YARNS.

AN INCENTIVE TO VIRTUE.AN INCENTIVE TO VIRTUE.Small Boy (much impressed)."The ticket-collector said 'Good evening' to dad."Mother."Yes, dear, he always does. And perhaps, if you're good, he'll say the same to you—when you've travelled on this line for twenty-five years."

Small Boy (much impressed)."The ticket-collector said 'Good evening' to dad."

Mother."Yes, dear, he always does. And perhaps, if you're good, he'll say the same to you—when you've travelled on this line for twenty-five years."

"Departure of the Lieut.-Governor. Enthusiastic Scenes."Channel Islands Paper.

"Departure of the Lieut.-Governor. Enthusiastic Scenes."

Channel Islands Paper.

"Indeed, it is simple to understand why the Canadian portion of the audience almost rise from their seats when Fergus Wimbus, the 'Man,' says, 'Canada is the land of big things, big thoughts, bing hopes."—Provincial Paper.

—Provincial Paper.

Not forgetting the "Byng Boys" either.

["Aladyis willing to give a thoroughly-goodHometo aGrand Piano(German make preferred), also aCottage, for anyone going abroad."—Morning Paper.]

["Aladyis willing to give a thoroughly-goodHometo aGrand Piano(German make preferred), also aCottage, for anyone going abroad."

—Morning Paper.]

AGramophoneof small to medium age can be received as p.g. in selectResidential Hotel. Young, bright, musical society. Separate tables.

WillanyLadyorGentlemanoffer hospitality on the Cornish Riviera for the winter months to anex-service Cornetsuffering from chronic asthma (slight)?

Bag-pipes(sisters) in reduced circumstances owing to the War, seek sit. asCompanionsorMother's Helps, town or country.

From a list of forthcoming productions:—

"Theatre Royal, ——. Boo Early."

And how is your dear mother, to-day>Old Lady."And how is your dear mother, to-day?"Child of the Period."Oh, she's rotten."

Old Lady."And how is your dear mother, to-day?"

Child of the Period."Oh, she's rotten."

When the docks are all deserted and the derricks all are still,And the wind across the anchorage comes singing sad and shrill,And the lighted lanthorns gleaming where the ships at anchor rideCast their quivering long reflections down the ripple of the tide,Then the ships they start a-yarning, just the same as sailors doIn a hundred docks and harbours from Port Talbot to Chefoo,Just the same as deep-sea sailormen a-meeting up and downIn the bars and boarding-houses and the streets of Sailor-town.Just the same old sort of ship-talk sailors always like to hear—Just the same old harbour gossip gathered in from far and near,In the same salt-water lingo sailors use the wide world round,From the shores of London river to the wharves of Puget Sound,With a gruff and knowing chuckle at a spicy yarn or so,And a sigh for some old shipmate gone the way that all men go,And there's little need to wonder at a grumble now and then,For the ships must have their growl out, just the same as sailormen.And they yarn along together just as jolly as you please,Lordly liner, dingy freighter rusty-red from all the seas,Of their cargoes and their charters and their harbours East and West,And the coal-hulk at her moorings, she is yarning with the best,Telling all the same tales over many and many a time she's told,In a voice that's something creaky now because she's got so old,Like some old broken sailorman when drink has loosed his tongueAnd his ancient heart keeps turning to the days when he was young.Is it but the chuckling mutter of the tide along the buoys,But the creak of straining cables, but the night wind's mournful noise,Sighing with a rising murmur in among the ropes and spars,Setting every shroud and backstay singing shanties to the stars?No, the ships they all are yarning, just the same as sailors do,Just the same as deep-sea sailors from Port Talbot to Chefoo,Yarning through the hours of darkness till the daylight comes again,But oh! the things they speak of no one knows but sailormen.C. F. S.

When the docks are all deserted and the derricks all are still,

And the wind across the anchorage comes singing sad and shrill,

And the lighted lanthorns gleaming where the ships at anchor ride

Cast their quivering long reflections down the ripple of the tide,

Then the ships they start a-yarning, just the same as sailors doIn a hundred docks and harbours from Port Talbot to Chefoo,Just the same as deep-sea sailormen a-meeting up and downIn the bars and boarding-houses and the streets of Sailor-town.

Then the ships they start a-yarning, just the same as sailors do

In a hundred docks and harbours from Port Talbot to Chefoo,

Just the same as deep-sea sailormen a-meeting up and down

In the bars and boarding-houses and the streets of Sailor-town.

Just the same old sort of ship-talk sailors always like to hear—Just the same old harbour gossip gathered in from far and near,In the same salt-water lingo sailors use the wide world round,From the shores of London river to the wharves of Puget Sound,

Just the same old sort of ship-talk sailors always like to hear—

Just the same old harbour gossip gathered in from far and near,

In the same salt-water lingo sailors use the wide world round,

From the shores of London river to the wharves of Puget Sound,

With a gruff and knowing chuckle at a spicy yarn or so,And a sigh for some old shipmate gone the way that all men go,And there's little need to wonder at a grumble now and then,For the ships must have their growl out, just the same as sailormen.

With a gruff and knowing chuckle at a spicy yarn or so,

And a sigh for some old shipmate gone the way that all men go,

And there's little need to wonder at a grumble now and then,

For the ships must have their growl out, just the same as sailormen.

And they yarn along together just as jolly as you please,Lordly liner, dingy freighter rusty-red from all the seas,Of their cargoes and their charters and their harbours East and West,And the coal-hulk at her moorings, she is yarning with the best,

And they yarn along together just as jolly as you please,

Lordly liner, dingy freighter rusty-red from all the seas,

Of their cargoes and their charters and their harbours East and West,

And the coal-hulk at her moorings, she is yarning with the best,

Telling all the same tales over many and many a time she's told,In a voice that's something creaky now because she's got so old,Like some old broken sailorman when drink has loosed his tongueAnd his ancient heart keeps turning to the days when he was young.

Telling all the same tales over many and many a time she's told,

In a voice that's something creaky now because she's got so old,

Like some old broken sailorman when drink has loosed his tongue

And his ancient heart keeps turning to the days when he was young.

Is it but the chuckling mutter of the tide along the buoys,But the creak of straining cables, but the night wind's mournful noise,Sighing with a rising murmur in among the ropes and spars,Setting every shroud and backstay singing shanties to the stars?

Is it but the chuckling mutter of the tide along the buoys,

But the creak of straining cables, but the night wind's mournful noise,

Sighing with a rising murmur in among the ropes and spars,

Setting every shroud and backstay singing shanties to the stars?

No, the ships they all are yarning, just the same as sailors do,Just the same as deep-sea sailors from Port Talbot to Chefoo,Yarning through the hours of darkness till the daylight comes again,But oh! the things they speak of no one knows but sailormen.

No, the ships they all are yarning, just the same as sailors do,

Just the same as deep-sea sailors from Port Talbot to Chefoo,

Yarning through the hours of darkness till the daylight comes again,

But oh! the things they speak of no one knows but sailormen.

C. F. S.

WORTH A TRIAL.WORTH A TRIAL.Ulsterman. "HERE COMES A GIFT-HORSE FOR THE TWO OF US. WE'D BEST NOT LOOK HIM TOO CLOSE IN THE MOUTH."Southern Irishman. "I'LL NOT LOOK AT HIM AT ALL."Ulsterman. "OH, YOU'LL THINK MORE OF HIM WHEN YOU SEE THE WAY HE MOVES WITH ME ON HIS BACK."

Ulsterman. "HERE COMES A GIFT-HORSE FOR THE TWO OF US. WE'D BEST NOT LOOK HIM TOO CLOSE IN THE MOUTH."

Southern Irishman. "I'LL NOT LOOK AT HIM AT ALL."

Ulsterman. "OH, YOU'LL THINK MORE OF HIM WHEN YOU SEE THE WAY HE MOVES WITH ME ON HIS BACK."

Monday, November 8th.—To allay the apprehensions of SirJohn ReesthePrime Ministerinformed him that the League of Nations can do nothing except by a unanimous decision of the Council. As the League already includes thirty-seven nations, it is not expected that its decisions will be hastily reached. Now, perhaps, the United States may think better of its refusal to join a body which has secured the allegiance of Liberia and of all the American Republics save Mexico.

OBERLEUTNANT KENNWÜRDIG INSPECTS THE REICHSTAGOBERLEUTNANT KENNWÜRDIG INSPECTS THE REICHSTAG(in the imagination of General Croft).

(in the imagination of General Croft).

The daily demand for an impartial inquiry into Irish "reprisals" met with its daily refusal. ThePrime Ministerreferred to "unfortunate incidents that always happen in war"—the first time that he has used this word to describe the situation in Ireland—and was confident that the sufferers were, with few exceptions (Mr.Devlin, who complained that his office had been raided, being one of them), "men engaged in a murderous conspiracy." He declined to hamper the authorities who were putting it down. Taking his cue from his chief, SirHamar Greenwoodexcused his lack of information about recent occurrences with the remark that "an officer cannot draw up reports while he is chasing assassins." Tragedy gave way to comedy when Lieutenant-CommanderKenworthyobserved that the proceedings were "just like the German Reichstag during the War." "Were you there?" smartly interjected GeneralCroft.

The Government of Ireland Bill having been recommitted, SirWorthington Evansexplained the Government's expedient for providing the new Irish Parliaments with Second Chambers. Frankly admitting that the Cabinet had been unable to evolve a workable scheme—an elected Senate would fail to protect the minority and a nominated Senate would be "undemocratic"—he proposed that the Council of Ireland should be entrusted with the task.

TWO BY TWO."TWO BY TWO."Sir E. Carson and Mr. Devlin.

Sir E. Carson and Mr. Devlin.

Having regard to the probable composition of the Council—half Sinn Feiners and half Orangemen—ColonelGuinnessfeared there was no chance of its agreeing unless most of them were laid up with broken heads or some other malady. SirEdward Carson, however, in an unusually optimistic vein, expressed the hope that once the North was assured of not being put under the South and the South was relieved of British dictation they would "shake hands for the good of Ireland." The clause was carried by 175 to 31.

THE OLD SHEEP-DOG.THE OLD SHEEP-DOG.Mr.Asquith."Tut-tut! To think that I could only round up ten of 'em!"

Mr.Asquith."Tut-tut! To think that I could only round up ten of 'em!"

On another new clause, providing for the administration of Southern Ireland in the event of a Parliament not being set up, Mr.Asquithdeclared that "this musty remainder biscuit" had reduced him to "rhetorical poverty." Perhaps that was why he could get no more than ten Members to follow him into the Lobby against it.

Tuesday, November 9th.—In supporting LordParmoor'sprotest against the arrest, at Holyhead, of an English lady by order of the Irish Executive, LordBuckmasterregretted that there was no one in the House of Lords responsible for the Irish Office, and consequently "they were always compelled to accept official answers." A strictly official answer was all he got from LordCrawford, who declared that the arrest had been made under the authority of D.O.R.A., and gave their Lordships the surely otiose reminder that "conditions were not quite simple or normal in Ireland just now."

Mr.Shortthas formed his style on the model of one of his predecessors in office, who used to be described as the Quite-at-Home Secretary, and he declined to share ColonelBurn'salarm at the prevalence of revolutionary speeches. Hyde Park, he reminded him, had always been regarded as a safety-valve for discontented people. Even Mr.L'Estrange Malone'srecent reference to Ministers and lamp-posts did not at that moment disturb him.

The new Ministry of Health Bill had a rather rough passage, and, if the voting had been in accordance with the speeches, it would hardly have secured a second reading. Particular objection was raised to the proposal to put the hospitals on the rates. Mr.Myers, however, was sarcastic at the expense of people who thought that "rates and taxes must be saved though the people perished," and declared that there was plenty of war wealth to be drawn upon.

Lieut.-ColonelHurstobjected to the term "working-class" in the Bill. Itwould encourage the Socialistic fallacy that the people of England were divided into two classes—the leisured class and the working class; whereas everybody knew that most of the "leisured class" had no leisure and many of the "working-class" did no work.

Wednesday, November 10th.—The Peers welcomed LordBuxtonon his advancement to an earldom, and then proceeded to discuss the rights of the inhabitants of Heligoland. Having been handed over to Germany against their will in 1890, they hoped that the Treaty of Versailles would restore them to British nationality. On the contrary the Treaty has resulted in the island being swamped by German workmen employed in destroying the fortifications. LordCrawfordconsidered that the new electoral law requiring three years' residence would safeguard the islanders from being politically submerged, and wisely did not enter into the question of how long the island itself would remain after the fortifications had disappeared.

In the Commons theIndian Secretaryunderwent his usual Wednesday cross-examination. He did not display quite his customary urbanity. When an hon. Member, whose long and distinguished Indian service began in the year in which Mr.Montaguwas born, ventured to suggest that he should check Mr.Gandhi'sappeals to ignorance and fanaticism, he tartly replied that ignorance and fanaticism were very dangerous things, "whether in India or on the benches of this House."

Mr.Stewartexpressed anxiety lest under the new arrangements with Egypt the Sudan water-supply should be subjected to Egyptian interference. Mr.Harmsworthwas of opinion that for geographical reasons the Sudan would always be able to look after its own water-supply;videthe leading case ofWolfv.Lamb.

Thursday, November 11th.—ThePrime Ministerwas in a more aggressive mood than usual. Mr.Devlin, who was noisily incredulous as to the existence of a Sinn Fein conspiracy with Germany in 1918, was advised to wait for the documents about to be published. To make things even, an ultra-Conservative Member, who urged the suspension of Mr.Fisher'snew Act, was informed that thePrime Ministercould conceive nothing more serious than that the nation should decide that it could not afford to give children a good education.

Any doubts as to the suitability of Armistice Day for the Third Reading of the Government of Ireland Bill were removed by the tone of the debate. The possibility that the "Unknown Warrior" might have been an Irishman softened the feeling on both sides, and though Mr.Adamsonfeared that the Bill would bring Ireland not peace but a sword, and Mr.Asquithappealed to the Government to substitute a measure more generous to Irish aspirations, there was no sting in either of their speeches. ThePrime Minister, while defending his scheme as the best that could be granted in the present temper of Southern Ireland, did not bang the door against further negotiations; and SirEdward Carsonsaid that Ulstermen were beginning to realize that the Parliament thrust upon them might be a blessing in disguise, and expressed the hope that in working it they would set an example of tolerance and justice to all classes. Barely a third of the House took part in the division, and no Irish Member voted for the Third Reading, which was carried by 183 votes to 52; but, having regard to the influence of the unexpected in Irish affairs, this apparent apathy may be a good sign. After thirty-five years of acute strife, Home Rule for Ireland is, at any rate, no longer a party question.

If you were thinkin' of eatin' it, speakin' as man to man, I should say 'No."Now, seriously, Mr. Wiggins, can you recommend the lamb this week?""Well, Ma'am, it all depends what you want it for. If you were thinkin' of eatin' it, speakin' as man to man, I should say 'No.'"

"Now, seriously, Mr. Wiggins, can you recommend the lamb this week?"

"Well, Ma'am, it all depends what you want it for. If you were thinkin' of eatin' it, speakin' as man to man, I should say 'No.'"

Jones minor wants to know if the letter "T," used to designate the new super-bus, stands for "Tarquinius."

Perkins has got hold of a brilliant idea. He explained it to me in the Tube yesterday.

"Our little world," he said, "is turned topsy-turvy."

"Knocked absolutely sideways," I replied.

"Those who were rich in the old days," said Perkins, "haven't two sixpences to rub together, and the world's workers are rolling in Royces and having iced méringues with every meal. What follows?"

"Indigestion," I said promptly.

"Everybody," he said, ignoring myjeu d'esprit, "feels like a fish out of water, and discontent is rife. The newly-poor man wishes he had in him the stuff of which millionaires are made, and the profiteer sighs for a few pints of the true ultramarine Norman blood, as it would be so helpful when dealing with valets, gamekeepers and the other haughty vassals of his new entourage. And that is where my scheme comes in. There are oceans of blue blood surging about in the veins and arteries of dukes and other persons who have absolutely no further use for such a commodity, and I'm sure lots of it could be had at almost less than the present price of milk. So what is to prevent the successful hosier from having the real stuff coursing through the auricles and ventricles of his palpitating heart, since transfusion is such a simple stunt nowadays?"

"And I suppose," I said, "that you would bleed him first so as to make room for the new blood?"

"There you touch the real beauty of my idea," said Perkins. "The plebeian sighs for aristocratic blood to enable him to hold his own in his novel surroundings; the aristocrat could do with a little bright red fluid to help him to turn an honest penny. So it is merely a case of cross-transfusion; no waste, no suffering, no weakness from loss of blood on either side."

I gasped at the magnitude of the idea.

"I'm drawing up plans," Perkins continued, "for a journal devoted to the matter, in which the interested parties can advertise their blood-stock for disposal, a sort of 'Blood Exchange and Mart.' The advertisements alone would pay, I expect, for the cost of production.See," he said, handing me a slip of paper, "these are the sort of ads. we should get."

This is what I read:—

"Peer, ruined by the War, would sell one-third of arterial contents for cash, or would exchange blood-outfits with successful woollen manufacturer.—5016 Kensington Gore, W.

"To War Profiteers. Several quarts of the real cerulean for disposal. Been in same family for generations. Pedigree can be inspected at office of advertiser's solicitor. Cross-transfusion not objected to. Address in first instance,Bart., 204, Bleeding Heart Yard, E.C.

"Public School and University Man of Plantagenet extraction would like to correspond with healthy Coal Miner with view to cross-transfusion. Would sell soul for two shillings.—A.Vane-Bludyer, 135, Down (and Out) Street, West Kensington, W."

"Makes your blood run cold," I said, handing back the paper.

"Not it," he said, detaching himself from the strap as the train drew into King's Cross; "not if the operation's properly performed."

Percy is a partridge boldWho in Autumn, so I'm told,Dwells among the turnip rootsAnd assists at frequent shoots,Really I have seldom heardOf a more precocious bird;Possibly his landlord's notWhat you'd call a first-rate shot,And his pals, though jolly chaps,Are not quite so good perhaps;Still, he thinks their aim so trashyThat, I fear, he's getting rash. HeEven perches on the endOf the gun my poor old friendBill employs for killing game.True he's very blind and lame,And he's well beyond the spanMeted out to mortal man,And his gout is getting worse(Meaning Bill, of course, not Perce);Still, if he won't mend his ways,One of these fine Autumn daysI'm afraid there's bound to beQuite an awful tragedy.He'll be shot—I'm sure he will(Meaning Percy now, not Bill).

Percy is a partridge bold

Who in Autumn, so I'm told,

Dwells among the turnip roots

And assists at frequent shoots,

Really I have seldom heard

Of a more precocious bird;

Possibly his landlord's not

What you'd call a first-rate shot,

And his pals, though jolly chaps,

Are not quite so good perhaps;

Still, he thinks their aim so trashy

That, I fear, he's getting rash. He

Even perches on the end

Of the gun my poor old friend

Bill employs for killing game.

True he's very blind and lame,

And he's well beyond the span

Meted out to mortal man,

And his gout is getting worse

(Meaning Bill, of course, not Perce);

Still, if he won't mend his ways,

One of these fine Autumn days

I'm afraid there's bound to be

Quite an awful tragedy.

He'll be shot—I'm sure he will

(Meaning Percy now, not Bill).

Weep, ye lowering rain-swept skies!In the dust our hero lies.Weeping-willow, bow thy head!Our precocious fowl is dead.Sigh, thou bitter North Wind, forPerce the Partridge is no more!Now, as long as he was readyJust to sit, sedate and steady,On the barrel of the gunLittle mischief could be done;But on that sad morn a whimSuddenly seized hold of him;'Twas the lunatic desireTo observe how shot-guns fire;So he boldly took his standWhere the barrel ended, and,All agog to solve the puzzle,Poked his napper up the muzzle.Well, the weapon at the minuteChanced to have a cartridge in it,And it happened that my friendBill was at the other end,Who with calm unflurried aimFailed (at last) to miss the game.With the tragic tale of Percy'sDeath I meant to close these verses,But we see quite clearly there, too,Other ills that Bird is heir to.He has also lost, you see,Individuality;Perce the Partridge, named and known,With an ego all his own,Disappears; and in his placeThere remains but "half-a-brace."

Weep, ye lowering rain-swept skies!In the dust our hero lies.Weeping-willow, bow thy head!Our precocious fowl is dead.Sigh, thou bitter North Wind, forPerce the Partridge is no more!

Weep, ye lowering rain-swept skies!

In the dust our hero lies.

Weeping-willow, bow thy head!

Our precocious fowl is dead.

Sigh, thou bitter North Wind, for

Perce the Partridge is no more!

Now, as long as he was readyJust to sit, sedate and steady,On the barrel of the gunLittle mischief could be done;But on that sad morn a whimSuddenly seized hold of him;'Twas the lunatic desireTo observe how shot-guns fire;So he boldly took his standWhere the barrel ended, and,All agog to solve the puzzle,Poked his napper up the muzzle.

Now, as long as he was ready

Just to sit, sedate and steady,

On the barrel of the gun

Little mischief could be done;

But on that sad morn a whim

Suddenly seized hold of him;

'Twas the lunatic desire

To observe how shot-guns fire;

So he boldly took his stand

Where the barrel ended, and,

All agog to solve the puzzle,

Poked his napper up the muzzle.

Well, the weapon at the minuteChanced to have a cartridge in it,And it happened that my friendBill was at the other end,Who with calm unflurried aimFailed (at last) to miss the game.

Well, the weapon at the minute

Chanced to have a cartridge in it,

And it happened that my friend

Bill was at the other end,

Who with calm unflurried aim

Failed (at last) to miss the game.

With the tragic tale of Percy'sDeath I meant to close these verses,But we see quite clearly there, too,Other ills that Bird is heir to.He has also lost, you see,Individuality;Perce the Partridge, named and known,With an ego all his own,Disappears; and in his placeThere remains but "half-a-brace."

With the tragic tale of Percy's

Death I meant to close these verses,

But we see quite clearly there, too,

Other ills that Bird is heir to.

He has also lost, you see,

Individuality;

Perce the Partridge, named and known,

With an ego all his own,

Disappears; and in his place

There remains but "half-a-brace."

Potman. 'Well, it was a bob, but they mostly sneaked out through that door.'New Landlord."George, billiards will be eighteenpence a hundred."Potman."That's more'n they paid before, Sir."New Landlord."What did they pay?"Potman."Well, itwasa bob, but they mostly sneaked out through that door."

New Landlord."George, billiards will be eighteenpence a hundred."

Potman."That's more'n they paid before, Sir."

New Landlord."What did they pay?"

Potman."Well, itwasa bob, but they mostly sneaked out through that door."

"Lady-Typist (aged 1920) required for invoicing department of West End wholesale firm."—Daily Paper."Wanted, capable Person, about 3 years of age, to undertake all household duties, country residence."—Scottish Paper.

"Lady-Typist (aged 1920) required for invoicing department of West End wholesale firm."

—Daily Paper.

"Wanted, capable Person, about 3 years of age, to undertake all household duties, country residence."

—Scottish Paper.

And, last of all, here is Dick WPhittington, otherwise known as Alderman Roll, Lord Mayor of London."—Evening Paper.

And, last of all, here is Dick WPhittington, otherwise known as Alderman Roll, Lord Mayor of London."

—Evening Paper.

But for the headline we should never have recognised him.

I hope to heaven I've got the labels on the right sticks, or I'm done!The Beginner."I hope to heaven I've got the labels on the right sticks, or I'm done!"

The Beginner."I hope to heaven I've got the labels on the right sticks, or I'm done!"

"Well, Uncle Tom," I said, leaning over the gate, "and what did you think of London?"

On Monday morning Uncle Tom Brimacombe had driven off in his trap with his wife to the nearest station, five miles away, and had gone up to London for the first time in his life, "to see about a legacy."

"Lunnon! mai laife. It's a vaine plaace. Ai used 'think Awkeyampton was a big town, but ai'm barmed if Lunnon dawn't beat un.

"As you knaw, Zur, us 'ad to get up and gaw off 'bout three in th' morn'n, and us got upalong Lunnon 'bout tain. Well, the waife knew 'er waay 'bout, laike; 'er 's bin to Plymouth 'fore now. Zo when us gets out of the traain us gaws inzaide a sort er caage what taakes us down a 'awl in the ground. Ai was fraightened out 'me laife. 'Yer,' ai sez, 'wur be us gwaine then?'

"'Dawn'ee axno questions, me dyur,' sez the waife, 'or ai'll vorget ahl what the guard in the traain tawld us.'

"Well, baimbai the caage stops gwaine down and us gets out, and ai'm blawed if us wadn't in a staation ahl below the ground! Then a traain comes out of anither 'awl, and befwer us 'ad zat down proper inzaide un, 'er was off agaain, 'thout waitin' vur watter nor noth'n'. Well, we zat us down and thur was tu little maids a-vaacin' us what 'adn' mwer'n lef' school a yer'tu, and naw zinner do they zet eyes on me than one of 'n whispers zimmat to tither and they bawth starts gazin' at my 'at and laaf'n'.

"Well, ai stid it vur some taime and at laast ai cuden' a-bear it naw longer, so ai says to the waife, 'Fur whai they'm laaf'n' then? What's wrong wi' my 'at?'

"'Dawn'ee taake naw nawtice of they,' 'er says. 'The little 'uzzies ought to be at 'awm look'n' aafter the chicken, 'staid of gallivantin' about ahl bai thursalves. Yure 'at's all raight.'

"Ai was wear'n' me awld squeer brown bawlerat what ai wears to Laanson market on Zat'dys.

"Well, zune us gets out, though ai caan't tall'ee whur tu 'twas, and ai caan't tall'ee what us did nither, vur me 'aid was gwaine round an' round and aachin' vit to burst. But us vound the plaace us was aafter and saigned ahl the paapers wur the man tawld us tu. Then, when us gets outsaide, the waife, 'er says, 'Look'ee, me dyur, thur's a bit of graass and some trees; us'll gawn zit down awver there and eat our paasties.'

"Maighty pwer graass 'twas tu, but thur was seats, so us ait our paasties thur, and us bawth started crai'in when us bit into un. They zort 'er taasted of 'awm, laike.

"Then ahl't once the waife, 'er says, 'Pon mai word, thur's a man taak'n our vottygraff.' And thur 'e was, tu, with a black tarpaulin awver 'is 'aid! 'Come away, me dyur,' says she; 'ai'm not gwaine to paay vur naw vottygraffs. Ai 'ad one done at Laanson 'oss shaw when ai was a gal, and it faaded clean away insaide a twelve-month.' Zo us gaws back along the staation agaan and comes 'awm just in taime to get the cows in.

"Well, next evenin' ai went down along 'The Duke' to tall 'em ahl 'bout Lunnon, but when ai gets insaide they ahl starts shout'n' and bangin' thur mugs and waav'n the paaper at me. 'What's come awver yu?' ai axes un; 'yume ahl gone silly then?'

"'Theym bin and put yure vottygraff in the paaper, Uncle,' says John Tonkin, and 'awlds un out vur me to look. And thur, sure 'nuff, 'twas, with the waife in tu! So ai gets un to let me cut'n out and keep'n. Yur 'tis if 'eed laike to see un."

Uncle Tom fumbled in his pocket, drew out a cutting and handed it to me. There surely enough was a photo of him and "the waife," sitting on a public garden-seat eating pasties and underneath the legend—

An old couple snapped in Hyde Park. The gentleman, smart though elderly, is seen wearing a brown model ofThe Daily Mailhat."

AFTER THE BALL.AFTER THE BALL."The Spirit of Jazz." "Taxi!"Taxi-Driver."Sorry, Sir—Ole Nick 'as just copped me."

"The Spirit of Jazz." "Taxi!"

Taxi-Driver."Sorry, Sir—Ole Nick 'as just copped me."

Among the passengers on the boat was a tall dark man with a black moustache and well-cut clothes who spent most of his time walking the deck or reading alone in his chair. Every ship has such recluses, who often, however, are on the fringe of several sets, although members of none. But this man remained apart and, being so determined and solitary, he was naturally the subject of comment and inquiry, even more of conjecture. His name was easy to discover from the plan of the table, but we knew no more until little Mrs. King, who is the best scout in the world, brought the tidings.

"I can't tell you much," she began breathlessly; "but there's something frightfully interesting. Colonel Swift knows all about him. He met him once in Poona and they have mutual friends. And how do you think he described him? He says he's the worst liver in India."

There is no need to describe the sensation created by this piece of information. If the man had set us guessing before, he now excited a frenzy of curiosity. The glad news traversed the ship like wind, brightening every eye; at any rate every female eye. For, though the good may have their reward elsewhere, it is beyond doubt that, if public interest is any guerdon, the bad get it on earth.

Show me a really bad man—dark-complexioned, with well-cut clothes and a black moustache—and I will show you a hero; a hero a little distorted, it is true, but not much the less heroic for that. Show me a notorious breaker of male hearts and laws and—so long as she is still in business—I will show you a heroine; again a little distorted, but with more than the magnetism of the virtuous variety.

For the rest of the voyage the lonely passenger was lonely only because he preferred to be, or was unaware of the agitation which he caused. People walked for hours longer than they liked or even intended in order to have a chance of passing him in his chair and scrutinising again the features that masked such depravity. For that they masked it cannot be denied. A physiognomist looking at him would have conceded a certain gloom, a trend towards introspection, possibly a hypertrophied love of self, but no more. Physiognomists, however, can retire from the case, for they are as often wrong as hand-writing experts. And if any Lavater had been on board and had advanced such a theory he would have been as unpopular asJonah, for the man's wickedness was not only a joy to us but a support. Without it the voyage would have been interminable.

What, we all wondered, had he done? Had he murdered as well as destroyed so many happy homes? Was he crooked at cards? Our minds became acutely active, but we could discover no more because the old Colonel, the source of knowledge, had fallen ill and was invisible.

Meanwhile the screw revolved, sweepstakes were lost and won, deck sports flourished, fancy-dress dances were held, concerts were endured, a Colonial Bishop addressed us on Sunday mornings and the tall dark man with the black moustache and different suits of well-cut clothes sat in his chair and passed serenely from oneOppenheimto another as though no living person were within leagues.

It was not until we were actually in port that the Colonel recovered and I came into touch with him. Standing by the rail we took advantage of the liberty to speak together, which on a ship such propinquity sanctions. After we had exchanged a few remarks about the clumsiness of the disembarking arrangements I referred to the man of mystery and turpitude, and asked for particulars of some of his milder offences.

"Why do you suppose him such a blackguard?" he asked.

"But surely——" I began, a little disconcerted.

"He's a man," the Colonel continued, "that everyone should be sorry for. He's a wreck, and he's going home now probably to receive his death sentence."

This was a promising phrase and I cheered up a little, but only for a moment.

"That poor devil," said the Colonel, "as I told Mrs. King earlier in the voyage, has the worst liver in India."

E. V. L.

(A Warning against dealing with Disreputable Companies.)

When the Man of Insurance made his roundsI "covered" my house for a thousand pounds;Then someone started a fire in the groundsAt the end of a wild carouse.The building was burnt; I made my claimAnd the Man of Insurance duly came.Said he, "AlwaysOur Company paysWithout any fuss or grouse;But your home was rotted from drains to flues;I therefore offer you as your duesSeven hundred pounds or, if you choose,A better and brighter house."I took the money; I need not sayWhat abuse I hurled at his head that day;But, when he began in his artful wayTo talk of Insurance (Life),And asked me to take out a policy forMy conjugal partner, mycordium cor,"No, no," said I,"If my spouse should dieWe should enter again into strife;You would come and say at the funeral, 'Sir,Your wife was peevish and plain; for herI offer six hundred or, if you prefer,A better and brighter wife.'"

When the Man of Insurance made his rounds

I "covered" my house for a thousand pounds;

Then someone started a fire in the grounds

At the end of a wild carouse.

The building was burnt; I made my claim

And the Man of Insurance duly came.

Said he, "Always

Our Company pays

Without any fuss or grouse;

But your home was rotted from drains to flues;

I therefore offer you as your dues

Seven hundred pounds or, if you choose,

A better and brighter house."

I took the money; I need not sayWhat abuse I hurled at his head that day;But, when he began in his artful wayTo talk of Insurance (Life),And asked me to take out a policy forMy conjugal partner, mycordium cor,"No, no," said I,"If my spouse should dieWe should enter again into strife;You would come and say at the funeral, 'Sir,Your wife was peevish and plain; for herI offer six hundred or, if you prefer,A better and brighter wife.'"

I took the money; I need not say

What abuse I hurled at his head that day;

But, when he began in his artful way

To talk of Insurance (Life),

And asked me to take out a policy for

My conjugal partner, mycordium cor,

"No, no," said I,

"If my spouse should die

We should enter again into strife;

You would come and say at the funeral, 'Sir,

Your wife was peevish and plain; for her

I offer six hundred or, if you prefer,

A better and brighter wife.'"

(Extracts from a Synthetic Diary à la mode.)

November 11th.—Now is the time to plant salsify, or the vegetable oyster, as it has been aptly named from its crustacean flavour so dear to herbaceous boarders. This may be still further accentuated by planting it in soil containing lime, chalk or other calcareous or sebaceous deposits.

Hedgehogs are now in prime condition for baking, but it is desirable to remove the quills before entrusting the animal to the oven. But the hedgehog cannot be cooked until he is caught, and his capture should not be attempted without strong gloves. Those recently invented by LordThanetare far the best for the purpose. It is a moot point among culinary artists whether the hedgehog should be serveden casseroleor incoquilles; but these are negligible details when you are steeped in the glamour of pale gold from a warm November sun, and mild air currents lag over the level leagues where the water is but slightly crimped and the alighting heron is lost among the neutral tints that envelop him....

Though the sun's rays are not now so fervent as they were in the dog-days, gardening without any headgear is dangerous, especially in view of the constant stooping. For the protection of themedullanothing is better than the admirable hat recently placed on the market by the benevolent enterprise of a great newspaper. But an effective substitute can be improvised out of a square yard of linoleum lined with cabbage-leaves and fastened with a couple of safety-pins.

As the late SirAndrew Clarkremarked in a luminous phrase, Nature forgives but she never forgets. The complete gardener should always aim (unlike the successful journalist) at keeping his head cool and his feet warm; and here again the noble enterprise of a newspaper has provided the exactdesideratumin its happily-named Corkolio detachable soles, which are absolutely invaluable when roads are dark and ways are foul, when the reeds are sere, when all the flowers have gone and the carrion-crow from the vantage of a pollard utters harsh notes of warning to all the corvine company round about....

Shod with Corkolio the happy gardener can defy these sinister visitants and ply the task of "heeling over" broccoli towards the north with perfect impunity.

The ravages of stag-beetles, a notable feature of late seasons, and probably one of the indirect but none the less disastrous results of the Land Valuation policy of thePrime Minister, can be kept down by leaving bowls of caviare mixed with molasses in the places which they most frequent. This compound reduces them speedily to a comatose condition, in which they can be safely exterminated with the aid of the patent hot-air pistolette (price five guineas) recently invented by a director of one of the journals already alluded to.

Buttout lasse, tout casse, tout passe; and while the kingfisher turns his sapphire back in the sun against the lemon-yellow of the willow leaves, and the smouldering russet of the oak-crowns succeeds to the crimson of the beeches and the gold of the elms, we shall do well to emulate the serene magnanimity of Nature and console ourselves with the reflection that the rural philosopher, if only assured of a sympathetic hearing in an enlightened Press and provided with a suitable equipment by the ingenuity of its directors, may contemplate the vagaries of tyrannical misgovernment with fortitude and even felicity.

["To be fashionable one must have the waist so narrow that there is a strain upon the second button when the jacket is fastened."Note on Men's Dress.]

["To be fashionable one must have the waist so narrow that there is a strain upon the second button when the jacket is fastened."

Note on Men's Dress.]

Garbed in the very height and pink of fashion,To-day I sallied forth to greet my fair,Nursing within my ardent heart a passionI long had had a craving to declare;Being convinced that never would there fall soGoodly a chance again, I mused how sheWas good and kind and beautiful, and alsoExpecting me to tea.And after tea I stood before her, feelingNow was the moment when the maid would melt,My buttoned jacket helpfully revealingThe graces of a figure trimly svelte,But, all unworthy to adorn a poetWho'd bought it for a fabulous amount,Just as I knelt to put the question, lo, itPopped on its own account.The button, dodging my attempts to hide it,Rolled to her very feet and rested there,And when I laid my loving heart beside itShe only smiled at that incongruous pair—Smiled, then in contrite pity for the gloomyAir that I wore of one whose chance is gone,Promised that she would be a sister to meAnd sew the button on.

Garbed in the very height and pink of fashion,

To-day I sallied forth to greet my fair,

Nursing within my ardent heart a passion

I long had had a craving to declare;

Being convinced that never would there fall so

Goodly a chance again, I mused how she

Was good and kind and beautiful, and also

Expecting me to tea.

And after tea I stood before her, feelingNow was the moment when the maid would melt,My buttoned jacket helpfully revealingThe graces of a figure trimly svelte,But, all unworthy to adorn a poetWho'd bought it for a fabulous amount,Just as I knelt to put the question, lo, itPopped on its own account.

And after tea I stood before her, feeling

Now was the moment when the maid would melt,

My buttoned jacket helpfully revealing

The graces of a figure trimly svelte,

But, all unworthy to adorn a poet

Who'd bought it for a fabulous amount,

Just as I knelt to put the question, lo, it

Popped on its own account.

The button, dodging my attempts to hide it,Rolled to her very feet and rested there,And when I laid my loving heart beside itShe only smiled at that incongruous pair—Smiled, then in contrite pity for the gloomyAir that I wore of one whose chance is gone,Promised that she would be a sister to meAnd sew the button on.

The button, dodging my attempts to hide it,

Rolled to her very feet and rested there,

And when I laid my loving heart beside it

She only smiled at that incongruous pair—

Smiled, then in contrite pity for the gloomy

Air that I wore of one whose chance is gone,

Promised that she would be a sister to me

And sew the button on.

"The dancing will commence at 9 p.m. and conclude at 2 p.m. Anyone still wanting tickets may procure same at the Victoria."East African Paper.

"The dancing will commence at 9 p.m. and conclude at 2 p.m. Anyone still wanting tickets may procure same at the Victoria."

East African Paper.

For ourselves, after seventeen hours' continuous dancing, we shall not want any more tickets.

From a parish magazine:—

"A nation will not remain virulent which destroys the barriers which protect the Sunday."

We are all for protecting the Sunday, but we don't want to remain virulent. It is a terrible dilemma.

Situation: Burglar caught red-handed.Situation:Burglar caught red-handed.Woman."The sorce o' the feller! 'E pretended to be me 'usband and called out, 'It's all right, darlin'—it's only me.' It was the word 'darlin'' wot give 'im away."

Situation:Burglar caught red-handed.

Woman."The sorce o' the feller! 'E pretended to be me 'usband and called out, 'It's all right, darlin'—it's only me.' It was the word 'darlin'' wot give 'im away."

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

In looking at the title-page ofJohn Seneschal's Margaret(Hodder and Stoughton) no lover of good stories but will be saddened by the reflection that the superscription, "byAgnesandEgerton Castle," is there seen for the last time. The double signature, herald of how much pleasure in the past, is here attached to a cheerfully improbable but well-told tale of the after-war about a returned soldier who was mistaken for his dead fellow-prisoner and hailed as son, heir andfiancéby the different members of the welcoming group in the home that wasn't his. The descriptions of this home, by the way—a house whose identification will be easy enough for those who know the beautiful North-Dorset country—are as good as any part of the book. If you protest that the resulting situation is not only wildly improbable but becoming a stock-in-trade of our novelists, I must admit the first charge, but point out that the authors here secure originality by making the deception an unintended one.John Tempest, who in the hardships of his escape has lost memory of his own identity, never ceases to protest that he is at least not the otherJohnfor whom the members of theSeneschalfamily persist in taking him—a twist that makes for piquancy if hardly for added probability. However, the inevitable solution of the problem provides a story entertaining enough, though not, I think, one that will obliterate your memory of others, incomparable, from hands to which we all owe a debt of long enjoyment.

I readInisheeny(Methuen), as I believe I have read every story by the same hand, at one sitting. Whose was the hand I will ask you to guess. Characters: one Church of Ireland parson, drily humorous, as narrator; one lively heroine with archæological father, hunting for relics; one schoolboy; one young and over-zealous R.I.C. officer on the look-out for concealed arms; poachers, innkeepers, peasants, etc. Action, mostly amphibious, passes between the mainland of Western Ireland and a small islet off the coast. Will the gentleman who said "George A. Birmingham" kindly consider himself entitled to ten nuts? I suppose it was the mention of an islet that finally gave away my simple secret. Mr. "Birmingham" is one of the too few authors who understand what emotion an island of the proper size and right distance from the coast can raise in the human breast.Inisheenydelightfully fulfilled every condition in this respect; not to mention sheltering an illicit still and being the home of Keltic treasure. Precisely in fact the right kind of place, and the sort of story that hardly anyone can put down unfinished. I am bound to add that, perhaps a hundred pages from the actual end, the humour of the affair seems to lose spontaneity and become forced. But till the real climax of the tale, the triumphant return of the various hunters fromInisheeny, I can promise that you will find never a dull page.

There were moments inThe Headland(Heinemann) when, withRoma Lennox, the "companion" and heroine, I "shivered, feeling that London, compared with the oldhouse on the Headland and the family inhabiting it, was a clean place with a clear atmosphere and inhabited by robust, sane, straightforward persons. You felt homesick." Cornwall is notoriously inhabited by queer people, and thePendragonfamily was not merely queer but hereditarily rotten and decadent: the old father, who burns a valuable old book of his own to appease his violent temper; the granddaughter a kleptomaniac; the son of forty addicted to hideous cruelties. Unpleasant but well drawn, all of them. Mrs.C. A. Dawson Scotthas powerfully suggested the atmosphere of the strange and tragic household, mourning its dead mistress; and she understands the peculiar quality of the Cornish people and the Cornish seas. I have not read her other novels, but, if she will promise to wrestle with one or two rather irritating mannerisms, I will promise to look out for her next one. I have no prejudice against the Wellsian triplet of dots, but really Mrs. Scott does overdo it. And a good deal of her quite penetrating psycho-thingummy was spoiled for me by her trick of conveying nearly every impression and reflection of her characters through an impersonal "you" or "one." This means an economy of words and for a short time a certain vividness, but it soon becomes tedious. One knows what a tangle you get into if one starts using "one's" and "you's" in your letters; and you find that the author has been caught once or twice. However, the story is good enough to survive that.

The title ofThe Lady of The Lawn(Jenkins) has "the ornament of alliteration," but beyond that there doesn't seem to be any particular reason why Mr. W.Rileyshould have chosen it. Certainly in his story there is an old lady who spends more of the winter on a lawn than any old lady of my acquaintance could be induced to, even with rugs and a summer-house to make up for the comforts of the fireside; butMiss Barbaraand her site really have not so much to do with the tale as its title seems to imply. The love affairs of a young officer who, while blind from wounds, fell in love with his nurse to the extent of becoming engaged to her and didn't recognise her when they met again, are Mr.Riley'sreal concern.Eric, who is quite as priggish as his name suggests, falls in love with his sweetheart, as a lady of leisure, all over again, and goes through agonies of remorse on account of his own faithlessness to her as a nurse.MarionorConstance, for she uses two names to help the confusion, lets him suffer a while for the good of his soul, but the happy ending, the promise of which is breathed from every line of the book, is duly brought about. His publisher asserts that "there is no living author who writes about Yorkshire as does Mr.Riley." I daresay he is quite right, but at least as far as the present book is concerned I don't think that I should have bothered to mention it.

Those—and I suspect they are many—whose first real enthusiasm forAbraham Lincolnwas kindled by Mr.John Drinkwater'sromantic morality play can profitably take up Mr.Irving Bacheller'sA Man for the Ages(Constable) for an engaging account of the early days of the great Democrat. They will forgive a certain flamboyance about the author's preliminaries. Hero-worship, if the hero be worthy, is a very pardonable weakness, and they should certainly admire the skill and humour with which he has patched together, or invented where seemly, the story of lankyAbe, with his axeman's skill, his immense physical strength, his poor head for shopkeeping, his passion for books, his lean purse and "shrinking pants," his wit, courage and resource. A romance of reasonable interest and plausibility is woven round young Lincoln's story. Perhaps Mr.Bachellermakes his hero speak a little too sententiously at times, and certainly some of his other folk say queer things, such as, "What so vile as a cheap aristocracy, growing up in idleness, too noble to be restrained, with every brutal passion broad-blown as flush as May?" What indeed! The picture of pioneering America in the thirties is a fresh and interesting one.

To few of those who visit Switzerland, with its incomparable mountains, can it have occurred that, once a man is kept there against his will, it can be a prison as damnable as any other; possibly even more damnable by reason of those same inevitable mountains. British prisoners of war interned there knew that. Mr.R. O. Prowse, inA Gift of the Dusk(Collins), speaks with subtle penetration for those other prisoners, interned victims of the dreadful malady. Of necessity he writes sadly; but yet he writes as a very genial philosopher, permitting himself candidly "just that little cynicism which helps to keep one tolerant." He is of the old and entertaining school of sentimental travellers, but he is far from being old-fashioned. The story running through his observations and modern instances is so frail and delicate a thing that I hesitate to touch it and to risk disturbing its bloom. All readers, save the very young and the very old, will do well to travel with him, from Charing Cross ("I have a childlike fondness for trains. I like to be in them, I like to see them go by") to the peaceful, almost happy end, at the mountain refuge by the valley of the Rhone. They will not regret an inch of the way; and they will derive some very positive enjoyment from the picture of that most melancholy hotel where the story is set.

Back to Index Next