Gladys, what did you do with the bacon we set aside for poisoning the rats?The Master."Tcha! This bacon tastes simply beastly."The Mistress."Gladys, what did you do with the bacon we set aside for poisoning the rats?"
The Master."Tcha! This bacon tastes simply beastly."
The Mistress."Gladys, what did you do with the bacon we set aside for poisoning the rats?"
The heightened stature of women was a favourite topic in anthropometric circles long before the War. It seems, however, that they are not going to rest content with their present standard of altitude, but are invoking the resources of Art to render it even more conspicuous. We do not speak rashly or without book.The Evening Newsannounced on September 8th that "Women are to be taller this autumn." Nature may be in the Fall, but women are on the rise. The mode by which this effect of elongation—so dear to Art—is to be attained is described in detail by the Paris correspondent of our contemporary as follows:—
"A fluffy and very high head-dress will be worn this autumn. The effect is obtained by the aid of pads, and adds some inches to a woman's stature.... Another type of coiffure is being adopted by some hairdressers, who leave the hair flat and smooth round the face, and only make a sort of bird's-nest of the ends, which stand well up so as to lengthen the profile in an upward direction."
Nothing, however, is said about the relation of fashion to the physique of the sterner sex. To correct this omission Mr. Punch has interviewed a number of West-End tailors, hatters, hosiers and bootmakers. The results of this inquiry may be briefly summarised.
Heads are to be larger this autumn, and to keep pace with the extraordinary development of brain amongst our insurgent youth, as evidenced by the correspondence inThe Morning Post, it has been found necessary to make a radical change in the stock sizes of hats. But, where there has been no cranial distension, provision will be made to remedy the defect by the insertion of a cork sheath, by the aid of which a head of undersized circumference will be able to wear a No. 8 hat. Again, to meet the needs of customers in whom the temperature of the cranial region is habitually high, a hat has been devised with a vacuum lining for the insertion of cold water. The "Beverley" nickel-plated refrigerating helmet, as it is called, has already found a large sale amongst Balliol undergraduates.
As a result of the revival of the "Apesv.Angels" controversy, in which CanonBarneshas taken so prominent a part, and Mr.Bottomleyhas declared himself as a whole-hearted supporter ofDarwin(videhis article inThe Sunday Pictorial), hands will be supple and boneless this autumn, as in fashionable portraits. This reversion to the prehensile type of hand, so noticeable in the chimpanzee, has its drawbacks, and the rigidity necessary for certain manual functions, such as winding up a motor or opening a champagne bottle, will be furnished by gloves of a stiffer and stronger fabric, ranging from simulation leatherette to chain-mail.
Owing to the continued over-crowding of trains, tubes and motor-buses, elbows will be more prominent and aggressive than ever, and tailors are building a type of coat calculated to relieve the strain on this useful joint by a system of progressive padding, soft inside but resembling a nutmeg-grater at the point of contact with the enemy.
It only remains to be added that in consequence of the publication of the Jewish Protocol and other documents pointing to revolutionary and anarchical Semitic activities, noses will be worn straighter andà la Grecque, and for similar reasons feet will be shorter and with more uplift in the instep.
From a story for boys:—
"The heat was so intense that we were perspiring from every paw."
"The heat was so intense that we were perspiring from every paw."
Snowed UnderSNOWED UNDER.The St. Bernard Pup(to his Master). "THIS SITUATION APPEALS TO MY HEREDITARY INSTINCTS. SHALL I COME TO THE RESCUE?"[Before leaving Switzerland Mr.Lloyd Georgepurchased a St. Bernard pup.]
The St. Bernard Pup(to his Master). "THIS SITUATION APPEALS TO MY HEREDITARY INSTINCTS. SHALL I COME TO THE RESCUE?"
This is rather jolly. What a relief it is to get amongst the real jagged stuff.Futurist to Brother Brush (after along country walk in search of a subject)."This is rather jolly. What a relief it is to get amongst the real jagged stuff."
Futurist to Brother Brush (after along country walk in search of a subject)."This is rather jolly. What a relief it is to get amongst the real jagged stuff."
"Old woman, old woman, old woman," said I,"'Tis a mighty queer place to be building a homeIn the teeth of the gales and the wash of the foam,With nothing in view but the sea and the sky;It cannot be cheerful or healthy or dry.Why don't you go inland and rent a snug house,With fowls in the garden and blossoming boughs,Old woman, old woman, old woman?" said I."A garden have I at my handBeneath the green swell,With pathways of glimmering sandAnd borders of shell.There twinkle the star-fish and thereRed jellies unfold;The weed-banners ripple and flareAll purple and gold.And have I no poultry? Oh, comeWhen the Equinox lulls;The air is a-flash and a-humWith the tumult of gulls;They whirl in a shimmering cloudSun-bright on the breeze;They perch on my chimneys and crowdTo nest at my knees,And set their dun chickens to rock on the motherlyLap of the seas.""Old woman, old woman, old woman," said I,"It sounds very well, but it cannot be right;This must be a desolate spot of a night,With nothing to hear but the guillemot's cry,The sob of the surf and the wind soughing by.Go inland and get you a cat for your kneeAnd gather your gossips for scandal and tea,Old woman, old woman, old woman," said I."No amber-eyed tabby may lazeAnd purr at my feet,But here in the blue summer daysThe seal-people meet.They bask on my ledges and rompIn the swirl of the tides,Old bulls in their whiskers and pompAnd sleek little brides.Yet others come visiting meThan grey seal or bird;Men come in the night from the seaAnd utter no word.Wet weed clings to bosom and hair;Their faces are drawn;They crouch by the embers and stareAnd go with the dawnTo sleep in my garden, the swell flowing over themLike a green lawn."Patlander.
"Old woman, old woman, old woman," said I,"'Tis a mighty queer place to be building a homeIn the teeth of the gales and the wash of the foam,With nothing in view but the sea and the sky;It cannot be cheerful or healthy or dry.Why don't you go inland and rent a snug house,With fowls in the garden and blossoming boughs,Old woman, old woman, old woman?" said I.
"Old woman, old woman, old woman," said I,
"'Tis a mighty queer place to be building a home
In the teeth of the gales and the wash of the foam,
With nothing in view but the sea and the sky;
It cannot be cheerful or healthy or dry.
Why don't you go inland and rent a snug house,
With fowls in the garden and blossoming boughs,
Old woman, old woman, old woman?" said I.
"A garden have I at my handBeneath the green swell,With pathways of glimmering sandAnd borders of shell.There twinkle the star-fish and thereRed jellies unfold;The weed-banners ripple and flareAll purple and gold.And have I no poultry? Oh, comeWhen the Equinox lulls;The air is a-flash and a-humWith the tumult of gulls;They whirl in a shimmering cloudSun-bright on the breeze;They perch on my chimneys and crowdTo nest at my knees,And set their dun chickens to rock on the motherlyLap of the seas."
"A garden have I at my hand
Beneath the green swell,
With pathways of glimmering sand
And borders of shell.
There twinkle the star-fish and there
Red jellies unfold;
The weed-banners ripple and flare
All purple and gold.
And have I no poultry? Oh, come
When the Equinox lulls;
The air is a-flash and a-hum
With the tumult of gulls;
They whirl in a shimmering cloud
Sun-bright on the breeze;
They perch on my chimneys and crowd
To nest at my knees,
And set their dun chickens to rock on the motherly
Lap of the seas."
"Old woman, old woman, old woman," said I,"It sounds very well, but it cannot be right;This must be a desolate spot of a night,With nothing to hear but the guillemot's cry,The sob of the surf and the wind soughing by.Go inland and get you a cat for your kneeAnd gather your gossips for scandal and tea,Old woman, old woman, old woman," said I.
"Old woman, old woman, old woman," said I,
"It sounds very well, but it cannot be right;
This must be a desolate spot of a night,
With nothing to hear but the guillemot's cry,
The sob of the surf and the wind soughing by.
Go inland and get you a cat for your knee
And gather your gossips for scandal and tea,
Old woman, old woman, old woman," said I.
"No amber-eyed tabby may lazeAnd purr at my feet,But here in the blue summer daysThe seal-people meet.They bask on my ledges and rompIn the swirl of the tides,Old bulls in their whiskers and pompAnd sleek little brides.Yet others come visiting meThan grey seal or bird;Men come in the night from the seaAnd utter no word.Wet weed clings to bosom and hair;Their faces are drawn;They crouch by the embers and stareAnd go with the dawnTo sleep in my garden, the swell flowing over themLike a green lawn."
"No amber-eyed tabby may laze
And purr at my feet,
But here in the blue summer days
The seal-people meet.
They bask on my ledges and romp
In the swirl of the tides,
Old bulls in their whiskers and pomp
And sleek little brides.
Yet others come visiting me
Than grey seal or bird;
Men come in the night from the sea
And utter no word.
Wet weed clings to bosom and hair;
Their faces are drawn;
They crouch by the embers and stare
And go with the dawn
To sleep in my garden, the swell flowing over them
Like a green lawn."
Patlander.
Patlander.
Under a photograph in a London evening paper runs the following legend:—
"Mr. John Hodge and another official of the Iron and Steel Founders Union enjoy a game of golf after the Trade Union Congress at Portsmouth adjourns for the day. Our picture shows Mr. John Hodge Putting."
"Mr. John Hodge and another official of the Iron and Steel Founders Union enjoy a game of golf after the Trade Union Congress at Portsmouth adjourns for the day. Our picture shows Mr. John Hodge Putting."
Some idea of the forceful and unconventional methods of our Labour leaders may be gathered from the attitude of Mr.John Hodge, whose club is raised well over his shoulder.
Sorr, I object to Mr. Clancy servin' on the jury.Prisoner."Sorr, I object to Mr. Clancy servin' on the jury."Mr. Clancy."Bedad, an' for why, Michael? I'mforyez!"
Prisoner."Sorr, I object to Mr. Clancy servin' on the jury."
Mr. Clancy."Bedad, an' for why, Michael? I'mforyez!"
"I shall wait," said Peter, "till they send me the final notice."
"Being his wife," said Hilda to me, "I am in a position to know that he will not. In another week he will pay, saying that the thought of income-tax has affected his nerves and that he can bear it no longer. He wobbles like this for six weeks twice a year, and meanwhile his family starves."
"Under our system of taxation," Peter retorted, "the innocent must suffer."
"It falls alike on the just and the unjust," I interposed. "How else would you have it?"
"Naturally I would have it fall on the unjust alone," he replied.
"Why not on the just alone?" I asked, suddenly aware of the birth of an idea.
"Of course you want exemption."
"You miss my point. You grant that taxation is necessary?"
"For the sake of argument," said Peter, "I grant that, with reservations."
"Since then there must be taxes, why not have taxes that it would be a pleasure to pay? The current taxes are not a pleasure to pay."
"I grant that," said Peter, "without reservations."
"Now there is only one sort of tax that I can imagine anybody paying gladly, and that would be a tax on his virtues."
"Still hankering after your own exemption," growled Peter.
"Leave me out of account. Take, by preference, yourself. You have virtues and are proud of them."
Hilda intervened, as I had anticipated. "The pride is admitted," said she, "but as for the assessment value of the virtues——"
"Never mind that. You are proud of your virtues"—I turned to Peter again—"yet you are sometimes troubled, like the rest of us, by a fear that you may not really possess them after all. But the assessment of your virtues by the Board of Inland Revenue would prove their existence to yourself and to all the world."
"Except his wife," said Hilda.
"Her evidence would not be accepted. If you had paid taxation for the possession of a virtue, the receipt would be a guarantee that you did possess that particular virtue, and it would consequently be a source of profound moral satisfaction to you. You would pay with pleasure. Besides, it is a poor kind of virtue that will not abide a test. The tax would be a test. Suppose that five pounds was levied upon you for honesty. If you refused to pay how could you ever again claim to be honest? You would be marked as not valuing your honesty at five pounds. No, you would pay and pay readily."
My words were addressed to Peter, but Hilda seemed the more interested. "It sounds well, but how would you raise the money?" she asked.
"That would depend on the virtue," I replied. "The sobriety tax, for example, would be levied on anyone who had not for some years been convicted of drunkenness."
"But how about the virtues that you don't get fined for not having—truthfulness, unselfishness, kindheartedness and all those?"
"I admit that would be difficult. Can you suggest anything?" I asked Peter.
"No," he answered. "I'm not encouraging your rotten idea anyhow."
"Could the revenue officials feel people's bumps?" inquired Hilda reflectively.
"I'm afraid," I said, "people wouldn't stand it. Fancy Peter——"
"I've got it," said Hilda. "The revenue officials would attribute a virtue to the taxpayer, and if he wanted to escape taxation they would require him to prove to them that he lacked the virtue in question."
"They would like doing that," muttered Peter.
"You have found the solution," I said to Hilda. "If you impute to a person a virtue he does not possess he probably denies that he has it, but he is really flattered and his denial is not sincere. He would be willing to pay on it; he would rather pay than not."
At this point Peter grew tired of refraining from comment. "I don't want you to suppose," he said, "that I am taking any interest in your fatuous scheme, but doesn't it occur to you that under your system it would be simply ruinous to have any virtues at all, and that the only people who would flourish would be those who had no virtues and were not ashamed of it?"
"For one thing," I replied confidently, "the taxes would be graduated in the ordinary way in accordance with means. The slightest flicker of a conscience in Park Lane would be more heavily mulcted than the most blameless life in Bermondsey. But the main point is that under my system taxation would become the measure of a man's moral worth, and people who did not pay taxes would be simply out of it. All the plums would go the highly-taxed men. Their tax receipts would be certificates of character, and the more they earned the more the Treasury would be able to get out of them. So far from dodging taxation, people would scramble to pay it."
"But how," asked Hilda, "would you make the tax receipt a trustworthy testimonial? Your rich man with one virtue would have a better receipt than your poor one with ten."
"The virtues taxed would be shown on the receipt," I replied. "Besides, poor and virtuous men would, as I have suggested, get an abatement on their virtue taxes, and the amount of the abatement would be shown on the receipt. So it could easily be seen what proportion a man was paying on his wealth and what on his virtues."
"Look here," said Peter, aroused at last, "do you convey that the tobacco duty would be paid by people who didn't smoke?"
"It would amount to that," I answered, "assuming that abstention from tobacco were counted a virtue."
"There may be something in it after all," said Peter.
There are plenty of fish, but you've got to fish dry to catch them.Fisherman."There are plenty of fish, but you've got to fish dry to catch them."American Friend."Say, you make me real homesick."
Fisherman."There are plenty of fish, but you've got to fish dry to catch them."
American Friend."Say, you make me real homesick."
The chameleon changes his colour;He can look like a tree or a wall;He is timid and shy and he hates to be seen,So he simply sits down in the grass and goes green,And pretends he is nothing at all.I wish I could change my complexionTo purple or orange or red;I wish I could look like the arm of a chairSo nobody ever would know I was thereWhen they wanted to put me to bed.I wish I could be a chameleonAnd look like a lily or rose;I'd lie on the apples and peaches and pears,But not on Aunt Margaret's yellowy chairs—I should have to be careful of those.The chameleon's life is confusing;He is used to adventure and pain;But if ever he sat on Aunt Maggie's cretonneAnd found what a curious colour he'd gone,I don't think he'd do it again.A.P.H.
The chameleon changes his colour;He can look like a tree or a wall;He is timid and shy and he hates to be seen,So he simply sits down in the grass and goes green,And pretends he is nothing at all.
The chameleon changes his colour;
He can look like a tree or a wall;
He is timid and shy and he hates to be seen,
So he simply sits down in the grass and goes green,
And pretends he is nothing at all.
I wish I could change my complexionTo purple or orange or red;I wish I could look like the arm of a chairSo nobody ever would know I was thereWhen they wanted to put me to bed.
I wish I could change my complexion
To purple or orange or red;
I wish I could look like the arm of a chair
So nobody ever would know I was there
When they wanted to put me to bed.
I wish I could be a chameleonAnd look like a lily or rose;I'd lie on the apples and peaches and pears,But not on Aunt Margaret's yellowy chairs—I should have to be careful of those.
I wish I could be a chameleon
And look like a lily or rose;
I'd lie on the apples and peaches and pears,
But not on Aunt Margaret's yellowy chairs—
I should have to be careful of those.
The chameleon's life is confusing;He is used to adventure and pain;But if ever he sat on Aunt Maggie's cretonneAnd found what a curious colour he'd gone,I don't think he'd do it again.
The chameleon's life is confusing;
He is used to adventure and pain;
But if ever he sat on Aunt Maggie's cretonne
And found what a curious colour he'd gone,
I don't think he'd do it again.
A.P.H.
A.P.H.
Before the last ball of 1920 is bowled and the last wicket in a first-class match falls (as will most probably happen at the Oval this very afternoon, September 15th), I should like to let the Gods of the Game know how I propose to spend the following winter in their interests, so that when the season of 1921 is with us the happiness of the cricket spectator may be even greater than it has been in the one now expiring.
I am going to devote the time to invention. With every grain of intellect and ingenuity that I can scrape together I am going to devise a means of humanising the tea interval.
Once upon a time I was so rash as to ridicule this interruption. I drew attention to the fact that the ancient heroes of the game had been able to dispense with it.Alfred Mynnneeded no Asiatic stimulant between lunch and the close of play. Even such wholehearted moderns asHornbyandShrewsburyandGracemanaged to do well without the support of Hyson or Bohea. For more than a century cricket and tea were strangers and cricket did not suffer. And so on. But the attacks were futile: the tea interval became an institution; and nothing now, one realises, can ever occur to separate the gallant fellows from their cups and saucers.
That being accepted, the problem is how to make the interval at once less harmful to the match and more tolerable to the lover of cricket; and it is on this problem that I have been working and intend to work through the arid football months. What has to be done is (a) to get the interval abbreviated; and (b) to keep the players on the field. It is the length of it and the empty pitch that are so depressing to the spectator, and it is the return to the pavilion that is so detrimental to the rhythm of the game. Neither of the batsmen ever wants the interruption, and I have often noticed a reluctance in certain members of the fielding side. As for the watchers, they never fail to groan.
Still, as I have said, it is now recognised that the craving for tea is as much a part of the present-day game as the six-ball over, and the time has passed for censuring it. But something can be done to regulate it; and I have based my efforts towards a solution on the argument that, if a cricketer is not called in from the game to read his telegram, but (as we have all seen so often) the telegram is taken out to him, surely the precious fluid that he so passionately desiderates can be taken out to him too. At present, therefore, all my thoughts are turned upon the construction of some kind of wheeled waggon, such as is in use at a well-known restaurant in the Strand, on which fifteen cups (two for the umpires) and an urn and sugar and milk can be conveyed, with the concomitant bread-and-butter, or shrimps or meringues, or whatever is eaten with the tea, on a lower shelf. This could be pushed on to the ground at 4.15 and pushed back again at 4.20 without any serious injury to the match. That is my idea at the moment; but I am a poor mechanic and should be glad if some properly qualified person—someone with aHeath Robinsonmind—would take the work over.
E.V.L.
How I came to be able to understand the language of trees is a secret. But I do understand it. It is my peculiar privilege to overhear all kinds of whispered conversation—green speech in green shades—as I take my rest underneath the boughs on a country walk. Some day I shall set down fully the result of these leaves-droppings, but at the moment I want to tell only of what I heard some blackberry bushes saying last week.
"From what I hear," said the first bush, "the cost of everything's going up by leaps and bounds."
"How is that?" asked one of its neighbours.
"It's due, I understand," the first bush replied, "partly to scarcity of labour and partly to profiteering."
"I don't see why we shouldn't participate," said another bush. "Here we are, covered with fruit, and it's all just as free as ever it was. That's absurd, after a big war. The duty of a war is to make things dearer and remove freedom."
"Of course," said the others.
"'Your blackberries will cost you more'—that should be our motto," said the first bush. "We must be up to date."
A few days later, after one of our infrequent post-bellum gleams of sunshine, I met the Lady of the White House and all her nice children returning from a day's blackberrying. They showed me their baskets with a proper pride, and I was suitably enthusiastic and complimentary.
"But do look at our poor hands and arms and our torn frocks!" said the lady. "We've picked blackberries here year after year, but we've never been so badly scratched before. It's extraordinary. I can't account for it."
I could, though.
A man came by at night with moons to sell;"Moons old and new," he cried;I hurried when I heard him call for me;He set his basket on the wall for meThat I might see insideAnd watch the little moons curl up and hide.Each one he touched rang softly like a bell;He pointed out to meGreat harvest moons with russet light in them,Pale moons to gleam where snows grow white in them,Red moons for victory,And steadfast moons for men in ships at sea.The man who came with many moons to sellOpened his basket wide;Showed me the filmy crescent moons in it,And the piled discs (like silver spoons) in itThat push and pull the tide,And small sweet honey-moons to give a bride."This moon," he said, "you will remember well;Its price is wealth untold;"Took a camp-moon he vowed he stole for meAnd softly wrapped to keep it whole for me.I heaped his feet with gold;He changed, and said the moon might not be sold.Then I was angry that with moons to sellHe thought he had the rightTo keep that one. Those who were lent to usHad written the brief notes they sent to usWhen it shone out at night.I caught it to my heart and held it tight.
A man came by at night with moons to sell;"Moons old and new," he cried;I hurried when I heard him call for me;He set his basket on the wall for meThat I might see insideAnd watch the little moons curl up and hide.
A man came by at night with moons to sell;
"Moons old and new," he cried;
I hurried when I heard him call for me;
He set his basket on the wall for me
That I might see inside
And watch the little moons curl up and hide.
Each one he touched rang softly like a bell;He pointed out to meGreat harvest moons with russet light in them,Pale moons to gleam where snows grow white in them,Red moons for victory,And steadfast moons for men in ships at sea.
Each one he touched rang softly like a bell;
He pointed out to me
Great harvest moons with russet light in them,
Pale moons to gleam where snows grow white in them,
Red moons for victory,
And steadfast moons for men in ships at sea.
The man who came with many moons to sellOpened his basket wide;Showed me the filmy crescent moons in it,And the piled discs (like silver spoons) in itThat push and pull the tide,And small sweet honey-moons to give a bride.
The man who came with many moons to sell
Opened his basket wide;
Showed me the filmy crescent moons in it,
And the piled discs (like silver spoons) in it
That push and pull the tide,
And small sweet honey-moons to give a bride.
"This moon," he said, "you will remember well;Its price is wealth untold;"Took a camp-moon he vowed he stole for meAnd softly wrapped to keep it whole for me.I heaped his feet with gold;He changed, and said the moon might not be sold.
"This moon," he said, "you will remember well;
Its price is wealth untold;"
Took a camp-moon he vowed he stole for me
And softly wrapped to keep it whole for me.
I heaped his feet with gold;
He changed, and said the moon might not be sold.
Then I was angry that with moons to sellHe thought he had the rightTo keep that one. Those who were lent to usHad written the brief notes they sent to usWhen it shone out at night.I caught it to my heart and held it tight.
Then I was angry that with moons to sell
He thought he had the right
To keep that one. Those who were lent to us
Had written the brief notes they sent to us
When it shone out at night.
I caught it to my heart and held it tight.
"Twenty Students Require clean, respectable Board-Residence; would not object to Share Bed."—Provincial Paper.
"Twenty Students Require clean, respectable Board-Residence; would not object to Share Bed."—Provincial Paper.
They should have lived in the days of Og, the King of Basan; his bedsteadwasa bedstead.
"Calcutta.During the past few weeks several parties of Afghan merchants and traders have settled up their affairs and come into India. In order to avoid being questioned by British poets in the Khyber, they have entered this country by way of the Sissobi pass."—Indian Paper.
"Calcutta.
During the past few weeks several parties of Afghan merchants and traders have settled up their affairs and come into India. In order to avoid being questioned by British poets in the Khyber, they have entered this country by way of the Sissobi pass."—Indian Paper.
Some of our poets are notoriously curious, and we are hardly surprised to learn that the Afghans could not "abide their question."
A Cock-and-Bull StoryA COCK-AND-BULL STORY.
"The jolly part about an island where there are no towns and no railways," said Willoughby, "is that you have thrills of excitement as to where you will sleep next night or eat your next meal. Now when we land at Lochrie Bay to-morrow it will be nearly lunch-time; but shall we get lunch?"
"I can answer that," replied MacFadden, whose grandfather was a Scotsman, and who was once in Edinburgh for a week; "the map shows it is only five miles to Waterfoot, and there's sure to be an hotel there. Those little Scots inns are all right."
"Yes," chimed in Sylvia, "and very likely there'll be nothing to eat when we get there. I am thinking of you three men, of course," she added hastily; "we girls don't want much."
"As for me," said Willoughby, looking at Sylvia, whom he has adored dumbly for years, "very little satisfies me. I'm like the fellow who said, 'a crust of bread, a bottle of wine and you.' You know the chap, MacFadden."
"Isn't it wonderful how he remembers hisOmar?" remarked Mac enthusiastically.
"I don't know much poetry," said Willoughby, whose tastes are sporting rather than literary, "but I always liked that bit."
"But lunch," I interposed, "is the pressing question. There's sure to be an hotel at Waterfoot, as you say. Send a telegram there, asking for lunch for six. If there's no hotel, no reply and no lunch. If there is we get our reply and our lunch. Willoughby can wire, because he learned all about telegraphs in the army."
Within two hours came the reply. I opened it.
"Will supply luncheon for six, 1.15 to-day."
"Can you remember what your wire said, Willoughby?" I asked mildly.
"Rather. 'Can you provide luncheon for six at 1.15.—Willoughby.'"
"Exactly. Can't you see, you silly ass, how you've muffed it? Read this." Willoughby read, while Sylvia and Molly looked over and giggled.
"Hang it all! I suppose I ought to have said to-morrow," he sighed. "Here, Thompson, you and Hilda, as the married couple of the party, ought to deal with these beastly emergencies."
"Not I," I replied. "You've got us in the muddle, now get us out. Wire and say it's for to-morrow."
"And then," said my practical wife, "we shall get to-day's hot lunch cold to-morrow, and a rapacious Scotch-woman will charge us for it twice over."
"I wish you would say 'Scots,' not 'Scotch,'" complained MacFadden.
"Sorry, Kiltie," rejoined Hilda; "and perhaps one of you two will deal with the Scots woman."
"Leave her to me and none of you interfere," answered MacFadden. "Willoughby is no good at a job that needs tact. He's not half as lovable as I am either. Is he, Molly? We'll send the wire at once. Come on."
Next day the steamer dropped us into the ferry-boat off Lochrie Bay, and our bicycles, more frightened than hurt, but much shaken, were hurled in after us. After five miles on a primitive road we arrived at the hotel very late.
MacFadden, assuring us that if we only kept quiet he would see us through in spite of any Scots innkeeper, led the way.
The landlady, a dour woman, appeared.
"Good morning, Madam," began Mac politely.
"Will you be Mr. Willoughby?" she replied.
"No," said Mac truthfully, assuming a puzzled expression.
"Weel, then," resumed the lady, addressing Sylvia, who happened to be close behind, "will you be Mrs. Willoughby?"
Molly sniggered; Sylvia reddened and answered hastily, "No, I won't!" at which Willoughby sighed audibly.
"What I wanted to ask you was whether perhaps you could be so kind as to give us a bit of bread and cheese or something," said Mac ingratiatingly. "Of course one doesn't expect a proper lunch in these places without ordering it beforehand."
"And those that order beforehand dinna come," she replied with some asperity. "A pairty of six ordered for yesterday then they telegraphs to say they mean to-day, and now they're no here and the time lang gone by. I thocht ye were the pairty at first."
"What a shame!" murmured MacFadden sympathetically.
"Ay, if they had turned up they should hae had their lunch, and paid for it too," said the good lady grimly. "Twa days they should hae paid for. But if ye like ye can eat their lunch for them; it's cauld but guid."
So we ate heartily, paid reasonably and went away on good terms with ourselves and the lady.
Walking up the steep hill from the hotel I was just behind Willoughby and Sylvia. He was pushing the two bicycles and explaining something elaborately.
"Awfully sorry about that silly woman, Sylvia," he said, "but it's only their rotten way of talking English. You see, when she says, 'Willyou be Mrs. Willoughby?' she really means, 'Areyou?' It's not the same as when an Englishman says it. If I said, 'Will you be Mrs. Willoughby?' that would be different; it would mean—"
"Yes," interrupted Sylvia rather breathlessly, "that, Tommy dear, would be plain English, to which I could give a plain answer. I should say—"
We had reached the brow of the hill. I mounted my bicycle and hurried on.
Fifteen, all told, and all told what I thought of 'em.Mistress."You seem to have been in a good many situations. How many mistresses have you had, all told?"Maid."Fifteen, all told—and all told what I thought of 'em."
Mistress."You seem to have been in a good many situations. How many mistresses have you had, all told?"
Maid."Fifteen, all told—and all told what I thought of 'em."
Daily Paper.
Daily Paper.
A much worse case than that ofLear'sold man with a beard, who said it was just as he feared.
"For all we know, Helen of Troy's best friends might have said, 'Helen has style and knows how to make the most of her good points; but, honest, now, do you think she should have got the apple?'"Evening Paper.
"For all we know, Helen of Troy's best friends might have said, 'Helen has style and knows how to make the most of her good points; but, honest, now, do you think she should have got the apple?'"
Evening Paper.
Certainly not. That's why Paris gave it to Aphrodite.
Bain't bin talkin', bin chewin'.First Ancient (with morbid fear of growing deaf, breaking long silence)."There—it's come at last! You've been talking all this time and I ain't heard a single word."Second Ancient."Bain't bin talkin'—bin chewin'."
First Ancient (with morbid fear of growing deaf, breaking long silence)."There—it's come at last! You've been talking all this time and I ain't heard a single word."
Second Ancient."Bain't bin talkin'—bin chewin'."
Really I think thatRhoda Drake(Murray) must be the most preposterously startling story that I have read for this age. It makes you feel as if you had had a squib exploded under your chair at a temperance meeting. After beginning placidly about persons who live in South Kensington (and are so dull that the author has to fill up with minute descriptions of their drawing-rooms), somewhere towards three-quarters through its decorous course it plunges you head over ears into such tearing melodrama as is comparable only to Episode 42 of "The Adventures of the Blinking Eye" at a provincial cinema. I am left asking myself in bewilderment whether Mr.C.H. Dudley Ward, D.S.O., M.C., can have been serious in the affair. As I say, practically all the early characters are of little or no account, includingRhodaherself. Indeed, nobody looks like mattering at all, and the whole tale has, to be frank, taken on a somewhat soporific aspect, when lo! there enters a lady with a Russian name, no back to her gown and green face-powder. If I said of this paragon that she made the story bounce I should still do less than justice to her amazing personality. Really, she was a herald of revolution, whose remarkable method was to invite anyone important and obstructive to her house and make them discontented. It was the work of half-an-hour. Whether the process was hypnotic, or whether she actually put pepper in the ice-pudding, I could not clearly make out. But the dreadful fact remained that, let your patriotism be ever so firm, you had but to accept one of green-powder's little dinners and next morning you were as like as not to hurl a stone into 10, Downing Street. As for the end—! But no, I will stop short of it.
Frankly, what pleased me most aboutAffinities(Hodder and Stoughton) was its attractive get-up; pleasant, cherry-pie-coloured boards, swathed in a very daintily-drawn pictorial wrapper, the whole, as cataloguers say, forming an ideal birthday present for a young lady, especially one at all apt to discover, however harmlessly, the affinities that give these five tales their title. As for the stories themselves, really all that need be said is to congratulate Mrs.Mary Roberts Rineharton the ingenuity with which she can tell what seems an obvious intrigue yet keep a surprise in reserve. I suppose it is because they come to us from America that certain of the episodes turn upon incidents in the Suffrage struggle, tale-fodder that our own militant novelists have long happily discarded. Of the others I think I myself would award the palm to one called "The Family Friend," a genially cynical little comedy of encouraged courtship, of which the end seems to be visible from the beginning, but isn't. Altogether, what I might call a Canute; in other words a book for the deck-chair, not too absorbing to endanger your shoes, however close you read it to the advancing wave.
I think I should best describe the characteristic quality ofFour Blind Mice(Lane) as geniality. The scene of it is Burmah—astonishing, when you consider the host of novels about the rest of India, that so few should employ this equally picturesque setting—and it is quickly apparent that what Mr.C.C. Lowisdoesn't know at first hand about Rangoon is not likely to be missed. The tale itself is a good-humoured little comedy of European and native intrigue, showing how one section of the populace strove as usual to ease the white man's burden by flirtation and gossip, and the other to get the best for themselves by unlimited roguery and chicane. The whole thing culminates in a trial scene which is at once a delightful entertainment and (I should suppose) a shrewdly observed study of the course of Anglo-Burmese justice. I think I would have chosen that Mr.Lowisshould base his fun on something a little less grim than the murder and mutilation of a European, or at least Eurasian, lady, even though the very slight part in the action played byMrs. Rodrigues, when alive, could hardly be called sympathetic. Still we were all so good-humoured over her taking-off that for a long time I cherished a rather dream-like faith in her reappearance to prove that this attitude had been justified. Not that Mr.Lowishas not every right to retort that he is writing comedy rather than farce; certainly he has made his four blind mice to run in highly diverting fashion, very entertaining to those of us who see how they run; and as they at least save their tails triumphantly it would perhaps be ungenerous to complain about one that doesn't.
Oh, Professor, can you provide me with a love-potion?Damsel."Oh, Professor, can you provide me with a love-potion? My Mother says if I wed not soon I must e'en go forth to earn my living."Alchemist."That I can, Madam, and of two kinds. First, the slow-working purple sort is verily cheap, but difficult of administration; for in water it is plainly visible and easy of discernment in tea. Whereas my patent potion, bringing love at first sight, closely resembleth the much-desired whisky. This sort is one guinea per tot."
Damsel."Oh, Professor, can you provide me with a love-potion? My Mother says if I wed not soon I must e'en go forth to earn my living."
Alchemist."That I can, Madam, and of two kinds. First, the slow-working purple sort is verily cheap, but difficult of administration; for in water it is plainly visible and easy of discernment in tea. Whereas my patent potion, bringing love at first sight, closely resembleth the much-desired whisky. This sort is one guinea per tot."
The Story of the Fourth Army in the Battles of the Hundred Days(Hodder and Stoughton) is printed on pages the size of a copy ofPunch, and with its accompanying case of maps it costs eighteen-pence to go through the post. It boasts a hundred full-page photographs, also sketches, charts, maps, panoramas and diagramsad lib., a foreword by General LordRawlinsonand ten appendices; so really it seems that the much-abused word "sumptuous" may for once be fairly applied. The author, Major-General SirA. Montgomery, who himself helped to "stage" the battles he writes about, has built up a record which is in some sense unique, for I think it is possible from this book to trace precisely where any unit of the Fourth Army was placed, and what doing, at any given hour during the whole of the victory march from Amiens to the Belgian frontier. Apart from anything else it is pleasant to have a book that deals only with the days of victory; but it must be admitted that, to gain a completeness of detail so entirely satisfactory to those most nearly concerned, the writer has had to sacrifice something of human interest, for many of his pages are little more than a bare chronicle of names and places. Undoubtedly his book should be read with great deliberation, constant reference to the maps and a lively recollection of personal experiences on the spot; but the civilian reader may still be content to skim the text and save himself for the photographs. These, mostly taken from the air and of exquisite technical quality, form an amazing series, in themselves worth the heavy price. And who minds heavy prices when the proceeds are pledged to the service of wounded officers?
"Rather an anti-climax," I thought when I openedThe Happy Foreigner(Heinemann) and found that it purported to tell the experiences of an Englishchauffeusein France after the Armistice; but I know now that, in any place whereEnid Bagnoldhappened to be, there would not be any anti-climax about. In a style so daring and vivid that it could only have been born, I suppose, of fast driving, the authoress describes a romantic affair with a young French officer; but her real theme is the suffering of France bowed down under the intolerable burden of so many strangers, both enemies and friends. The rich and well-fed Americans who will not trouble to understand, the grotesque Chinamen and Annamites, the starving Russians liberated from the Germans, flash by, with the ruins of villages, the tangle of wire and litter of derelict guns; and even the romance, intensely felt though it is, must be fleeting, like the rest of the nightmare, because the Frenchman's eyes are set on the future and the rebuilding of his fortunes. This book is not "about the War," but all the same it is one of the best books about the War that I have read.
From a Common Room Window(Owen) will be a slight refreshment to those who are weary of realistic studies of schoolmasters and schoolboys. "Orbilius," during what I take to have been a long career as a teacher, has not allowed his sense of humour to wither within him. In a note to his slender volume of sketches he says, "School-life is largely a comedy. When a schoolmaster ceases to recognise this it is time for him to 'bundle and go.'" He has been in the main a keen and sympathetic observer, and though his remarks upon headmasters are a little severe—personally I should hate to be called "a meticulous pedagogue"—I do not think that a little criticism of these potentates will do them the smallest harm. In "The Castigator" "Orbilius" gives a laughable sketch. The inventor of a flogging machine is soundly beaten by his own instrument, and he would be a sombre man indeed who could read it without a desire to witness such a chastening performance. By no means the least merit of this book is that it contains no new theories about education.