THE DEFENCE OF AMBERRY PARVA.

AS BETWEEN FRIENDS.British Lion."PLEASE DON'T LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT, SAM.YOU'RE NOT THE EAGLE I'M UP AGAINST."

AS BETWEEN FRIENDS.

British Lion."PLEASE DON'T LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT, SAM.YOU'RE NOT THE EAGLE I'M UP AGAINST."

THE INCORRIGIBLES AGAIN."What-ho, Charlie! Bit showery, ain't it?"

THE INCORRIGIBLES AGAIN.

"What-ho, Charlie! Bit showery, ain't it?"

Amberry Parva certainly existed beforeShakspeare's time, but I doubt ifShakspeareever saw it. For which he was so much the poorer, seeing that Amberry is a faithful microcosm of much of England.

Thomas Fallow, Aaron West and George Hangar are all friends of mine. Though still comparative youthful, they are the shining lights of the Amberry Rural Council, self-trained to face a crisis or an emergency with calm and steady bearing. When I came upon them last week they were seated about the bench outside the door of "The Three Cups." A fourth man—a small hairy stranger—was addressing them.

Thomas Fallow motioned me to halt.

"We're consultin'," he explained, "with Mr. Chittenden as keeps the baccy-shop in Wream."

Now Wream is a shade—the merest shade—more important (in its own esteem) than Amberry. It sits astride the same high road that the Romans carved seawards a thousand-odd years ago, and supplies us with newspapers, telegrams and gossip. While we score in the possession of two tin chapels to their one, we writhe inwardly over a Diamond Jubilee Fountain which we cannot hope to surpass.

"Mr. Chittenden," pursued Thomas, "brings noos."

"Good news?" I asked.

Mr. Chittenden, like the Eldest Oyster, shook his heavy head.

"I 'eard it from a natteralized German two days ago. It seems that they're goin' to make a fresh dash with invisible Zeppelins. Once they cane-vade the ships that's watchin'——"

He left the sentence unfinished.

"Consequence o' which," said George Hangar, "we've gone an' made ourselves into an Informal Committee o' Defence, same as sits night an' day in the War Office in London. An' the question before the meetin' is, what's to be done if some fine day we wakes up to find a couple o' thousand black 'elmets marchin' down the main road?"

"Ambush 'em," said Thomas Fallow definitely. "Told you so afore. Lie be'ind the 'edges an' pick 'em off. My old rook-rifle'd roll 'em over proper. Shoot straight an' keep on shootin'."

Aaron made a scornful noise in his throat.

"An' them as did get in the village'd punish us for them as didn't! Burnin', killin' an' worse."

"Then outflank 'em," insisted Thomas doggedly. "Let 'em 'ave their fill of advancin', same as old Joffer done, an' then ketch 'em in the side an' discriminate 'em."

"You're not agoin' to do that with the men left in Amberry," said Aaron. He was a market-gardener by trade. "'Twould be like a dozen sparrers tryin' to outflank a steam-roller. Trenchin's the thing. Dig deep, an' lay the soil loose 'long the far edge. There's a decent bit o' shelter by Whemmick's Cottages."

"The best bein' opposite Number Five," added Fallow, whereat there was a bellow of laughter, and Aaron flushed magnificently, for at Number Five lives Molly Garner, wooed by Aaron, but as yet hesitating between him and the Wream plumber.

George Hangar, who up to the present had scarcely spoken, intervened. He has a bass voice, which on Sundays makes the little roof of the United Bunyans quiver; for the other six days of the week he works at a carpenter's bench in an open-fronted shed. He has a sound knowledge of timber, and is no ignoramus concerning the values of Hepplewhite and Sheraton.

"You're wrong," he roared. "Silly-minded an' wrong! This ain't theAisne. What do a village do when it's attacked? Answer me that."

No one answered; to say the wrong thing would exasperate him, to say the right would exasperate him still more.

"They puts up barrycades," continued Hangar. "An' for why? 'Cause it's only them that can hold off horse, foot an' 'tillery. Barrycades made o' seasoned oak, same as I got stored at the back o' my shed, sunk a good two feet, with bolted cross-pieces an' spurs, an' maybe a trifle o' barbed wire in front."

"An' where's this contraption to be set up?" demanded Mr. Chittenden with sudden suspicion.

"End o' village."

"Meanin' that the enemy may march through Wream, with nothin' to stop 'em wreckin' the Fountain? An' this was to be a meetin' for the consideration o' mutual defence!"

"The question afore the members," said Aaron hastily, "is, which place 'as most strategetical value? Thing is to stop 'em quick an' for good."

"An' where'll you beat a rook-rifle for doin' that?" demanded Thomas Fallow. "If I'm willin' to take the risks——"

"'Tain't a question o' willingness, but tatties," said Mr. Chittenden, still unappeased.

"Then put the case afore the sergeant as is stayin' at the police-station," said George.

There was a moment's pause, then Aaron spoke.

"The motion is carried," he said, "an' the meetin' stands adjournedsinny die."

I did not meet any of the members for several days afterwards; then chance took me in the direction of George Hangar's workshop. I found him engrossed in the unheard-of task of arranging and packing his tools.

"Well?" I asked.

He rasped his chin pensively with a chisel.

"Did the interview with the Sergeant take place?"

"Ay; the feller's more brains than the rest of us put together. Reckon it's trainin'."

"What happened?"

"What 'appened? 'If you barrycades, entrenches, enfilades or outflanks 'em outside Amberry,' says 'e, 'the enemy'll wait for reinforcements, an' then smash you with bigger guns. 'Twill be the same at Wream, Bewchester, Lydhirst, Lower Thettley, an' Capper'am.'"

"Which brings us to the sea?"

"Ezzackly."

"Where it's the Fleet's job."

"'Twould seem so. But, as the Sergeant pointed out, the Germans is by birth an' natur' land-fighters, an' must so be met, trained man to trained man. Meaning Territorials."

"Then your plans came to nothing?"

"Only in a manner o' speakin', Sir. In fact, the resolution put afore the meetin' would 'a' been carriednem. con.but for the unsatisfactoriness o' Jacob Chittenden's chest-measurement. As it is, 'e's eatin' b'iled bread an' practising three hours a day on the horizontal-bar."

I was a little bewildered.

"What resolution?"

He took a paper from his apron pocket and read as follows:—

"That it be 'ereby decided, in the joint int'rests of Wheam, Amberry Parva, Great Britain and 'is Majesty's Dominions beyond the Seas, that the undersigned, bein' between the age limits, sound in wind an' limb, an' not needed at 'ome as much as they thought they was, do 'ereby join the Territorial Army at the earliest possible date.Thomas Fallow,Aaron West,Geo. Hangar. Also, when 'is chest-measurement do allow of it,Jacob Chittenden."

Thus is the burden of the Empire borne by her sons when once they get the idea of it into their heads.

RULES FOR SPECIAL CONSTABLES.[If a Special Constable finds himself outnumbered he may have recourse to stratagem.]"Look out, Bill! Here's a Special Constable. He'll cop us with the swag in our 'ands.""I don't mind 'im, 'Arry. 'E's only a little un.""But 'e 's got a big un with 'im."

RULES FOR SPECIAL CONSTABLES.

[If a Special Constable finds himself outnumbered he may have recourse to stratagem.]

"Look out, Bill! Here's a Special Constable. He'll cop us with the swag in our 'ands."

"I don't mind 'im, 'Arry. 'E's only a little un."

"But 'e 's got a big un with 'im."

"And what do you do with yourself on your half-holidays?"

I had taken courage to address the office-boy who keeps his eye on me while I wait humbly in the vestibule of my Financial Adviser.

"Pitchers," he replied affably.

"I beg your pardon," I said.

"Movin' pitchers," he explained; and I knew that the cinema had another slave.

And this too I knew, that a youth who breathed, as he did, the pure atmosphere of High Finance, would never commit a crime and blame the pitchers for it, as so many of our young criminals do. So many, in fact, that in my mind's eye I see the following reports in the papers:—

A boy of five was brought yesterday before the Darlington Bench charged with the bombardment of a street. Evidence showed that the prisoner established a machine-gun in the back garden of his father's house and systematically fired it at his neighbours' walls, doing considerable damage. The boy pleaded guilty, but explained that he had been to see some war-pictures at the cinema. The magistrate ordered the cinema to be kept under observation, and awarded the boy a shilling from the poor-box.

A girl of eight was charged at the Guildhall with causing an obstruction. Evidence was to the effect that she stood in the middle of Cheapside holding out her hands and a block resulted which disorganised the traffic for some hours. The child's excuse was that she had been witnessing the Lord Mayor's Show at the cinema.

"The pictures again!" exclaimed the magistrate. "When will this nuisance be stopped?"

Two boys of seven were charged at the Thames Police Court yesterday with kidnapping a young lady. Evidence showed that on the eveningbefore, they first obtained possession of a motor car from the window of a shop in Long Acre, drove it at a great pace (one constable said forty miles an hour, and another sixty-one) to a house in Park Lane, where, while one boy remained outside, the other drew a revolver and forced the resident heiress into the car. At this point they were arrested. The boys said that they were very sorry, but that the spectacle of an abduction romance on the films had been too strong for them.

The magistrate: "What is the cinema censor about? Nothing is more deplorable than that the imaginations of young boys should be excited by these lurid dramas." The boys were discharged.

Three boys of six, seven and eight respectively were charged at Sheffield with stealing a railway train. It appears that while the driver of a Scotch excursion, which was in a siding, was oiling the wheels, the three boys sprang to the footboard and started the train. The driver pursued it, but was at once shot by one of the boys, who was armed to the teeth with pea-shooters. Asked to explain their conduct the boys said that they had seen so many train robberies on the local cinemas that they felt bound to do something in that line themselves. The magistrate said he did not wonder, and directed that the proprietors of the cinemas should have their licence cancelled.

Three men of criminal appearance, against whom previous convictions were proved, who were charged at Vine Street with pocket picking, explained that it was entirely due to the effect produced upon them byOliver Twiston the cinema. The magistrate dismissed the prisoners and ordered the cinema to be closed.

ECONOMY.McTavish(to convalescent soldier). "I was hearin' ye had a bullet in ye yet. Are ye no gawn ta hae it taen oot?"Soldier."No the noo. Ye see, I'll be gawn back tae the fr-ront in a wee while, an' when I come back I'll just hae them a' oot thegither!"

ECONOMY.

McTavish(to convalescent soldier). "I was hearin' ye had a bullet in ye yet. Are ye no gawn ta hae it taen oot?"

Soldier."No the noo. Ye see, I'll be gawn back tae the fr-ront in a wee while, an' when I come back I'll just hae them a' oot thegither!"

From a speech reported in theWidnes Gazette:—

"The character of this little nation is now what it was when Julius Cesar wrote 'De tous les peuples de la Gaule les Belges sont les plus braves.'"

It was in the same spirit of compliment to the country he was invading thatHannibalwrote "Longa est via ad Tipperariam" as he began to slide down the Alps.

"Mrs. Francis M. Cunliffe, writes from Southport:—To the unknown person or persons that sent three body belts. I beg to thank you most sincerely for your generous gift to the 9th (Reserve) Battalion Manchester Regiment. It will add greatly to the comfort of four men, and will be much appreciated by them."—Ashton-under-Lyne Reporter.

With three-quarters of a body-belt apiece they should do splendidly.

A French interpreter with the Expeditionary Force sends us the following notice which he saw, he says, on the office door of the A.S.C.:—

"The waiter is not allowed to be drunk unless boiled before."

But boiling before is not really so good as a cold douche after.

The following directions for the right use of the "Snapseal Patent" are printed inside the pass-book envelopes issued by Lloyds Bank:—

"First wet the gum, then insert the tongue into lock and draw until you hear it snap."

After doing this once you may prefer to let your tongue, after it has wetted the gum, return to its usual position within the mouth.

My name's "Scottie." I'm a collie and wear a box in which I collect contributions for the National Relief Fund. Probably you've met me—and, I hope, contributed. Not long ago, so Mabel told a friend the other day, a few of my early experiences were published in a book calledPunch. I've had heaps more since then. I'm getting quite an old hand at the piteous "Won't-you-spare-me-something?" look. For one thing, I've learnt to let people putanythinginto my box. Once I got a penny (from a little girl) that turned out, when the box was opened, to be chocolate. A bit cocoa-y by then, but still eatable. But my best haul was during my—and Mabel's—weekend by the sea.

We went down in a corridor train, where I collected quite a lot of money. When the train stopped half-way there, I jumped out for a mouthful of air, and there, on the platform, was a black retriever wearing a collecting box like mine! I asked him what he meant by it, and, as he didn't explain himself, I went for him, and stood him upside down; and in the scrimmage half a crown fell out of his collecting box. Everybody thought that it had fallen out of mine; Mabel wassureit had; so it was given to me. You should have seen that retriever when I smiled at him from the carriage window.

We reached the sea at last. The Serpentine's a puddle by comparison. The very first morning I tore across the shingle with two two-shilling pieces in my box rattling like eighteen-pence in copper. Such a time I had, though my box was dreadfully heavy, being full of sand and sea water. Presently, joy! the bottom fell out. But the public later seemed quite satisfied, until a horrid nurse-girl gave the show away—and of course Mabel had it mended.

The very day we came away I met the millionaire man. It was a wild wet day, and I was draining in an alcove underneath the promenade when he appeared. He didn't look rich, and he was running and panting and glancing over his shoulder in a hunted manner. No sooner did he see me than he whispered, "Blimy, 'ere's a chance! Good dawg, then—'old yer 'ed up," and at once crammed a heap of "goblins" (Mabel's word) and lots of crackley paper into my box. He followed this up with about two yards of shiny chain and things that winked so that I had to wink as well. Then came lots of things like goblins with their middles bitten out; and hardly had he given me the last before two monstrous men in blue rushed round the corner. I don't remember exactly what happened, but the millionaire man said, Blimy, couldn't he run after his hat wot the wind blown off? and the blue men said why, yes he could, but they were sure he hadn't. Thenhesaid, Blimy, they could "turn him over," straight they could, andtheysaid straight they would. But they didn't. Instead they felt in all his pockets, and only found a clay pipe and some cheese wrapped up in newspaper. Then things became so uninteresting that I sauntered back to Mabel.

The day after our home-coming my box and I were marched to the committee. I've had some bad times there, but nothing quite so bad before. The way an old girl gushed about the "darlings" (whoever they were) parting with their jewellery simply wearied me. As soon as Mabel felt strong enough to walk we went home. She seemed to forget that the haul was entirely due to me. Yet she's a wonderful memory for some things. Ever since breakfast to-day she's done nothing but talk about a daring robbery at Winklebeach, and looks at me in the most extraordinary manner. I don't know what Winklebeach may be, but it's as clear as daylight that she's thinking of the six sweet biscuits that I stole behind her back at her last "At home." But how did she find out?

BySpecial Constable XXX.

You must understand that the work of the Special Constable is so utterly dreary that we heave sighs of envy on seeing one of our number, an L.C.C. employee, being allowed to clean the windows of a public building. The lucky dog!

Imagine, therefore, our joy at receiving a staff order to watch out for motor-cars with hoggish headlights, and report their numbers to headquarters. We were not to arrest them—even if we could.

Within half an hour of the staff order we registered Our First Capture. Myself, I received a fleeting impression of LL—8183; my colleague took it for LS—6163. An amicable discussion ensued. I pointed out that LS might mean London Scottish, who should be allowed to go scot free; he countered with the suggestion that LL might stand forLloyd George, who should also be above the law. We tossed for it. I won. The honour fell to me to report the capture.

"Sergeant, oblige me by recording the following episode in your official notebook: Special Constable XXX has the honour to report that on or about the 15th instant, in the year of grace——"

"Is there much more like this?"

"Don't rob me of my hour of glory. I've had four blank months.... In the year of grace 1914, at the hour of 5.15, post meridian, at the corner of ---- Street, a motor-car contravening, traversing or otherwise infringing His Majesty's Regulations promulgated by the Secretary of State for Home Affairs, pursuant to an Order in Council——"

"What was its number?" demanded the Sergeant crudely.

"LL—8183, Sir. And I have the honour to suspect that it belonged to the Right Hon.David Lloyd George."

The Sergeant, who wears a yellow brassard, reported to the Sub-Inspector (red band), and from there the information will travel upwards and onwards to the Chief Sub-Inspector (light-blue band), the Inspector (dark-blue band), the Commander (white band), and the Chief Staff Officer, who resides in the west wing of New Scotland Yard and probably wears a cocked hat. From there it will cross the Bridge of Sighs to the east wing, occupied by the more ordinary police, and will trickle down in reverse order of precedence to a regular Constable, who will probably call on Mr.Lloyd Georgewith an official blue paper in his hand:—

"Sir,—From information received, it transpires that on or about the 15th instant, in the year of grace 1914, ... head-lights contravening, traversing or otherwise infringing ... and should the offence be repeated.... In the name of our Sovereign Lord the King, Emperor of India, Defender of the Faith."

Lloyd Georgewill humbly submit to the decree, will sign a promissory note of obedience (Moratorium barred), and the incident will close.

Think of the glory of putting all that in motion!

Yes, it was worth while joining the Force.

It having been officially announced (in "Charivaria") that members of the O.B.C. (Old Boys Corps) object to being called the Old B.C.'s, an intolerable suggestion is now put forward that they should be known as the "Obese He's."

Rear-AdmiralSchliepersays in theBerliner Lokal-Anzeigerthat the Germans could never overcome a certain sentimental feeling of justice and delicacy with regard to England. We do not know how Scarborough regards this veracious statement, but our own motto is "Let Schlieping dogs lie."

I.The above professional criminal who recently broke into a house and stole a silver mustard-pot and a couple of spoons——

II. ——saw his act described in the paper next day as "a peculiarly mean and cowardly one, the occupier of the house being absent serving his country." When it was put to him like that——

III. ——he determined to make restitution. He could not return the identical articles he had taken. Alas! they were already melted. So he broke into another house, ascertaining first that the occupier was not serving his country——

IV. ——and then rebroke into the first house (silencing the cook who had been left in charge and was inclined to raise an alarm) and placed there the results of the second burglary. After that he felt much better, and could look patriots in the face.

"David Copperfield."

If it were a simple question of bulk, few authors would lend themselves to the process of compression so well asCharles Dickens; but the scheme ofDavid Copperfieldis too complex, and its interests too many and competitive, to be packed into a three-hours' play, even by Mr.Louis Parker, master of the tabloid. Of the main themes—the career of the hero himself, the machinations ofUriah Heep, the tragedy ofLittle Em'ly—only the last was at all effective in pillule form. The figure ofDavid Copperfield—always pleasant if rather colourless—served to hold the play together; but the central experience of his life was treated with the extreme of haziness. We were informed of his engagement toDora, his marriage, her illness, her death, all with the brevity of a French officialcommuniqué; but as for the child-wife herself we never so much as set eyes on her. While again we gathered that the designs ofUriah Heepwere ultimately confounded, nobody without the aid of memory or imagination could possibly have penetrated their obscurity.

On the other hand—whether with or without the connivance of SirHerbert TreeI dare not conjecture—the person ofWilkins Micawberwas given a prominence out of all proportion to his share in any one of the plots. Unlike the something that was to make his fortune, he was always "turning up," and, whenever he did, he practically had the stage to himself.

I am far from quarrelling with this arrangement, for I have never seen SirHerbertin better form. His humour was of the richest, yet full of quiet subtleties, and merely to gaze upon his grotesque figure was a pure delight. That he should have permitted himself, in a spirit of creative irresponsibility, to deviate at times into the borderland of farce, and become an hilarious blend of himself and Mr.Henry James(I don't know why he suggested to me a burlesque of Mr.Henry James, for I have never known that most distinguished of writers to lapse from decorum) need not trouble anybody in a play where there was no pretence of insisting upon the letter ofDickens.

The transition fromFalstafftoMicawber, from a bibber of sack to a bibber of punch, was an easy one for SirHerbert; but not so easy were the constant changes from and into the part ofDan'l Peggotty. Here he gave us a really admirable character-sketch—forPeggottybelongs to the region of possibility, whereasMicawberis always a creature of incredible fancy—and I am not sure that his achievement as the old salt was not, for him, the greater of the two. Certainly in the scene where he tells of his search over the world forLittle Em'lyhe came nearer to simple pathos than I have ever known him to come. Even the strong Somerset accent of this East Anglian tar could not conceal his sincerity.

I shrink from the odious task of distinguishing between the merits of a most admirable cast, but I must mention the delightfully piquant drollery of MissSydney FairbrotherasMrs. Micawber, and the too-brief excellence of Mr.Roy Byfordas theWaiterof the "Golden Cross," and Mr.Gayer MackayasLittimer. Mr.Quartermaine'sUriah Heep—a very careful study—seemed perhaps too obviously stamped from the start with the hallmark of villany. Conversely theBetsey Trotwoodof MissAgnes Thomasappeared to be lacking in austerity of mien.

One shared Mr.Nigel Playfair'senjoyment of the futility ofMr. Dick; but this freakish figure, so typical ofDickens, seemed always a little out of the picture.

ThoughMrs. Gummidge, played with a sound restraint by MissAda King, insisted from time to time upon the fact that she was a "lone lorn creetur'," we were spared a good many of the author's reiterated tags, and I think it was not till his friends had guaranteed to lubricate his passage to the New World thatMr. Wilkins Micawberso much as alluded to his habitual expectation of something "turning up."

The popularity of the production promises to be exceptional, and with good reason, apart from the high quality of the performance. For with its human tenderness, and the relief of its gaiety, it offers just the right kind of distraction to the strain of public emotion in these times. And, though its matter bears no relation to the subject which absorbs our hearts, the very name ofCharles Dickensmakes immediate appeal to that national spirit which the War has reawakened.

O. S.

TWO HERBERTS IN THE FIELD.[In the scene of the emigration ship the entrance ofMicawberfollows with startling rapidity upon the exit ofDan'l Peggotty.]SirHerbert Tree(asDan'l Peggotty) to SirHerbert Tree(asMicawber)."Theer, I zed 'twould happen zo one of these vine days. You've turned up too zoon!"

TWO HERBERTS IN THE FIELD.

[In the scene of the emigration ship the entrance ofMicawberfollows with startling rapidity upon the exit ofDan'l Peggotty.]

SirHerbert Tree(asDan'l Peggotty) to SirHerbert Tree(asMicawber)."Theer, I zed 'twould happen zo one of these vine days. You've turned up too zoon!"

Ye pundits who edit our papers,How long will it take you to learnThat mere egotistical capersAre not of the highest concern?The writers who cut them for agesIn the nostrils of England shall stink,Yet while able to hamper, you pet and you pamperThese slingers of poisonous ink.In the stress of a conflict Titanic,When personal sorrow is mute,We see them beset with a panicOf losing their chances of loot;So they start with indecent endeavour,On the flimsiest pretext and hint,Criticising and squealing, but only revealingTheir passionate craving for print.When they ask you to publish their sloppy,Sophistical, impudent screeds,Think, editors, less of "good copy"And more of the national needs;For whether they pontify sadly,Or flout us in cap and in bells,Pontifical patter and arrogant chatterAre worse than the enemy's shells.There's a saying that's frequently quoted,And cannot be wholly ignored,That the pen, when its force can be noted,Is a mightier thing than the sword;But the mightiness doesn't reside inThe pen, but the writer behind,Who, if hostile to reason or bent upon treason,No deadlier weapon can find.In Peace, in the times that were piping,When pacifists bade us disarm,This smart intellectual snipingDid less recognisable harm;But now, in the hour of its peril,The country is sick of its Shaws,And hurls to the devil the sophists who revelIn pleading the enemy's cause.

In the stress of a conflict Titanic,When personal sorrow is mute,We see them beset with a panicOf losing their chances of loot;So they start with indecent endeavour,On the flimsiest pretext and hint,Criticising and squealing, but only revealingTheir passionate craving for print.

When they ask you to publish their sloppy,Sophistical, impudent screeds,Think, editors, less of "good copy"And more of the national needs;For whether they pontify sadly,Or flout us in cap and in bells,Pontifical patter and arrogant chatterAre worse than the enemy's shells.

There's a saying that's frequently quoted,And cannot be wholly ignored,That the pen, when its force can be noted,Is a mightier thing than the sword;But the mightiness doesn't reside inThe pen, but the writer behind,Who, if hostile to reason or bent upon treason,No deadlier weapon can find.

In Peace, in the times that were piping,When pacifists bade us disarm,This smart intellectual snipingDid less recognisable harm;But now, in the hour of its peril,The country is sick of its Shaws,And hurls to the devil the sophists who revelIn pleading the enemy's cause.

Tommy(to his pal in middle of charge). "Look out, Bill. Your bootlace is undone!"

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

This paragraph will, I hope, catch your eye in time to be of use as a guide in the holiday fairy-tale traffic. But at worst there are always birthdays or, for nursery gifts, those even more apt occasions known as Nothing-in-particular Days. (Humpty-Dumpty, you remember, a recognised authority, used to call them un-birthdays.) Anyhow, if you should be looking about for something applicable to Kit or Ursula, you may take my word that you will find nothing better thanThe Dream Pedlar(Simpkin, Marshall). The letterpress—I beg your pardon, I should have said the "reading"—is by LadyMargaret Sackville, who has clearly a pretty taste in fairy matters, and the pictures are byFlorence Andersonin colour, andClara Shirley Haywardin black-and-white. I don't say that all these are of equal merit, but the best of them are delightful. Moreover, although in the modern sumptuous fashion the colour plates are introduced on brown-paper mounts, still they have the practical merit of being fixed, and not merely gummed at one corner, a fashion that simply results in litter for the nursery floor. The tales themselves are wholly charming, and about quite the right people, kings and woodcutters and dream-princesses and goblins. Perhaps now and again LadyMargaretfalls to the temptation of being a thought too clever with an aside, so to speak, whispered in the ear of the reader-aloud. But the wise child will forgive her this for the compelling charm of her simplicities. For me, if I had a favourite in the tales, it was perhapsMartin's godmother, "an attractive old lady, short, with large fan-like ears, which she would wave to and fro when amused." There is an enchanting picture of her doing it. I have not yet known the nursery where that picture would not soon bear the thumb-marks of popularity.

Not a single word could be conveniently omitted fromFriends and Memories(Arnold), but I could easily spare a great many of its notes of exclamation—nearly all superfluous—for MissMaude Valérie White'sstyle of writing needs no such advertisement. And having got rid of that grumble I feel at liberty to express, without restraint, my profound admiration of the book and its author. Never, then, has it been my good fortune to read so many pages that are filled with what I can only call the fragrance of life. Sorrows and troubles MissWhitehas known in abundance—one often sees her smiling through a veil of tears—but she steadfastly refuses to dwell upon anything but the joy of living, and the kindness of her many friends. This splendid way of regarding the world is one of the qualities that has made her welcome and more than welcome wherever she goes; it is also the quality that gives an almost unique distinction to her volume of reminiscences. One can scarcely think of her as an eminent composer whose songs have been heard throughout the world when the gift, which she obviously values most and would herself call "priceless," is that of being able to keep up a cheerful end whatever happens. Her book, therefore, is really both a tonic and a lesson, but it is a tonic that is as delightful as good champagne, and it is a lesson that is full of humour and of what is rarer than humour—good fun. Even in her reticences MissWhitecannot save herself from being amusing, for on her first page she refuses to tell us her age, though afterwards she gives it away time and again to anyone inquisitive enough to use a little arithmetic. But she need have no fears, for she has the spirit of youth which can laugh at figures and defy the passing years.

Must I believe that the life of anybody, even the hardest worked and least attractive village girl, is as devoid of exhilaration and good cheer as was that ofChrismas Hamlyn?Maybe dismal events happen now and then to individuals which make them wish, with reason, that they were dead and had never been alive, and I will admit that it was so withChrismasat the moment when her second lover proved to be entirely spurious and to have pretended passion in order to steal a purse. But I am asked to assume that, apart from and before this little tragedy, she was necessarily in a state of gloom by reason of the mere dulness and hardship of the existence of her sort. This is a proposition which, notwithstanding Mrs.Henry Dudeney'sskilful pleading, I am reluctant to accept. I prefer to think that the girl found recreation in everyday events, or at least in every other day events, of her neighbourhood which would make no appeal to Mrs.Dudeneyor myself; or, indeed, that the brooding over her unhappy lot in general, and her first love failure in particular, afforded some satisfaction for which credit has not been allowed. Undoubtedly the environment of theHamlynsis studied rather from our view than from their own, and by that method of analysis a vast amount of human misery may be discovered which does not always in fact exist. Apart from that,What a Woman Wants(Heinemann) is a convincing study of the sordid side of things; but I would like to see the admirable gifts of the authoress directed to the emphasizing of the merrier side of the same sort of life, so that we might compare the two and form a more balanced opinion.

The Bed-Book of Happinessis a "Colligation or Assemblage of Cheerful Writings," colligated by Mr.Harold Begbie, and published by Messrs.Hodder and Stoughton. It is a second edition, entitled the Red-Cross Edition, and it offers itself as an anodyne for the pain and boredom of wounded heroes. Said heroes, of average British pattern, would, I think, receive a nasty shock on reading the title and might be tempted to thrust the volume privily away without more ado. But they need do no such thing; it is nothing like so bad as that. On the contrary it is stuffed with most excellent matter for the perceptive, in doses not long enough to tire and with sufficient variety to stimulate. Old favourites fromHoodandCalverley; an odd Ingoldsby or two; whimsicality fromSamuel Butler; absurdities from that otherSamuel(Clemens); growls from that greatest of the tribe,Johnson; cheeriness from that best of poets and schoolmasters,T. E. Brown; a littleSterne, a littleDickens, a littleThackeray;Percy Anecdotesand snippets fromGronow; translated excerpts from those delightful allies,Daudet, Saint-Beuve, Anatole France; and so forth and on. Of course no two colligators of bed-books could agree upon their choice, but I do think Mr.Begbiemight have bagged a little from R. L. S. That omission and the deplorable title are my chief grievances. It is a sound point that there is no unwholesome invalidy tone about this seasonable re-issue with additions.

Though I enjoyedBroken Shackles(Methuen) in a mild degree, I hardly think that Mr.John Oxenhamhas here given us of his best. So little do I think this that I am the prey of a suspicion—probably quite unfounded—that the tale is either early work, or has been hastily put together since the beginning of August. Anyhow, it's about a young man namedde Valle, an officer in the Eastern Army of France, who is married but lives apart from his wife. The time is the winter of 1870, and when the great surrender comes, and the army is forced over into Switzerland,de Valleis so sick of military muddles that he determines to settle down as a Swiss civilian and never go back any more. This (fortune helping him) he is enabled to do. He changes his name toDuval, and starts the simpler life with some pleasant folk who run a saw-mill in the Brunnen Thal. He even goes so far as to marry the maid of the mill. Which was rash of him, since he was still legally tied to his French wife, and (in fiction at least) the course of bigamy never did run smooth. Inevitably, therefore, not only did he encounter his wife again, coming out of the casino at Interlaken (she too has not been idle, having meanwhile married a Russian Prince), but the villain of the story also saw them both, and looked to make a good thing by it. But you know how quick and deep the Aar runs at Interlaken?Duvalaccordingly pushed the inconvenient blackmailer into the water, and everyone, with this exception, lived happy. The real merit of the book lies not in this improbable plot, but in its moving chapters upon a little treated phase of the last Franco-German fighting. These are well done.

Many gentle readers will be well pleased to hear thatAgnesandEgerton Castleare giving them more news of that engaging heroine,Lady Kilcroney. True, in the new bookKittyherself plays but a subordinate part, but as her dainty mantle of insolence and charm appeals to have fallen on the shoulders of a worthy successor no one need grumble upon that score. The new book is calledThe Ways of Miss Barbara(Smith Elder), and I daresay that having said so much I might spare myself the pains of telling precisely what those ways were. Do you need to hear howMistress Barbara(who was a kind of eighteenth-centuryBecky Sharpwithout the sting) was befriended byLady Kittyand her susceptible lord? How the noble carriage was waylaid on its journey from Paris to the coast? How the highwayman was eventually brought to hook by the wiles ofBarbara, who in the long run marries a duke, and is left preparing for permanent prosperity? Whether this last expectation will be fulfilled without preliminary troubles I take leave to doubt. Indeed, the situation as regardsBarbaraand her ducal spouse is left so full of intriguing possibilities that I could not but suspect those clever campaigners, theEgerton Castles, of having artfully arranged it as a kind of concrete foundation from which to attack the public sympathy later on. This is as may be. Meanwhile here is a pleasantly sparkling comedy with which, I vow, you are like to find yourself vastly well pleased.

GERMAN SPY REPORTS TO HEADQUARTERS."Have visited Army and Navy Stores. Find British Forces being supplied with many useless articles calculated to embarrass their movements."

GERMAN SPY REPORTS TO HEADQUARTERS.

"Have visited Army and Navy Stores. Find British Forces being supplied with many useless articles calculated to embarrass their movements."

Transcriber's Note:Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation are as in the original.

Transcriber's Note:

Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation are as in the original.

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