THE DEAD TREE.

Mabel(who has something in her eye). "It's still very sore, Mummy. Shall I gargle it?"

(Being a terrible result of reading too much poetry in the modern manner.)

Slushy is the highway between the unspeakable hedges;I pauseIrresolute under a telegraph-pole,The fourteenth telegraph-pole on the wayFrom Shere to Havering,The twenty-firstFrom Havering to Shere.Crimson is the western sky; upright it stands,The solitary pole,Sombre and terrible,Splitting the dying sunInto two semi-circular halves.I do not think I have seen, not even in Vorticist pictures,Anything so solitary,So absolutely nude;Yet this was an item once in the uninteresting forest,With branches sticking out of it, and crude green leavesAnd resinous sap,And underneath it a litter of pine spindlesAnd ants;Birds fretted in the boughs and bees were busy in it,Squirrels ran noisily up it;Now it is naked and dead,Delightfully nakedAnd beautifully dead.Delightfully and beautifully, for across it melodiously,Stirred by the evening wind,The wires where electric messages are continually being despatchedBetween various post-offices,Messages of business and messages of love,Rates of advertisements and all the winners,Are vibrating and thrummingLike a thousand lutes.Is the old grey heart of the telegraph pole stirred by these messages?I fancy not.Yet it all seems very strange;And even stranger still, now that I notice it,Is the fact that the thing is after all not absolutely naked,For a short way up it, half obliterated with age,Discoloured and torn,Fastened on by tintacks,There is a paperafficheRelating to swine fever.The sun sinks lower and I pass on,On to the fifteenth pole from Shere to Havering,And the twentiethFrom Havering to Shere;It is even more naked and desolate than the last.I pause (as before)....

Slushy is the highway between the unspeakable hedges;I pauseIrresolute under a telegraph-pole,The fourteenth telegraph-pole on the wayFrom Shere to Havering,The twenty-firstFrom Havering to Shere.

Slushy is the highway between the unspeakable hedges;

I pause

Irresolute under a telegraph-pole,

The fourteenth telegraph-pole on the way

From Shere to Havering,

The twenty-first

From Havering to Shere.

Crimson is the western sky; upright it stands,The solitary pole,Sombre and terrible,Splitting the dying sunInto two semi-circular halves.I do not think I have seen, not even in Vorticist pictures,Anything so solitary,So absolutely nude;Yet this was an item once in the uninteresting forest,With branches sticking out of it, and crude green leavesAnd resinous sap,And underneath it a litter of pine spindlesAnd ants;Birds fretted in the boughs and bees were busy in it,Squirrels ran noisily up it;Now it is naked and dead,Delightfully nakedAnd beautifully dead.

Crimson is the western sky; upright it stands,

The solitary pole,

Sombre and terrible,

Splitting the dying sun

Into two semi-circular halves.

I do not think I have seen, not even in Vorticist pictures,

Anything so solitary,

So absolutely nude;

Yet this was an item once in the uninteresting forest,

With branches sticking out of it, and crude green leaves

And resinous sap,

And underneath it a litter of pine spindles

And ants;

Birds fretted in the boughs and bees were busy in it,

Squirrels ran noisily up it;

Now it is naked and dead,

Delightfully naked

And beautifully dead.

Delightfully and beautifully, for across it melodiously,Stirred by the evening wind,The wires where electric messages are continually being despatchedBetween various post-offices,Messages of business and messages of love,Rates of advertisements and all the winners,Are vibrating and thrummingLike a thousand lutes.

Delightfully and beautifully, for across it melodiously,

Stirred by the evening wind,

The wires where electric messages are continually being despatched

Between various post-offices,

Messages of business and messages of love,

Rates of advertisements and all the winners,

Are vibrating and thrumming

Like a thousand lutes.

Is the old grey heart of the telegraph pole stirred by these messages?I fancy not.Yet it all seems very strange;And even stranger still, now that I notice it,Is the fact that the thing is after all not absolutely naked,For a short way up it, half obliterated with age,Discoloured and torn,Fastened on by tintacks,There is a paperafficheRelating to swine fever.

Is the old grey heart of the telegraph pole stirred by these messages?

I fancy not.

Yet it all seems very strange;

And even stranger still, now that I notice it,

Is the fact that the thing is after all not absolutely naked,

For a short way up it, half obliterated with age,

Discoloured and torn,

Fastened on by tintacks,

There is a paperaffiche

Relating to swine fever.

The sun sinks lower and I pass on,On to the fifteenth pole from Shere to Havering,And the twentiethFrom Havering to Shere;It is even more naked and desolate than the last.I pause (as before)....

The sun sinks lower and I pass on,

On to the fifteenth pole from Shere to Havering,

And the twentieth

From Havering to Shere;

It is even more naked and desolate than the last.

I pause (as before)....

[Author.We can start all over again now if you like.Editor.I don't like.]

Evoe.

"HOPS.

Canterbury, Saturday.—Trade was quiet, with prices steady, as follows:—Kent mixed fleeces, 36d; lambs' wool, 22d to 24d; downs, 41d to 42d; and half-bred fleeces, 38d to 39d per lb."—Financial Paper.

This may help to explain the taste of "Government ale."

"By systematic and scientific training is it possible to produce that perfect type of manhood gifted with the best powers of what we are wont to call the 'lower orders of creation'—keen sighted and swift of motion as a bird, sharp-scented as a greyhound, faithful and acute as a dog, and full of sentient wisdom as an elephant."—Daily Paper.

We are doubtful about the rest, but the greyhound part should be quite easy.

INTERNATIONAL EURYTHYMICS.AN ALLIEDPAS DE TROISAND AN "ASSOCIATED"PAS SEUL.

AN ALLIEDPAS DE TROISAND AN "ASSOCIATED"PAS SEUL.

Ko-ko(SirGordon Hewart). "Pardon me, but there I am adamant."

Monday, February 16th.—The greatAucklandstill reposes a touching faith in the Profiteering Act. In his opinion it "has had a stabilising effect on the price of clothing;" by which he means, I suppose, that West-End tailors long ago nailed their high prices to the mast-head.

In commending the Bill for the continuance of D.O.R.A., aremanetfrom last Session, theAttorney-Generalwas almost apologetic. He laid much stress upon the "modest and attenuated form" which the measure now presented, and the short time it was to remain in force. Serious objection was taken by the Irish Members to the provision that in districts where a proclamation is in force the D.O.R.A. regulations, instead of coming to an end on August 31st, will continue for a year after the end of the War. This they naturally interpreted as a means of continuing the military government of Ireland, a country in which, according to Mr.Devlin, the Government had as much right as the Germans in Belgium. The House, however, seemed to agree with the Irish Attorney-General that in the present state of Ireland it would not be wise to dispense with the regulations, and gave the Bill a second reading by 219 votes to 61.

Then the House turned to the discussion of the levy on capital. TheChancellor of the Exchequerwas still inexorably opposed to a general levy, but would like a toll on war-wealth alone, and proposed to set up a Committee to consider whether it was practicable. Mr.Adamsonfrankly declared that the Labour Party was in favour of a capital levy, but wanted to get at the war-profits first. Mr.Chamberlainobjected to widening the scope of the inquiry on the ground that it would take too long, and also that uncertainty would promote extravagance and discourage saving. And, despite Lieut.-CommanderKenworthy'snaïve suggestion that we should restore credit by making a bonfire of paper-money—he did not say whose—the House agreed with theChancellor.

COLONEL AMERY CRUSOE RETURNS FROM A SUCCESSFUL DAY WITH HIS MAN FRIDAY.

Tuesday, February 17th.—The Acting Colonial Secretary bubbled over with delight as he described the success of the operations against the Somaliland dervishes. The principal credit was due to the Royal Air Force, but the native levies had also done their part effectively. The only fly in ColonelAmery'sointment was the escape of that evasive gentleman, theMullah, to whom he was careful on this occasion not to apply the epithet "Mad." As, however, theMullahhas lost all his forces, all his stock and all his belongings, it is hoped that it will be at any rate some time before he pops up again.

The Coal Mines Bill was wisely entrusted to Mr.Bridgeman. LordSpenceronce delighted the House of Commons by announcing that he was "not an agricultural labourer"; and Mr.Bridgemansimilarly put it in a good temper by admitting that he had never himself worked in a mine. But he showed quite a sufficient acquaintance with his subject, and succeeded in dispelling some of the fog that enshrouds the figures of coal-finance. The miners, of course, objected to the Bill on the ground that it was not nationalisation, but were left in a very small minority.

A Private Members' debate on the Housing Problem occupied the evening. There was much friendly criticism of theMinister of Health, for whom MajorLloyd Greamesuggested a motto from theKoran:—

"This life is but a bridge;Let no man build his house upon it."

"This life is but a bridge;

Let no man build his house upon it."

But the lapse of time is gradually bringing performance nearer to promise, and Dr.Addisonwas able to announce that over one hundred thousand houses were now "in the tender stage." Let us hope no bitter blast will nip them in the bud.

Wednesday, February 18th.—The Lords returned to work after their week's holiday in a rather gloomy mood. By some occult process of reasoning LordParmoorhas convinced himself that the distress in Central Europe is largely the fault of the Peace Conference. He was supported by LordBryce, who declared that the "Big Four" approached the business of Treaty-making in a German rather than an English spirit (which sounds as if he thought they never meant to keep it), and by LordHaldane, who,more suo, accused the negotiators of having shown "no adequate prevision." LordCrawforddealt pretty faithfully with the cavillers and pointed out that this country had already spent twelve millions on relieving European distress, and was prepared to spend nearly asmuch again when the United States was ready to co-operate; but at present, he reminded them, that country was still in a state of war with Germany.

The one bright spot of the sitting was LordHylton'sstatement that the National Debt, which was within a fraction of eight thousand millions on December 31st, had since been reduced by eighty-five millions. The pace is too good to last, but it is something to have made a start.

For nearly four years we have been anxiously waiting to know what really did happen at the battle of Jutland. The voluminous efforts of Admirals and journalists have failed to clear up the mystery, and even CommanderCarlyon Bellairshas not satisfied everybody so completely as himself that his recent work reveals the truth. But now the official history is on the eve of publication and Mr.Longno longer feels it necessary to keep the secret. Here it is in his own words: "Themoralof the German fleet was very seriously shaken." What a relief!

It seems that the Turks were informed in advance of the intention of the Peace Conference to let them stay at Constantinople in the hope that they would forthwith abandon their sanguinary habits. Instead of which they appear to have said to themselves, "What a jolly day! Let us go out and kill something—Armenians for choice." So now a further message has been sent to them to the effect that the new title to the old tenement is not absolute but conditional, and that one of the covenants forbids its use as a slaughterhouse.

TAKING THE OFFERTORY.Mr. Austen Chamberlain(as Sidesman). "The threepenny-bit is economical, perhaps; but a desirable coin, from my point of view, it is not."

Mr. Austen Chamberlain(as Sidesman). "The threepenny-bit is economical, perhaps; but a desirable coin, from my point of view, it is not."

A modest little Bill empowering the Mint to manufacture coins worth something less than their weight in silver aroused the wrath of ProfessorOman. The last time, according to his account, that the coinage was thus debased was in the days ofHenry VIII., whose views both on money and matrimony were notoriously lax. Other Members were friendly to the project, and Mr.Dennis Herbert, in the avowed interest of churchwardens, urged the Government to seize the opportunity to abolish the threepeeny-bit, the irreducible minimum of "respectable" almsgiving. TheChancellor of the Exchequer, however, stoutly championed the elusive little coin, for which he declared there was "an immense demand."

On CaptainHambro'smotion deploring the action of certain trade-unions in refusing to admit ex-Service men to their ranks the Labour Party heard some very straight talking. The whips of LadyBonham-Carterat Paisley were nothing to the scorpions of ex-PrivateHopkinson, who has actually been fined at the instance of the trade-unions because he insisted upon employing some of his old comrades-in-arms.

Mr.Sexton'srather maladroit attempt to shift the blame on to the employers only deepened the impression that trade-unionism is developing into a system of caste, in which certain occupations are reserved for certain people. Only an elect bricklayer, for example, may lay bricks—though anybody can heave them—and the mere fact that a man has shouldered a rifle in the service of his country in no way entitles him to carry a hod.

Thursday, February 19th.—The impending advent of a Home Rule Bill is greatly perturbing the little remnant of Irish Nationalist Members, threatened with the extinction of their pet grievance. Although but seven in number they made almost noise enough for seventy. Question-time was punctuated with their plaints. TheChief Secretarydid his best to soothe them, but his remark that "no man in Ireland need be in prison if he will obey the law" poured oil on the flames.

Despite the reduction of the Question-ration from eight to four per Member, the House collectively grows "curiouser and curiouser." This is partly due to the popularity ofPremier-baiting, now to be enjoyed on Mondays and Thursdays. In future, Members are to be further restricted to three Questionsper diem; but no substantial relief is to be hoped for until the House sets up its own censorship, with power to expunge all Questions that are trivial, personal or put for purposes of self-advertisement. Not many—a dozen or two daily, perhaps—would survive the scrutiny.

(The "Cubanisation" of Ireland, suggested by Mr.de Valera, is being seriously discussed in Sinn Fein circles.)

When Ireland is treated like Cuba,As greatde Valerasuggests,And the pestilent loyalist Pooh-BahNo longer our island infests,The Pearl that adorns the AntillesWe'll speedily duplicate here,From the Lough in the North, that is Swilly's,Right down to Cape Clear.The militant minstrels of TaraWill change their war-harps for guitars;And Clare, to be called Santa Clara,Will grow the most splendid cigars;On the banks of the Bann the bananaWill yield us its succulent fruit,And the pig with the gentle iguanaTogether will root.Our poets, both major and minor,Will work the new Manganese vein,And turn out a product divinerThan even the Cubans obtain;Limerigo, Galvejo, Doblino—How lovely and noble they sound!And think of Don José DevlinoCavorting around!We'll borrow a leaf from Havana;We'll cultivate yuccas and yams;The Curragh shall be our savannah,Swept clear of all soldiers and shams;And then to the cry of "Majuba"We'll shatter the enemy's yoke,When Ireland is governed like CubaAnd grows her own smoke.

When Ireland is treated like Cuba,

As greatde Valerasuggests,

And the pestilent loyalist Pooh-Bah

No longer our island infests,

The Pearl that adorns the Antilles

We'll speedily duplicate here,

From the Lough in the North, that is Swilly's,

Right down to Cape Clear.

The militant minstrels of TaraWill change their war-harps for guitars;And Clare, to be called Santa Clara,Will grow the most splendid cigars;On the banks of the Bann the bananaWill yield us its succulent fruit,And the pig with the gentle iguanaTogether will root.

The militant minstrels of Tara

Will change their war-harps for guitars;

And Clare, to be called Santa Clara,

Will grow the most splendid cigars;

On the banks of the Bann the banana

Will yield us its succulent fruit,

And the pig with the gentle iguana

Together will root.

Our poets, both major and minor,Will work the new Manganese vein,And turn out a product divinerThan even the Cubans obtain;Limerigo, Galvejo, Doblino—How lovely and noble they sound!And think of Don José DevlinoCavorting around!

Our poets, both major and minor,

Will work the new Manganese vein,

And turn out a product diviner

Than even the Cubans obtain;

Limerigo, Galvejo, Doblino—

How lovely and noble they sound!

And think of Don José Devlino

Cavorting around!

We'll borrow a leaf from Havana;We'll cultivate yuccas and yams;The Curragh shall be our savannah,Swept clear of all soldiers and shams;And then to the cry of "Majuba"We'll shatter the enemy's yoke,When Ireland is governed like CubaAnd grows her own smoke.

We'll borrow a leaf from Havana;

We'll cultivate yuccas and yams;

The Curragh shall be our savannah,

Swept clear of all soldiers and shams;

And then to the cry of "Majuba"

We'll shatter the enemy's yoke,

When Ireland is governed like Cuba

And grows her own smoke.

To-day the telephone has been installed. The members of our staff are going about their duties in a dazed fashion, and I, to whose single-handed tenacity the achievement is due, find myself unable in these first full moments of triumph to concentrate on my every-day affairs.

I can still remember that fresh summer morning when with springy step I set out to call upon the District Contract Agent for the first time. Innocently enough I expected to arrange for the installation of a telephone within the next two or three days. But I recollect that as I ascended the steps of his premises I became depressed by that House of Usher foreboding, and then, when I witnessed the way in which an imperturbable official discomfited a tempestuous gentleman who was giving tongue to a long list of his wrongs, my carefully rehearsed and resolute address shrivelled on my lipsand I found myself asking tamely for a form.

This form,plusthe information that telephones were more speedily installed where ex-Service men were employed, was the net result of my first encounter.

And now, as I turn in reminiscent mood to a dusty file, I pause before one of my early letters to the District Contract Agent: "... If you saw our staff, who are without exception ex-soldiers, you would say at once that they are a remarkably fine body of men and deserving of a telephone. They mark their possessions with their initials in indelible pencil. Between them they have seen service on every front, from Mespot to Ireland. Some have been mentioned in despatches, many have figured in Cox's Book of Martyrs, and our cashiersaysthat he once opened a tin of bully with the key provided for that purpose. One of our juniors, Major Bays Waller, O.B.E., who came to us from a Control Office and who advises us on our filing, says that it is like coming from a home to a home. You must come round and have a chat with him; you would havesomuch in common.

"Trusting that you will expedite the little matter of our telephone installation, and assuring you that the spirit of our staff continues to be excellent, etc...."

Although this letter was signed "Henry Thomas, James & Sons," the District Contract Agent's vague reply on the file before me commences: "Sir (or Madam);" and I feel now, as I did then, that it is not in the best of taste for him to brag as he does about his telephone and his "Private Branch Exchange" on the very paper on which he writes to baffled applicants for installation.

From this time the correspondence is marked by an increasing bitterness on my side and a level colourlessness on his. Only once did he assume the offensive, which took the shape of a demand for four pounds for possible services to be rendered at some period in the future. At Yuletide I hoped that "during this season of goodwill he would see his way to give instructions for the installation of our telephone," and in the New Year I played once more the ex-Service employees' card:—"... Whatever views you may hold on the policy of the withdrawal of British troops from Russia, we are convinced that you will sympathise with our desire to extend a hearty welcome to a member of our staff on his return to this office from Murmansk; and we feel that, since he served with the R.E. Signals, it would be a graceful compliment to him if we had the telephone installed. We therefore cordially invite your co-operation so that this may take place before his arrival.... The idea of installing a telephone in this office is not in itself a novel one, as you may recollect that the suggestion has cropped up in the correspondence that has passed between us...."

And now, as I have said, the telephone is installed. The instrument is fashioned in a severe style (receiver and mouth-piece mounted on an ebonite column of the Roman Doric Order), and it stands for all to see as a symbol that in the seclusion of our offices we are in touch with the world at large. But as a symbol only it must remain, for the voices of the outer world that call us up as they search for other friends or obstruct us when we in turn are, as it were, groping after ours, have already frayed the temper of our staff. It was inevitable that under such constant irritation these ex-Service men of ours would one day burst into strong military idiom, so we have disconnected our telephone in order to avoid the calamity of losing our lady-typist.

SOUVENIR-HUNTERS OF THE PAST.Scene.—RUNNYMEDE, 1215.

Scene.—RUNNYMEDE, 1215.

"Man Wanted to lift 1,200 square yards of Turf at once—Provincial Paper.

Before applying for the job our young friend Foozle would like to know whether he will be required to replace the divot.

"Just Like Judy."

If the author ofJust Like Judywill look into that commodious classic,Mrs. Beeton's Cookery Book, he will find a formula for light pastry. And if he will proceed to the (for him) enlivening adventure of essaying a tartlet, he will find that most fatal among a host of fatal errors will be any failure to preserve the due proportion of ingredients. I do not suggest that there is as rigid a formula for light comedy. But certainly Mr.Dennythrew in too many unnecessary mystifications and crude explanations in proportion to the wit, wisdom and lively incident of his confection. In particular he was constantly making some of his characters tell the others what we of the audience either already knew or quite easily guessed. To exhaust my tedious-homely metaphor, if you put in a double measure of water the mixture will refuse to rise. And that I imagine is essentially what happened toJust Like Judy.

IrishJudy, a charmingly pretty busybody, outwardly just like MissIris Hoey, comes toPeter Keppel'sstudio and hears that this casual youth has got into a deplorable habit of putting off his marriage with her friendMilly. She (Judy) will see to that! She assumes therôleof a notorious Chelsea model, whom properPeterhas never seen.Peterknocks his head on the mantelpiece, just where a shrapnel splinter had hit him, and is persuaded that she,Judy McCarthy, affecting to beTrixie O'Farrel, is his wife. It all seems very horrible to him, but, shell-shock or no shell-shock, he sets to work to paint her portrait in a business-like way, and at the end of four hours it doesn't seem at all horrible. And by the time it is explained that it was all a joke (some people do have such a nice sense of humour) he is all for rushing off to the registry-office,Judyagreeing.

Not thatJudyis a minx. She did her level best to make two people who obviously didn't love one another fulfil their engagement, instead of, like a sensible woman, accepting the inevitable, which was, as it happens, so congenial to her. What puzzled me wasPeter'sindignation with poorMillywhen he found that she really didn't love him (but, on the contrary, a bounder calledCrauford), yet couldn't bear to cause him unhappiness, and was sacrificing herself for him. As that was his attitude precisely, I suppose he felt annoyed by this lack of originality. If we men are like that, it wasn't nice of Mr.Dennyto give us away.

At any rate I am sure Mr.Donald Calthropdidn't believe inPeterall the time. When he did he was very good indeed. When he didn't he was horrid. Did MissIris Hoeybelieve inJudy? I am not so sure. I suspect not. Did I believe in either? I did not.

I was a little surprised that MissJoan Vivian-Reesshould so overplay herTrixie. Her work is certainly in general not like that, and I conjecture the influence of some baleful autocrat of a producer. It seemed to me that MissMildred Evelyn'sMillywas, all things considered, a capable and consistent study of a desperately unsympathetic character, a more difficult and creditable feat than is commonly supposed.

"Wild Geese."

Mr.Jack Buchanan(Hon. Bill Malcolm). "What's the idea? Are you by any chance trying to give me the cold shoulder?"MissPhyllis Monkman(Violet Braid). "No. I just keep on doing this for the look of the thing."

Mr.Jack Buchanan(Hon. Bill Malcolm). "What's the idea? Are you by any chance trying to give me the cold shoulder?"

MissPhyllis Monkman(Violet Braid). "No. I just keep on doing this for the look of the thing."

I should hesitate to accuse Mr.Ronald Jeansof originality in the design of his musical trifle at the Comedy. The idea of a company of women that bans the society of men is at least as old as the Attic stage. But it is to his credit that though the theme invited suggestiveness he at least avoided the licence ofThe Lysistrata. Indeed there were moments when his restraint filled me with respectful wonder. Thus, though the Pacific Island to which the Junior Jumper Club retired—with no male attendant but the Club porter—clearly indicated a bathing scene, yet we had to be satisfied with an occasional glimpse of an exiguousmaillotwith nobody inside it.

In fact, the fun throughout had a note of reserve and was never boisterous. Mr.Jack Buchanan'squiet methods in the part of theHon. Bill Malcolm, universal philanderer, lent themselves to this quality of understatement. In a scene where he tried to extricate himself from a number of coincident entanglements with various members of the Club he was quite amusing without the aid of italics. Mr.Gilbert Childs, again, asWeekes—Club porter andAdmirable Crichtonof the island—though a little broader in his style, was too clever to force the fun.

The other sex, as was natural with women who affected a serious purpose, had fewer chances, and MissPhyllis Monkmanspoilt hers by a bad trick of hunching her shoulders and waggling her arms as if she were out for a cake-walk on Montmartre.

There were touches of humour in Mr.Cuvillier'stuneful music and in the limited movements of the best-looking chorus that I have seen for a long time.

As for the plot, it had at least the merit of continuity and conformed to the logic, seldom too severe, of this kind of entertainment, as distinct from the so-calledrevue. Nearly everything was well within my intelligence, the chief exception being the title; for never surely did a wild-goose chase offer such easy sport. The birds were just asking to be put into the bag. I should myself have preferred, out of compliment to the chorus, to call the play "Wild Ducks," only, of course,Ibsenhad been there before. Not that this would have greatly troubled an author who showed so little regard for the proprietary rights ofAristophanesand SirJames Barrie.

O.S.

"Finns, they're witches," said Murphy, "'tis born in 'em maybe,The same as fits an' freckles an' follerin' the sea,An' ginger hair in some folks—an' likin' beer in me."Finns, they're witches," said Murphy, "an' powerful strong ones too;They'll whistle a wind from nowhere an' a storm out o' the blue'Ud sink this here old hooker an' all her bloomin' crew."Finns, they're witches," said Murphy, rubbing his hairy chin,"An' some counts witchcraft bunkum, an' some a deadly sin,But—there ain't no harm as I see in standing well with a Finn."C.F.S.

"Finns, they're witches," said Murphy, "'tis born in 'em maybe,The same as fits an' freckles an' follerin' the sea,An' ginger hair in some folks—an' likin' beer in me.

"Finns, they're witches," said Murphy, "'tis born in 'em maybe,

The same as fits an' freckles an' follerin' the sea,

An' ginger hair in some folks—an' likin' beer in me.

"Finns, they're witches," said Murphy, "an' powerful strong ones too;They'll whistle a wind from nowhere an' a storm out o' the blue'Ud sink this here old hooker an' all her bloomin' crew.

"Finns, they're witches," said Murphy, "an' powerful strong ones too;

They'll whistle a wind from nowhere an' a storm out o' the blue

'Ud sink this here old hooker an' all her bloomin' crew.

"Finns, they're witches," said Murphy, rubbing his hairy chin,"An' some counts witchcraft bunkum, an' some a deadly sin,But—there ain't no harm as I see in standing well with a Finn."

"Finns, they're witches," said Murphy, rubbing his hairy chin,

"An' some counts witchcraft bunkum, an' some a deadly sin,

But—there ain't no harm as I see in standing well with a Finn."

C.F.S.

"Mr. ——, M.P., is leaving home for a fortnight's rest."—Scotch Paper.

FOR IDEAL AND OTHER HOMES.

and the patent protective stair-creak recorder is set to the right key—

and the passage spring-trap adjusted to a nicety—

Having seen that the front-door burglar alarm-gong is in working order—

arrange your barbed-wire-entanglement rug—

you can just give a look at the mechanism controlling the burglar chloroform shower—

and your synchronised window-catch warning system geared properly—

and go to bed.

fix your interior bedroom-door defences—

run through your jiu-jitsu exercises according to chart—

Ernest was a sprightly youthWith a passion for the truth,Who, the other day, beganHis career as midshipman.'Twas not in the least degreeVulgar curiosityUrging him to ask the reasonWhy, both in and out of season;'Twas but keenness; all he lackedWas a saving sense of tact.Once the Lieut. of Ernie's watch,Dour, meticulous and Scotch,Thought he'd show the timid snotty(Newly joined) exactly what heWanted when inspecting men.Closely Ernest watched, and thenSaid, saluting, "Sir, I noteSeveral creases in your coat,And I see upon your trouserSigns of paint-work; yet just now, Sir,Did you not think fit to blameOne poor man who had the same?"Ere that outraged Lieut. repliedSuddenly our hero spiedComing aft, his labours done,Our benignant Number One(Mostabstemious is he,And, in fact, a strict T.T.,But—it shows how Fate can blunder—No one could be rubicunder.Ernest, after one swift glance,Said, "Excuse my ignorance,But, Sir, can you tell me whyYou are always red, while I,Even when I drink a lot,Only flush if I am hot?"Just as Number One grew paleAnd collapsed against the rail,Striving grimly not to choke,Ernest heard the busy BlokeCalling loudly, "Let her go!"To a seaman down below;"Fool! the cutter's bound to ram you,Push the pinnace forrard, damn you!"Ernest shook his youthful headAnd he very gently saidInto his Commander's ear,"You forget yourself, I fear.May I ask what you would doIf I used that word toyou?Is it worthy, Sir, of anOfficer and gentleman?"Aft ran little Ernest, onlyPausing when he saw a lonelyFigure bright with golden laceWho appeared to own the place."Ah!" thought Ernie, "I know you;You're the luckless Captain who(Though you hadn't then a beard)Most unwillingly appearedBut a year ago or lessIn the Illustrated Press.""Tell me, Sir," the youngster cried,Crossing to the Captain's sideOf the sacred quarterdeck—"How did you contrive the wreckOf the cruiser you commandedWhen she bumped the beach and stranded?"You may say, "He is so brave heOught some day to rule the Navy."Certainly heought, but stillI'm afraid he never will;For they talked to him so grufflyAnd they handled him so roughlyThat, when he was fit to dropAnd the kindly Bloke said, "Stop!Or you'll make him even madder;He is wiser now and sadder,"Ernest simply answered, "Ay, Sir,You havemademe sad; but why, Sir?"

Ernest was a sprightly youth

With a passion for the truth,

Who, the other day, began

His career as midshipman.

'Twas not in the least degree

Vulgar curiosity

Urging him to ask the reason

Why, both in and out of season;

'Twas but keenness; all he lacked

Was a saving sense of tact.

Once the Lieut. of Ernie's watch,Dour, meticulous and Scotch,Thought he'd show the timid snotty(Newly joined) exactly what heWanted when inspecting men.Closely Ernest watched, and thenSaid, saluting, "Sir, I noteSeveral creases in your coat,And I see upon your trouserSigns of paint-work; yet just now, Sir,Did you not think fit to blameOne poor man who had the same?"

Once the Lieut. of Ernie's watch,

Dour, meticulous and Scotch,

Thought he'd show the timid snotty

(Newly joined) exactly what he

Wanted when inspecting men.

Closely Ernest watched, and then

Said, saluting, "Sir, I note

Several creases in your coat,

And I see upon your trouser

Signs of paint-work; yet just now, Sir,

Did you not think fit to blame

One poor man who had the same?"

Ere that outraged Lieut. repliedSuddenly our hero spiedComing aft, his labours done,Our benignant Number One(Mostabstemious is he,And, in fact, a strict T.T.,But—it shows how Fate can blunder—No one could be rubicunder.Ernest, after one swift glance,Said, "Excuse my ignorance,But, Sir, can you tell me whyYou are always red, while I,Even when I drink a lot,Only flush if I am hot?"

Ere that outraged Lieut. replied

Suddenly our hero spied

Coming aft, his labours done,

Our benignant Number One

(Mostabstemious is he,

And, in fact, a strict T.T.,

But—it shows how Fate can blunder—

No one could be rubicunder.

Ernest, after one swift glance,

Said, "Excuse my ignorance,

But, Sir, can you tell me why

You are always red, while I,

Even when I drink a lot,

Only flush if I am hot?"

Just as Number One grew paleAnd collapsed against the rail,Striving grimly not to choke,Ernest heard the busy BlokeCalling loudly, "Let her go!"To a seaman down below;"Fool! the cutter's bound to ram you,Push the pinnace forrard, damn you!"Ernest shook his youthful headAnd he very gently saidInto his Commander's ear,"You forget yourself, I fear.May I ask what you would doIf I used that word toyou?Is it worthy, Sir, of anOfficer and gentleman?"

Just as Number One grew pale

And collapsed against the rail,

Striving grimly not to choke,

Ernest heard the busy Bloke

Calling loudly, "Let her go!"

To a seaman down below;

"Fool! the cutter's bound to ram you,

Push the pinnace forrard, damn you!"

Ernest shook his youthful head

And he very gently said

Into his Commander's ear,

"You forget yourself, I fear.

May I ask what you would do

If I used that word toyou?

Is it worthy, Sir, of an

Officer and gentleman?"

Aft ran little Ernest, onlyPausing when he saw a lonelyFigure bright with golden laceWho appeared to own the place."Ah!" thought Ernie, "I know you;You're the luckless Captain who(Though you hadn't then a beard)Most unwillingly appearedBut a year ago or lessIn the Illustrated Press.""Tell me, Sir," the youngster cried,Crossing to the Captain's sideOf the sacred quarterdeck—"How did you contrive the wreckOf the cruiser you commandedWhen she bumped the beach and stranded?"

Aft ran little Ernest, only

Pausing when he saw a lonely

Figure bright with golden lace

Who appeared to own the place.

"Ah!" thought Ernie, "I know you;

You're the luckless Captain who

(Though you hadn't then a beard)

Most unwillingly appeared

But a year ago or less

In the Illustrated Press."

"Tell me, Sir," the youngster cried,

Crossing to the Captain's side

Of the sacred quarterdeck—

"How did you contrive the wreck

Of the cruiser you commanded

When she bumped the beach and stranded?"

You may say, "He is so brave heOught some day to rule the Navy."Certainly heought, but stillI'm afraid he never will;For they talked to him so grufflyAnd they handled him so roughlyThat, when he was fit to dropAnd the kindly Bloke said, "Stop!Or you'll make him even madder;He is wiser now and sadder,"Ernest simply answered, "Ay, Sir,You havemademe sad; but why, Sir?"

You may say, "He is so brave he

Ought some day to rule the Navy."

Certainly heought, but still

I'm afraid he never will;

For they talked to him so gruffly

And they handled him so roughly

That, when he was fit to drop

And the kindly Bloke said, "Stop!

Or you'll make him even madder;

He is wiser now and sadder,"

Ernest simply answered, "Ay, Sir,

You havemademe sad; but why, Sir?"

"I wonder," said Mary for the third time, "if we shall catch the tram at the other end."

"Calmness," I told her—this for the second time—"is the essence of comfortable travel. Meeting trouble half-way—"

"It isn't half-way," she said indignantly. "We're nearly there."

We were on a bus whose "route" terminated some five miles from home, which we proposed to reach by a tram, and, the hour being late, it was our chances of catching a car that were worrying Mary.

"Never get flurried," I went on. "If people would only go ahead calmly and steadily.... What causes half our traffic congestion? Flurry. What makes it so difficult to move quickly in the streets? Flurry. What is it clogs the wheels of progress everywhere?"

"Don't tell me," she implored. "Let me guess. Flurry."

"Exactly," I said, and at this point we reached our terminus. Two trams were waiting, one behind the other, some thirty yards away, and, as we descended the steps of the bus, the bell of the first one rang warningly. Mary would have started running, but I detained her.

"Flurrying again," I said indulgently. "Here are two trams, but of course you must have the first one, however full it is," and I led her towards the second. As I expected, it was quite empty, and I was still using it to point my moral when its conductor began juggling with the pole. It was then that I realised that, though on the down lines, this car was going no further. It was, in fact, turning round for its journey back to London, while in the distance the rear lights of our last down tram seemed to wink a derisive farewell.

There was nothing for it but to go ahead calmly and steadily, and we did so. It was somewhere about the end of the fourth mile that Mary asked suddenly:—

"What was it you said clogged the wheels of progress everywhere?"

"Flurry," I said feebly.

"Well,Ithink it's blisters," she said.

Those who are still inclined to question whether the cinema is to be regarded as a serious force in the realm of Art should not only read the frequent contributions toThe Timesand other newspapers on this department of the drama, but should bear in mind that quite recently it has been stated that both the Rev.Silas K. Hockingand Mr.Jack Dempseyhave taken part in photo-plays. It cannot be doubted that the peculiar talent required for making the heart of the people throb is being revealed in the most unlikely places.

If proof were needed that the art of the film is a dangerous rival to that of the stage, we would point to the five-reel drama,The Call of the Thug, of which a private trade view was given last week. Miss Flora Poudray, who is here featured—her name is new to us—proves to be a screen actress of superb gifts. We have seen nothing quite so subtly perfect as her gesture of dissent when the villain proposes that he and she together should strangle the infant heir to the millionaire woollen merchant on the raft during the thunder-storm. Patrons of the cinema will do well to look out for this delicate yet moving passage. The film will be released as early as November, 1921.

"MR. BALFOUR ON OUR WAR CRIMINALS LIST."—Daily Paper.

We simply can't believe it.

"The amount of coal available for home consumption last year was 4,385 tons per head of the population."—Evening Paper.

Then somebody else must have collared our share.

"Live Stock and Pets.

General, family 2; liberal wages and outings."—Liverpool Paper.

The difficulty with "pets" of this kind is that they are hard to get and almost impossible to keep.

"An Englishman usually finds it about as difficult to produce an R from his thoat as to produce a rabbit from a top-hat—both feats require practice."—Provincial Paper.

In this case we fear it can't be done, even with practice.

MORE ADVENTURES OF A POST-WAR SPORTSMAN.Mrs. P.-W.S.(to P.-W.S., who has been pulled off at a gate, consolingly). "Never mind, Henry; the hunting season is nearly over, and you have the satisfaction of knowing that you have done your duty in the station to which you have been called."

Mrs. P.-W.S.(to P.-W.S., who has been pulled off at a gate, consolingly). "Never mind, Henry; the hunting season is nearly over, and you have the satisfaction of knowing that you have done your duty in the station to which you have been called."

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

The publishers ofPeter Jackson: Cigar Merchant(Hutchinson) seem in their announcements to be desperately afraid lest anyone should guess it to be a War book. It is, they suggest, the story of the flowering of perfect love between two married folk who had drifted apart. It is really an admirable epitome of the War as seen through one pair of eyes and one particular temperament. I don't recall another War novel that is so convincing. The almost incredible confusions of the early days of the making of K.'s army; the gradual shaping of the great instrument; the comradeship of fine spirits and the intrigues of meaner; leadership good and less good; action with its energy, glory and horror; reaction (with incidentally a most moving analysis of the agonies of shell-shock and protracted neurasthenia) after the long strain of campaigning—all this is brought before you in the most vivid manner. Mr.Gilbert Frankauwrites with a fierce sincerity and with perhaps the defects of that sincerity—a bitterness against the non-combatant which was not usual in the fighting-man, at least when he was fighting; or perhaps it was only that they were too kind then to say so. Also as "one of us" he is a little overwhelmed by the sterling qualities of the rank-and-file—qualities which ought, he would be inclined to assume, to be the exclusive product of public-school playing-fields. I haven't said thatPeter Jacksongave up cigars and cigarettes for the sword, and beat that into a plough-share for a small-holding when the War was done. A jolly interesting book.

I found the arrangement ofThe Clintons and Others(Collins) at first a little confusing, because Mr.Archibald Marshall, instead of keeping hisClintontales consecutive, has mixed them democratically with theOthers. Our first sight of the family (and incidentally the most agreeable thing in the volume) is provided by "Kencote," a brightly-coloured and engaging anecdote of Regency times, and of the plucking of an honoured house from the ambiguous patronage of the First Gentleman in Europe. I found this delightful, spirited, picturesque and original. Thence we pass to theOthers, to the theme (old, but given here with a pleasant freshness of circumstance) of maternal craft in averting a threatened mésalliance, to a study of architecture in its effect upon character, to a girls' school tale; finally to the portrait of a modernSquire Clinton, struggling to adjust his mind to the complexities of the War. This last, a character-study of very moving and sympathetic realism, suffers a little from a defect inherent in one of Mr.Marshall'sbest qualities, his gift for absolutely natural dialogue. The danger of this is that, as here in the bedroom chatter of the Squire's daughters, his folk are apt to repeat themselves, as talk does in nature, but should not (I suppose) in art. Still this is a small defect in a book that is sincere in quality and convincingly human in effect.The Clintons and Othersis certainly miles away from the collections of reprinted pot-boilers that at one time broughtbooks of short stories into poor repute. Mr.Marshalland Others (a select band) will rapidly correct this by giving us in small compass work equal to their own best.

Shuttered Doors(Lane) is what you might call a third-and-fourth-generation story—one of those books, so rightly devastating to the skipper, in which the accidental turning of two pages together is quite liable to involve you with the great-grandchildren of the couple whose courtship you have been perusing. Observe that I was careful to say the "accidental" turning, though I can picture a type of reader who might soon be fluttering the pages ofShuttered Doorsin impatient handfuls. The fact is that Mrs.William Hicks Beachhas here written what is less a novel than a treatise, tasteful, informed and sympathetic, on county life and manners and houses. The last of these themes especially has an undisguised fascination for her. WhenAletta, the chief heroine, was left pots of money by a Dutch uncle (who was so far from filling his proverbialrôlethat he hardly talked at all) she spent it and her enthusiasm, indeed her existence, in restoring two variously dilapidated mansions—Graythorpes, her husband's home, and Doller Place, left her by an appreciative aunt. When not thus employed she would be reading a paper on Homes (given herein extenso), or comparing those of other persons with her own. I don't want you to get the impression thatShuttered Doorsis precisely arid; it is too full of ideas and vitalities for that; but it does undoubtedly demand a special kind of reader. Incidentally, Mrs.Hicks Beachshould revise her chronology. ForAletta, who was married at twenty-eight and died at sixty-two, to have had at that time a grandson on the staff of the Viceroy of India, he must have received his appointment before the age of fifteen—which even in these experimental days sounds a little premature.

Do not allow yourself to be misled by the fact that the portrait on the paper cover ofMaureen(Jenkins) does, I admit, remarkably suggest a lady whose mission in life is the advertisement of complexion soap. You probably know already that the methods of Mr.Patrick Macgillare made of sterner stuff. This "Story of Donegal," which I have no intention of giving in detail, is the history of the course of true love in an Irish village, full of types which, I dare say, are realistically observed; verbose in places to an almost infuriating degree (not till page 61 does the heroine so much as put her nose round the scenery), but working up to a climax of considerable power.Maureen, I need hardly say, was as fair as moonrise, but suffered from the drawback of an irregular origin, which took the poor girl a great deal of living down. Nor need I specify the fact that most of the male characters in the district are soon claimants for her hand. Really this is the plot. Having betrayed so much, however, nothing shall persuade me to expose the bogie scenes on the midnight moor, where the villain combines his illicit whiskey manufacture with his courtship, and where finally the three protagonists come by a startling finish.Maureenis not a story that I should recommend save for readers with abundant leisure; but those whose pluck and endurance carry them to the kill will certainly have their reward.

InMemories of a Marine(Murray) Major-General SirGeorge Astonrecords for us, cosily and anecdotally, a life spent in service, not only of the active kind—in Egypt and South Africa—but also as a Staff College Professor, and, more intriguingly, as an expert in Secret Intelligence in the cloisters of Whitehall or up and down the Mediterranean. If his book is not so sensational in the matter of revelations as the current fashion requires, it has a restful interest all its own, varied here and there with some very attractive stories. To give just one example, the author, when setting out to co-ordinate the work of various authorities in a certain harbour, found a signal buoy, a torpedo station, a fixed mine and a boom, each under separate control, all included in the defences. But the torpedo could not be launched unless the buoy were first cleared away, and the mine, if fired, would blow up the boom. One would have welcomed more of this sort of thing, for the truth is that even restfulness may be overdone and discretion become almost too admirable. Occasionally too the writer enlarges a little on—well, he enlarges a little, as anyone would with half his provocation. Still, for all comrades of his service, at any rate, every word he has written will be of interest; and perhaps he does not really mind so much about the general public, though he has had the good sense to crown his work with an apposite quotation fromPunch.

The Specials(Heinemann) is the story of the Metropolitan Special Constabulary, and it would have been a thousand pities if it had not been told. ColonelW.T. Reay'sbook will stand as a record of invaluable service performed by a devoted body of men, service for which the whole nation—and London in particular—has every reason to be grateful. If I understand ColonelReayrightly he doesn't wish bouquets to be thrown at the Specials, but he would not, I think, discourage me from saying that they performed dangerous and ticklish work with unfailing resource and tact. All of us know that they desire no other reward for their services than the satisfaction of having done their duty; but our gratitude demands to be heard; and I for one take this occasion to trumpet forth the "All clear" signal with feelings of affectionate pride.

IfBy Way of Bohemia(Skeffington) is a fair sample of Mr.Mark Allerton'swork I have been missing a number of very readable stories. His hero,Hugh Kelvin, a journalist (they must be rare) who had no very good conceit of himself, married a barmaid, and she ran his house as if it were a third-class drinking saloon. She was one of those women who for want of a better word we call impossible; but she foundHughas unsatisfactory as he found her. In the circumstances the union had to be dissolved, and, although I suspect Mr.Allerton'stongue of being very near his cheek when he contrivedHugh'sescape from a life of sordid misery, I admit that his solution of the difficulty is cleverly told. And, after all, coincidences do happen in real life, and it would be unfair to Providence to suppose that they were not put there for a useful purpose.

Back to Index Next