhaps symbolical and a reflection of the charming incoherence of the Irish mind.
A BRAVE MANA BRAVE MAN."Large lager, waiter."
It is my painful experience that, when a novelist sets out to write a tale of English country life, the better he is at the job the more sombre is the finished product. Mr.George Stevensonis very good indeed at his job; he has sincerity and power, and a certain austere aloofness that will take him far; and the result is thatJenny Cartwright(Lane) is about as gloomy a story as ever I read. Above everything else, what I noticed about this book was its freedom from all straining after effect. Whatever takes place, I fancy Mr.Stevensonsaying, do not let us be sentimental about it. Half the characters in the book seem to come by violent ends; of the two chief women, one commits suicide and the other is hanged. Mr.Stevenson, one can only suppose, speaks of life as he finds it. There are really two stories, that ofBeatrice Barrington, the faithless wife ofSir Philip, and the dreary mockery of life up at The Court, with its hatreds and subterfuges, its crippled master, frightened children and spying servants. This is the county as the author sees it. Linked with this is the life of the farm, whereJennyis brought up by an uncle who hates her; where she tends his bedridden wife; where her cousinBeatricegoes wrong; whereBeatrice'sbetrayer is killed in an accident, and her baby falls into the fire; and where finally the dour uncle himself, after shooting the young squire who has offered dishonourable addresses toJenny, allows her to pay the penalty of his crime. There is undeniable strength about the book and it holds the attention; but I dispute the right of anyone to call it cheerful.
Cynthia Stockleyhas the writing quality in her; she can both see and feel; she can do man-talk with a plausibility beyond the reach of most of her sex; and she works with a refreshing dash and freedom. With a certain carelessness also sometimes; as thus: "The other, turning to run, got a shot in his leg that put him out of business, but in spite of which he managed to crawl away." And there are little kakophonies, such as: "He was loved, openly and gladly, back." The work is good enough to make worth while the cleansing of these defects. The author certainly puts into a short story more thought and characterisation than is common in these days of half-hours with even the best authors through the medium of magazine pot-boilers.Wild Honey(Constable) is the title of the first (not quite the best) of an excellent bunch. It sums up the bitter-sweet of South Africa, which is the setting of all these stories of love, adventure, horror and the wild. They give a strong impression of fidelity of draftsmanship, though here we know so little that is intimate of the dark continent that we cannot judge how far actual occurrences are based on fact or probability. ButCynthia Stockleyhas some of the mysterious qualities of a possible South African laureate. Perhaps she will contrive to put away a little weakness for tall and scornful aristocratic women; but, in any case, I can commend her book confidently to all intelligent beach-haunters.
"The price of bread has just been fixed by the authorities at 32 centimes the kilometre."—Globe.
"The price of bread has just been fixed by the authorities at 32 centimes the kilometre."—Globe.
So you can get a couple of yards of French roll for about half-a-farthing. Not bad for war-time.