I cannot fill the bounteous cupMunificently as of yoreBecause the water's going up(It didn't at Lodore);No longer now can I regaleThe canine stranger with a pailDrawn from my cistern's store.Let Samuel the sunflower die,Let Gerald the geranium fade,And all the other plants that IHave hitherto displayed;The virgin grass within my plotMay call for water—I will notPreserve a single blade.Henceforth let Claude the cactus dressMy garden beds, who bravely growsWithout a frequent S.O.S.To water-can and hose.I've cast these weapons to the voidAnd permanently unemployedIs Hildebrand the hose.Within the house by words and deedsI've run an Anti-Waste Campaign;On every tap the legend reads:"Teetotalers, abstain!"While on each bath and tub of mineI've drawn freehand aPlimsollline,Impressionist but plain.When upward mount my chops and cheeseI fain must bend beneath the blow;I have to pay the price for theseWhether I will or no.But here at least, by dint of thought,I feel that I can bring to naughtThe rise in H2O.You'll find that I shall keep in checkThe gross expense of water whenDomesticnettoyage á secRules my ancestral den.I, unlike Nature, don't abhorA "vacuum"—to clean the floor:In fact I've ordered ten.
I cannot fill the bounteous cupMunificently as of yoreBecause the water's going up(It didn't at Lodore);No longer now can I regaleThe canine stranger with a pailDrawn from my cistern's store.
I cannot fill the bounteous cup
Munificently as of yore
Because the water's going up
(It didn't at Lodore);
No longer now can I regale
The canine stranger with a pail
Drawn from my cistern's store.
Let Samuel the sunflower die,Let Gerald the geranium fade,And all the other plants that IHave hitherto displayed;The virgin grass within my plotMay call for water—I will notPreserve a single blade.
Let Samuel the sunflower die,
Let Gerald the geranium fade,
And all the other plants that I
Have hitherto displayed;
The virgin grass within my plot
May call for water—I will not
Preserve a single blade.
Henceforth let Claude the cactus dressMy garden beds, who bravely growsWithout a frequent S.O.S.To water-can and hose.I've cast these weapons to the voidAnd permanently unemployedIs Hildebrand the hose.
Henceforth let Claude the cactus dress
My garden beds, who bravely grows
Without a frequent S.O.S.
To water-can and hose.
I've cast these weapons to the void
And permanently unemployed
Is Hildebrand the hose.
Within the house by words and deedsI've run an Anti-Waste Campaign;On every tap the legend reads:"Teetotalers, abstain!"While on each bath and tub of mineI've drawn freehand aPlimsollline,Impressionist but plain.
Within the house by words and deeds
I've run an Anti-Waste Campaign;
On every tap the legend reads:
"Teetotalers, abstain!"
While on each bath and tub of mine
I've drawn freehand aPlimsollline,
Impressionist but plain.
When upward mount my chops and cheeseI fain must bend beneath the blow;I have to pay the price for theseWhether I will or no.But here at least, by dint of thought,I feel that I can bring to naughtThe rise in H2O.
When upward mount my chops and cheese
I fain must bend beneath the blow;
I have to pay the price for these
Whether I will or no.
But here at least, by dint of thought,
I feel that I can bring to naught
The rise in H2O.
You'll find that I shall keep in checkThe gross expense of water whenDomesticnettoyage á secRules my ancestral den.I, unlike Nature, don't abhorA "vacuum"—to clean the floor:In fact I've ordered ten.
You'll find that I shall keep in check
The gross expense of water when
Domesticnettoyage á sec
Rules my ancestral den.
I, unlike Nature, don't abhor
A "vacuum"—to clean the floor:
In fact I've ordered ten.
"At Bremen ... the crowd seized the stalls in the market, and sold the goods at prices between 100 and 200 per cent. lower than the prices demanded."—Provincial Paper.
"At Bremen ... the crowd seized the stalls in the market, and sold the goods at prices between 100 and 200 per cent. lower than the prices demanded."
—Provincial Paper.
The correspondent who sends us the above cutting demands similar reductions in English markets in order that he may live within his income ofminustwo pounds a week.
INCORRIGIBLES.INCORRIGIBLES."Excuse me, Sir—I'm down here for a rest cure, and not allowed to look at a newspaper. Perhaps you wouldn't mind telling me what Kaffirs stood at yesterday?""Sorry I can't oblige you. I've sworn off newspapers myself. This isThe Shrimpton Courierfor February 12 that my landlady wrapped my sandwiches in."
"Excuse me, Sir—I'm down here for a rest cure, and not allowed to look at a newspaper. Perhaps you wouldn't mind telling me what Kaffirs stood at yesterday?"
"Sorry I can't oblige you. I've sworn off newspapers myself. This isThe Shrimpton Courierfor February 12 that my landlady wrapped my sandwiches in."
Six months ago Maurice Gillstone's flat was the home of unrest. Maurice was one of those authors who tire of their creations before completion. He would get an idea, begin to write and then turn to some other theme.
It made the domestic atmosphere difficult. You would go to call on the Gillstones and find them plunged in despair. Maurice would gaze at you with a wild unseeing eye, pass his hand through his dishevelled hair, mutter "The inspiration has left me," and fling himself into a chair and groan. Mrs. Maurice would burst into tears.
The flat was strewn with fragments of manuscripts. Plays, novels, poems (none finished) littered the rooms in profusion; a brilliant but isolated Scene I., stray opening chapters of novels, detached prologues of mighty epics.
"His beginnings are wonderful," Mrs. Maurice would wail between her sobs; "keen critics and men of the most delicate literary taste rave over them; but if he can't finish them, what's the use?"
It was very sad.
Then John Edmund Drall, the inventor of the non-alcoholic beverage which is now a household word and an old friend of the Gillstones, came along and tried to cure Maurice of his literary defect by the sort of ruse one would employ on a jibbing horse. He sent Maurice a bottle of his Lemonbeer and asked him to write an appreciation of that noxious fluid.
"I have asked Maurice," Drall confided to me, "to scribble a testimonial to Lemonbeer. It will kind of break the spell, and it wouldn't be Maurice if he didn't turn out a perfect gem of literary composition. I know my Lemonbeer is really good and I know that Maurice is extremely appreciative. Maurice is under a spell. It must be broken. If he can write a complete testimonial he will easily finish all those beginnings of his." The idea seemed sound.
Well, Maurice drank the Lemonbeer and, in spite of an increasing tendency to swoon, did begin to write a gem of a testimonial. He had, however, written but the first four words of it when he fainted. These words were "Lemonbeer is the best...."
Maurice would do anything for a friend, and, as I say, had actually written "Lemonbeer is the best ..." after drinking a whole bottle of it.
It was Drall's advertisement manager who said that in point of selling power this testimonial was unsurpassed. "The finished completeness of the composition," he said, "shows sheer genius. Just four words. A word added or subtracted would ruin it."
When Maurice came to and learnt how brilliant he had been he simply put on his hat and walked round to a Film Agency to say that he was prepared to write—and complete—any number of masterpieces. Since that day he has never looked back.
"Antique Silver.Mr. —— invites all interested to inspect his fine stock which he can offer just new at exceptionally low prices."—Daily Paper.
"Antique Silver.
Mr. —— invites all interested to inspect his fine stock which he can offer just new at exceptionally low prices."
—Daily Paper.
Oh, that will do splendidly. It's a very old goat.Peggy. "Please, Miss Judkin, Mummy says will you kindly let her have a little brandy for our goat? It's very ill and Mummy is afraid it's dying."Miss Judkin. "Tell your mother I'm very sorry, but the only brandy I've got is very old."Peggy. "Oh, that will do splendidly. It's a very old goat."
Peggy. "Please, Miss Judkin, Mummy says will you kindly let her have a little brandy for our goat? It's very ill and Mummy is afraid it's dying."
Miss Judkin. "Tell your mother I'm very sorry, but the only brandy I've got is very old."
Peggy. "Oh, that will do splendidly. It's a very old goat."
Look up, my child, the sirens whoopShrill invitations to the Fair,The yellow swing-boats soar and swoop,The Gavioli organs blare;Bull-throated show-men, bracken-brown,Compete to shout each other down.Behold the booths of gingerbread,Of nougat and of peppermints,The stall of toys where overheadBalloons of gay translucent tintsFloat on the breeze and drift and sway;Fruit of a fairy vine are they.Within this green fantastic grotBright-coloured balls are danced and spunOn jets ("'Ere, lovey, 'ave a shot");A gipsy lady tends a gun,A very rose of gipsy girls,With earrings glinting in her curls.Will marvels cease? This humble boothEnshrines a dame of royal birth,Princess Badrubidure, forsooth,The fattest princess on the earth;Come, we will stand where kings have stood,And you shall pinch her if you're good.The brasses gleam, the mirrors flash,How splendid is the Round-About!The organ brays, the cymbals clash,The spotted horses bound aboutTheir whirling platform, full of beans,And country girls ride by like queens.Professor Battling Bendigo(Ex ten-stone champion of the West)Parades the stage before his showAnd swells his biceps and his chest;"Is England's manhood dead and gone?"He asks; "Won't no one take me on?"A big drum booms, revolvers crack;Who is this hero that appears,A velvet tunic on his back,His whiskers curling round his ears?'Tis he who drew the jungle's sting,Diabolo, the Lion King.Within are birds beyond beliefAnd creatures colourful and quaint:Lean dingoes weighed with secret griefAnd monkey humourists who ain't;Bears, camels, pards—Look up, my dear,The wonders of the world are here!
Look up, my child, the sirens whoopShrill invitations to the Fair,The yellow swing-boats soar and swoop,The Gavioli organs blare;Bull-throated show-men, bracken-brown,Compete to shout each other down.
Look up, my child, the sirens whoop
Shrill invitations to the Fair,
The yellow swing-boats soar and swoop,
The Gavioli organs blare;
Bull-throated show-men, bracken-brown,
Compete to shout each other down.
Behold the booths of gingerbread,Of nougat and of peppermints,The stall of toys where overheadBalloons of gay translucent tintsFloat on the breeze and drift and sway;Fruit of a fairy vine are they.
Behold the booths of gingerbread,
Of nougat and of peppermints,
The stall of toys where overhead
Balloons of gay translucent tints
Float on the breeze and drift and sway;
Fruit of a fairy vine are they.
Within this green fantastic grotBright-coloured balls are danced and spunOn jets ("'Ere, lovey, 'ave a shot");A gipsy lady tends a gun,A very rose of gipsy girls,With earrings glinting in her curls.
Within this green fantastic grot
Bright-coloured balls are danced and spun
On jets ("'Ere, lovey, 'ave a shot");
A gipsy lady tends a gun,
A very rose of gipsy girls,
With earrings glinting in her curls.
Will marvels cease? This humble boothEnshrines a dame of royal birth,Princess Badrubidure, forsooth,The fattest princess on the earth;Come, we will stand where kings have stood,And you shall pinch her if you're good.
Will marvels cease? This humble booth
Enshrines a dame of royal birth,
Princess Badrubidure, forsooth,
The fattest princess on the earth;
Come, we will stand where kings have stood,
And you shall pinch her if you're good.
The brasses gleam, the mirrors flash,How splendid is the Round-About!The organ brays, the cymbals clash,The spotted horses bound aboutTheir whirling platform, full of beans,And country girls ride by like queens.
The brasses gleam, the mirrors flash,
How splendid is the Round-About!
The organ brays, the cymbals clash,
The spotted horses bound about
Their whirling platform, full of beans,
And country girls ride by like queens.
Professor Battling Bendigo(Ex ten-stone champion of the West)Parades the stage before his showAnd swells his biceps and his chest;"Is England's manhood dead and gone?"He asks; "Won't no one take me on?"
Professor Battling Bendigo
(Ex ten-stone champion of the West)
Parades the stage before his show
And swells his biceps and his chest;
"Is England's manhood dead and gone?"
He asks; "Won't no one take me on?"
A big drum booms, revolvers crack;Who is this hero that appears,A velvet tunic on his back,His whiskers curling round his ears?'Tis he who drew the jungle's sting,Diabolo, the Lion King.
A big drum booms, revolvers crack;
Who is this hero that appears,
A velvet tunic on his back,
His whiskers curling round his ears?
'Tis he who drew the jungle's sting,
Diabolo, the Lion King.
Within are birds beyond beliefAnd creatures colourful and quaint:Lean dingoes weighed with secret griefAnd monkey humourists who ain't;Bears, camels, pards—Look up, my dear,The wonders of the world are here!
Within are birds beyond belief
And creatures colourful and quaint:
Lean dingoes weighed with secret grief
And monkey humourists who ain't;
Bears, camels, pards—Look up, my dear,
The wonders of the world are here!
Patlander.
Patlander.
Patlander.
Ink in Nurses' Pens Froze when Taking Men's Temperature."—Canadian Paper.
Ink in Nurses' Pens Froze when Taking Men's Temperature."
—Canadian Paper.
Personally, we prefer having ours taken with a thermometer.
—At Thursday's petty session Emile —— was paid £1 for having no near side light on his motor car."—Local Paper.
—At Thursday's petty session Emile —— was paid £1 for having no near side light on his motor car."
—Local Paper.
But ought foreign offenders to be favoured in this way?
"Richmond camp is a scene of bustling activity from sunrise to reveille, or 'Taps' as the Americans term it."—Evening Paper.
"Richmond camp is a scene of bustling activity from sunrise to reveille, or 'Taps' as the Americans term it."
—Evening Paper.
And after that the boy scouts would appear to have had a nice long day to themselves.
IF WINSTON SET THE FASHIONIF WINSTON SET THE FASHION—Premier(entering Cabinet Council Room). "WHAT—NOBODY HERE?"Butler. "YOU FORGET, SIR. THIS IS PRESS DAY. THE GENTLEMEN ARE ALL FINISHING THEIR NEWSPAPER ARTICLES."
Premier(entering Cabinet Council Room). "WHAT—NOBODY HERE?"
Butler. "YOU FORGET, SIR. THIS IS PRESS DAY. THE GENTLEMEN ARE ALL FINISHING THEIR NEWSPAPER ARTICLES."
A LONG PARTNERSHIP.A LONG PARTNERSHIP.Capt. Wedgwood Benn(to Mr. Asquith). "Isn't it about time you took the gloves off and had a go at 'em yourself?"Top Row(reading from left to right).—Mr.G. R. Thorne, Mr.Devlin, SirDonald Maclean, Mr.Clynes, Gen.Seely, Col.Wedgwood.Middle Row.—TheSpeaker, Lieut.-CommanderKenworthy, Mr.Bonar Law, Mr.Lloyd George, Mr.Asquith, Capt.Wedgwood Benn.Bottom Row.—Mr.George Lambert, Mr.Whitley(Chairman of Committees).
Capt. Wedgwood Benn(to Mr. Asquith). "Isn't it about time you took the gloves off and had a go at 'em yourself?"
Top Row(reading from left to right).—Mr.G. R. Thorne, Mr.Devlin, SirDonald Maclean, Mr.Clynes, Gen.Seely, Col.Wedgwood.
Middle Row.—TheSpeaker, Lieut.-CommanderKenworthy, Mr.Bonar Law, Mr.Lloyd George, Mr.Asquith, Capt.Wedgwood Benn.
Bottom Row.—Mr.George Lambert, Mr.Whitley(Chairman of Committees).
Monday, August 2nd.—The rain that drenched the Bank-holiday-makers had its counterpart inside the House of Commons in the shower of Questions arising out of Mr.Churchill'sarticle on the Polish crisis in an evening newspaper. Members of various parties sought to know whether, when theWar Secretarysaid that peace with Soviet Russia was only another form of war and apparently invited the co-operation of the German militarists to fight the Bolshevists, he was expressing the views of the Government; and if not, what had become of the doctrine of collective responsibility?
ThePrime Ministermanfully tried to shield his colleague from the storm, but the effort took all his strength and ingenuity, and more than once it seemed as if an unusually violent blast would blow his umbrella inside out. His principal points were that the article did not mean what it appeared to say; that if it did it was not so much an expression of policy as of a "hankering"—("Hankering. An uneasy craving to possess or enjoy something"—Dictionary); that he could not control his colleagues' desires or their expression, even in a newspaper hostile to the Government, so long as they were consistent with the policy of the Government; and that he was not aware of anything in this particular article that "cut across any declaration of policy by His Majesty's Government."
This does not sound very convincing perhaps, but it was sufficient to satisfy Members, whose chief anxiety is to get off as soon as possible to the country, and who voted down by 134 to 32 an attempt to move the adjournment.
TheChief Secretaryformally introduced a Bill "to make provision for the restoration and maintenance of order in Ireland." Earlier in the sitting thePrime Ministerhad declined Mr.De Valera'salleged offer to accept a republic on the Cuban pattern, and had reiterated his intention to pass the Home Rule Bill after the Recess.
Mr.T. P. O'Connoris a declared opponent of both these measures, but that did not prevent him from contrasting the lightning speed of the House when passing coercion for Ireland with its snail-like pace when approaching conciliation. In fifty years it had not given justice to Ireland; it was to be asked to give injustice to Ireland in fewer hours.
Tuesday, August 3rd.—That genial optimist LordPeelcommended the Ministry of Mines Bill as being calculated to restore harmony and goodwill among masters and men. According to LordGainfordthe best way to secure this result is to hand back the control of the mines to their owners, between whom and the employés, he declared, cordial relations had existed in the past. Still, the owners would work the Bill for what it was worth, and hoped the miners would do the same. LordHaldanesaid that was just what the miners had announced their intention of not doing unless they were given a great deal more power than the Bill proposed. But this lack of enthusiasm in no way damped LordPeel'sardour. Indeed he observed that he had "never introduced a Bill that was received with any sort of enthusiasm." Mollified by this engaging candour the Peers gave the Bill a Second Reading.
I am glad to record another example of Government economy. To Mr.Gilbert, who desired that more sandpits should be provided in the London parks for the delectation of town-tied children, SirAlfred Mondreluctantly but sternly replied that "in view of theconsiderable expenditure involved" he did not feel justified in adding to the existing number of three.
Dumps suggest dolefulness, but the debate on the action of the Disposals Board in disposing of the accumulations at Slough, St. Omer and elsewhere was decidedly lively. Mr.Hopeled off by attacking the recent report of the Committee on National Expenditure, and declared that its Chairman, though a paragon of truth, was not necessarily a mirror of accuracy. The Chairman himself (SirF. Banbury), seated for the nonce upon the Opposition Bench, replied with appropriate vigour in a speech which caused SirGordon Hewartto remark that the passion for censoriousness was not a real virtue, but which greatly pleased the Labour Party, in acknowledging whose compliments SirFrederickseverely strained the brim of his tall hat.
After these star-turns the "walking gentlemen" had their chance. Sixteen times were they called upon to parade the Division Lobbies by an Opposition which on one occasion registered no fewer than fifty-three votes.
Wednesday, August 4th.—One of the few Irish institutions which all Irishmen unite in praising is the mail service between Kingstown and Holyhead. Even the Sinn Feiners would think twice before cutting this link between England and Ireland. Yet, according to LordOranmore and Browne, the British Post Office has actually given notice to terminate the contract. He was assured, however, by LordCrawfordthat tenders for a new contract would shortly be invited and that, whoever secured it, the efficiency of the service would be maintained.
It was nearly eight o'clock before the Ministry of Mines came on. LordSalisburythought it would be improper to consider so important a measure after dinner; LordCrawfordthought it would be still more improper to suggest that the Peers would not be in a condition to transact business after that meal. He carried his point, but at the expense of the Bill, for LordSalisbury, returning like a giant refreshed, induced their Lordships to transform the Minister of Mines into a mere Under-Secretary of the Board of Trade, thus defeating, according to LordPeel, the principal purpose of the measure.
It was another day of rather small beer in the Commons. There were, however, one or twodictaof note. Thus SirBertram Falk, who was concerned because Naval officers received no special marriage allowance, was specifically assured by SirJames Craigthat the Admiralty will not prevent men from marrying. I understood, however, that it will not recognise a wife in every port.
Thursday, August 5th.—With lofty disregard of a hundred-and-twenty years of history the Duke ofNorthumberlandinformed the Peers that the present state of Ireland was due to Bolshevism. Having diagnosed the disease so clearly he ought to have been ready with a remedy, but could suggest nothing more practical than the holding of mass meetings to organise British public opinion.
Meanwhile the Commons were engaged in rushing through with the aid of the "guillotine" a Bill for the restoration of order in the distressful country. Mr.Bonar Law, usually so accurate, fell into an ancient trap, and declared that the Sinn Fein leaders had "raised aFrankensteinthat they cannot control."
SirHamar Greenwoodmade as good a defence of the Bill as was possible in the circumstances. But neither he nor anybody else could say how courts-martial, which are "to act on the ordinary rules of evidence," will be successful in bringing criminals to justice if witnesses refuse to come forward.
Mr.T. P. O'Connorre-delivered the anti-coercion speech which he has been making off and on for the last forty years. Mr.Devlinwas a little more up-to-date, for he introduced a reference to the Belfast riots and drew from theChief Secretaryan assurance that the Bill would be as applicable to Ulster as to the rest of Ireland.
Mr.Asquithdenounced the Bill with unusual animation, and was sure that it would do more harm than good. Cromwellian treatment needed aCromwell, but he did not see one on the Treasury Bench. "Cromwellyourself!" retorted thePrime Minister. The only unofficial supporter of the Bill, and even he "no great admirer," was LordHugh Cecil; but nevertheless the Second Reading was carried by 289 to 71.
The House afterwards gave a Second Reading to the Census (Ireland) Bill, on the principle, as CaptainElliottcaustically observed, that if you can't do anything with the people of Ireland you might at least find out how many of them there are.
Friday, August 6th.—The remaining stages of the Coercion Bill were passed under the "guillotine." Mr.Devlindeclared that this was not "cricket," and refused to play any longer; but it is only fair to say that he had not then seen our artist's picture.
... but when I looked at the blessed book I found it was last year's."An' when I told 'im in the orfice that me money wasn't right, he says, ''Ere 's a ready reckoner—work it out yerself;' an' believe me or believe me not, but when I looked at the blessed book I found it was last year's."
"An' when I told 'im in the orfice that me money wasn't right, he says, ''Ere 's a ready reckoner—work it out yerself;' an' believe me or believe me not, but when I looked at the blessed book I found it was last year's."
"At this stage the Chairman withdrew complaining of a head-ache without nominating a successor, darkness set in and there were no lights. Along with the Chairman some forty people also left in a body. What happened afterwards is not clear."Indian Paper.
"At this stage the Chairman withdrew complaining of a head-ache without nominating a successor, darkness set in and there were no lights. Along with the Chairman some forty people also left in a body. What happened afterwards is not clear."
Indian Paper.
We don't wonder the reporter was baffled.
Dear Mr. Punch.—Rethe authorship ofShakspeare'splays, may I quote fromTwelfth Night, Act I., Scene V.? Thank you.
"'Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and whiteNature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on."
"'Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and whiteNature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on."
"'Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and white
Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on."
This is unquestionably bacon.
We plough the fields and scatter ...The Vicar(in a gallant attempt to cover his opponent's eloquence)sings. "We plough the fields and scatter—"
The Vicar(in a gallant attempt to cover his opponent's eloquence)sings. "We plough the fields and scatter—"
The following road information is compiled from reports received by the Charabanc Defence Association:—
The Lushborough road is good and free from obstruction as far as Great Boundingley, but from Chatback to Wrothley the conditions are unfavourable. The bridge one mile south of the former place has been occupied by a strong force of unfriendly natives, and several cases of tarring have been reported. There is, however, an alternative routeviâBoozeley, but great caution is advised in passing through Wrothley, passengers being recommended to provide themselves with a good supply of loose metal before entering the village, where most of the houses are protected with iron shutters. Helmets should not be removed before reaching Cadbridge, where there is no danger of retaliation.
Bottles may be discharged freely all along the Muckley road as far as Ruddiham, but caution is needed at Bashfield Corner, from which a small band of snipers has not yet been dislodged, though their ammunition is running short. Passengers should be prepared to use all the resources of their vocabulary at Bargingham, where the inhabitants enjoy a well-deserved repute for their command of picturesque invective. It would be humiliating to the whole charabanc confraternity if they were to yield their pre-eminence in this branch of education to a small rural community.
Thanks to the vigilance of the well-armed patrols of the Charabanc Defence Association the main roads in East Anglia are almost clear of the enemy. Caution must still be observed in passing through Garningham at night. One of the hardiest "charabankers" was recently prostrated in that village by a well-aimed epithet from the oldest inhabitant. A writer in a Norwich paper recently described the area within ten miles of Whelksham as "a paradise for baboon-faced Yahooligans." But these futile ebullitions of malice are powerless to check the triumphal progress of the charabanc in the Eastern Counties.
But no route at present offers more favourable or exhilarating opportunities to the high-minded excursionist than the main Gath road from Scrapston to Kinlarry. Excellent sport is afforded just outside Stillminster, where Sir John Goodfellow's greenhouses are within easy bottle-throw of the road and furnish a splendid target. On the whole, however, it is thought advisable to abstain from saluting the neighbouring hospital for shell-shock patients with a salvo of megaphones, local opinion being adverse to such manifestations.
The Ealing trains run frequently,The Ealing trains run fast;I stand at Gloucester Road and seeA many hurtling past;They go to Acton, Turnham Green,And stations I have never seen,Simply because my lot has beenIn other places cast.The folk on Ealing trains who rideThey, pitying, bestowOn me a look instinct with pride;But I would have them knowThat, while on Wimbledonian plainsMy humble domicile remains,I have no use for Ealing trains,Though still they come and go.
The Ealing trains run frequently,The Ealing trains run fast;I stand at Gloucester Road and seeA many hurtling past;They go to Acton, Turnham Green,And stations I have never seen,Simply because my lot has beenIn other places cast.
The Ealing trains run frequently,
The Ealing trains run fast;
I stand at Gloucester Road and see
A many hurtling past;
They go to Acton, Turnham Green,
And stations I have never seen,
Simply because my lot has been
In other places cast.
The folk on Ealing trains who rideThey, pitying, bestowOn me a look instinct with pride;But I would have them knowThat, while on Wimbledonian plainsMy humble domicile remains,I have no use for Ealing trains,Though still they come and go.
The folk on Ealing trains who ride
They, pitying, bestow
On me a look instinct with pride;
But I would have them know
That, while on Wimbledonian plains
My humble domicile remains,
I have no use for Ealing trains,
Though still they come and go.
Conversation of the moment in a City restaurant:—
Regular Customer(looking down menu). "Waiter, why is cottage pie never on now?"
Waiter. "Well, Sir, since this 'ere shortage of 'ouses we ain't allowed to make 'em any more."
I am no skilful vocalist;I can't control mymezza gola;I have but an indifferent fist(Or foot) upon the Pianola.But there are instruments, I own,That fire me with a fond ambitionTo master for their names aloneApart from their august tradition.They are the Fipple-Flute, a wordSuggestive of seraphic screeches;The Poliphant comes next, and thirdThe Humstrum—aren't they perfect peaches?About their tone I cannot sayMuch that would carry clear conviction,For, till I read of them to-day,I knew them not in fact or fiction.As yet I am, alas! withoutInstruction in the art of fippling,Though something may be found aboutIt in the works ofLearorKipling.And possibly I may unearthInLeckyor inLaurence OliphantSome facts to remedy my dearthOf knowledge bearing on the Poliphant.But, now their pictures I have seenInGalpin'slearned dissertation,So far as in me lies I meanTo bring about their restoration.Yet since I cannot learn all threeAnd time is ever onward humming,My few remaining years shall beDevoted wholly to humstrumming.That, when my bones to rest are laid,Upon my tomb it may be written:"He was the very last who playedUpon the Humstrum in Great Britain."
I am no skilful vocalist;I can't control mymezza gola;I have but an indifferent fist(Or foot) upon the Pianola.
I am no skilful vocalist;
I can't control mymezza gola;
I have but an indifferent fist
(Or foot) upon the Pianola.
But there are instruments, I own,That fire me with a fond ambitionTo master for their names aloneApart from their august tradition.
But there are instruments, I own,
That fire me with a fond ambition
To master for their names alone
Apart from their august tradition.
They are the Fipple-Flute, a wordSuggestive of seraphic screeches;The Poliphant comes next, and thirdThe Humstrum—aren't they perfect peaches?
They are the Fipple-Flute, a word
Suggestive of seraphic screeches;
The Poliphant comes next, and third
The Humstrum—aren't they perfect peaches?
About their tone I cannot sayMuch that would carry clear conviction,For, till I read of them to-day,I knew them not in fact or fiction.
About their tone I cannot say
Much that would carry clear conviction,
For, till I read of them to-day,
I knew them not in fact or fiction.
As yet I am, alas! withoutInstruction in the art of fippling,Though something may be found aboutIt in the works ofLearorKipling.
As yet I am, alas! without
Instruction in the art of fippling,
Though something may be found about
It in the works ofLearorKipling.
And possibly I may unearthInLeckyor inLaurence OliphantSome facts to remedy my dearthOf knowledge bearing on the Poliphant.
And possibly I may unearth
InLeckyor inLaurence Oliphant
Some facts to remedy my dearth
Of knowledge bearing on the Poliphant.
But, now their pictures I have seenInGalpin'slearned dissertation,So far as in me lies I meanTo bring about their restoration.
But, now their pictures I have seen
InGalpin'slearned dissertation,
So far as in me lies I mean
To bring about their restoration.
Yet since I cannot learn all threeAnd time is ever onward humming,My few remaining years shall beDevoted wholly to humstrumming.
Yet since I cannot learn all three
And time is ever onward humming,
My few remaining years shall be
Devoted wholly to humstrumming.
That, when my bones to rest are laid,Upon my tomb it may be written:"He was the very last who playedUpon the Humstrum in Great Britain."
That, when my bones to rest are laid,
Upon my tomb it may be written:
"He was the very last who played
Upon the Humstrum in Great Britain."
Lately we had occasion to consider the place of the grasshopper in modern politics. Now let us consider the place of the spider in our social life.
It seems to me that the spider is the most accomplished and in some ways the most sensible insect we have in these parts. In my opinion a great deal too much fuss has been made about the bee. She is a knowing little thing, but the spider is her superior in many ways. Yet no one seems to write books or educational rhymes about the spider. It is really a striking example of the well-known hypocrisy and materialism of the British race. The bee is held up to the young as a model of industry and domestic virtue—and why? Simply because she manufactures food which we happen to like. The spider is held up to the young as the type of rapacity, malice and cruelty, on the sole ground that he catches flies, though we do not pretend that we are fond of flies, and conveniently ignore the fact that, if the spider did not swat that fly, we should probably swat it ourselves.
The real charge against the spider is that he doesn't make any food for us. As for the virtue and nobility of the bee, I don't see it. The only way in which she is able to accumulate all that honey at all is by massacring the unfortunate males by the thousand as soon as she conveniently can, a piece of Prussianism which may be justified on purely material grounds, but is scarcely consistent with her high reputation for morality and lovingkindness. If it could be shown that the bee consciously collected all that honey with the idea that we should annex it there might be something to be said for her on moral grounds; but nobody pretends that. Now look at the spider. We are told that as a commercial product spider-silk has been found to be equal if not superior to the best silk spun by the Lepidopterous larvæ, with whom, of course, you are familiar. "But the cannibalistic propensities of spiders, making it impossible to keep more than one in a single receptacle ... have hitherto prevented the silk being used ... for textile fabrics." So that it comes to this: if spiders are useless because they eat each other, the bees do much the same thing (only wholesale), but it makes them commercially useful. The bee therefore we place upon a pinnacle of respectability, but the spider we despise. Faugh! the hypocrisy of it makes me sick. My children will be taught to venerate the spider and despise the bee.
For, putting aside the question of moral values, look what the spider can do. What is there in the clammy, not to say messy, honey-comb to be compared with the delicate fabric of the spider's web? Indeed, should we ever have given a single thought to the honey-comb if it had had no honey in it? Do we become lyrical about the wasp's comb? We do not. It is a case where greed and materialism have warped our artistic perceptions. The spider can lower itself from the drawing-room ceiling to the floor by a silken thread produced out of itself. Still more marvellous, he can climb up the same thread to the ceiling when he is bored, winding up the thread inside him as he goes, and so making pursuit impossible. What can the bee do to equal that? And how is it done? We don't even know.The Encyclopædia Britannicadoesn't know; or if it does it doesn't let on. But the whole tedious routine of the bee's domestic pottering day is an open book to us. Ask yourself, which would you rather do, be able to collect honey and put it in a suitable receptacle, or be able to let yourself down from the top floor to the basement by a silken rope produced out of your tummy, and then climb up it again when you want to go upstairs, just winding up the rope inside you? I think you will agree that the spider has it. It is hard enough, goodness knows, to wind up an ordinary ball of string so that it will go into the string-box properly. What one would do if one had to put it in one's bread-box I can't think. When my children grow up, instead of learning
"How doth the little busy bee ..."
"How doth the little busy bee ..."
"How doth the little busy bee ..."
they will learn—
How doth the jolly little spiderWind up such miles of silk inside her,When it is clear that spiders' tummiesAre not so big as mine or Mummy's?The explanation seems to be,They do not eat so much as me.
How doth the jolly little spiderWind up such miles of silk inside her,When it is clear that spiders' tummiesAre not so big as mine or Mummy's?The explanation seems to be,They do not eat so much as me.
How doth the jolly little spider
Wind up such miles of silk inside her,
When it is clear that spiders' tummies
Are not so big as mine or Mummy's?
The explanation seems to be,
They do not eat so much as me.
That will point the moral of moderation in eating, you see. There will be a lot more verses, I expect; I can seecramanddiaphragmand possiblyjamcoming very soon. But we must get on.
The spider is like the bee in this respect, that the male seems to have a most rotten time. For one thing he is nearly always about two sizes smaller than the female. Owing to that and to whatThe Encyclopædia Britannicahumorously describes as "the greater voracity" of the female (there is a lot of quiet fun inThe Encyclopædia Britannica), he is a very brave spider who makes a proposal of marriage. "He makes his advances to his mate at the risk of his life and is not infrequently killed and eaten by her before or after" they are engaged ("before or after" is good). "Fully aware of the danger he pays his addresses with extreme caution, frequently waiting for hours in her vicinity before venturing to come to close quarters. Males of theArgyopidæhang on the outskirts of the webs of the females and signal their presence to her by jerking the radial threads in a peculiar manner." This is, of course, the origin of the quaint modern custom by which the young man rings the bell before attempting to enter the web of his beloved in Grosvenor Square. Contemporary novelists have even placed on record cases in which the male has "waited for hours in her vicinity before venturing to come to close quarters;" but too much attention must not be paid to these imaginative accounts. If I have said enough to secure that in future alittle more kindliness and respect will be shown to the spider in the nurseries of this great Empire, and a little less of it wasted on the bee, I have not misspent my time.
But I shall not be content. Can we not go further? Can we not get a little more of the simplicity of spider life into this hectic world of ours? In these latitudes the spider lives only for a single season. "The young emerge from the cocoon in the early spring, grow through the summer and reach maturity in the early autumn.The sexes then pair and perishsoon after the female has constructed her cocoon." How delicious! No winter; no bother about coal; no worry about the children's education; just one glorious summer of sport, one wild summer of fly-catching and midge-eating, a romantic, not to say dangerous wooing, a quiet wedding in the autumn, dump the family in some nice unfurnished cocoon—and perish. Is there nothing to be said for that? How different from the miserable bee, which just goes on and on, worrying about posterity, working and working, fussing about....
Yet all our lives are modelled on the bee's.
A. P. H.
Mr. Meere."You'll really have to be more careful, dear, how you speak to the cook or she'll be leaving us."Mrs. M."Perhaps I was rather severe."Mr. M."Severe! Why, anyone would have thought you were talking to me."
Mr. Meere."You'll really have to be more careful, dear, how you speak to the cook or she'll be leaving us."
Mrs. M."Perhaps I was rather severe."
Mr. M."Severe! Why, anyone would have thought you were talking to me."
Why should not some of the other people, who also enjoy life, have their movements recorded too? Like this:—
During Mr. William Sikes' visit to the Devonshire moors Mrs. Sikes will remain in town.
Mr. and Mrs. James Harris have arrived in London from Southend.
Miss Levi, Miss Hirsch and Master Isaacson are among the guests at Victoria Park, where some highly successful children's parties have been given.
Epping is much in favour just now, and a large number of (public) house-parties have been arranged. Among those entertaining this week are Mr. Henry Higgins, Mr. Robert Atkins and Mr. John Smith.
Mr. Henry Hawkins, Mrs. Hawkins, Mr. Henry Hawkins, junior, and Miss Hawkins left town on August 2nd for Hampstead Heath, for a day's riding and shooting. A large bag of nuts was obtained. Mr. Hawkins has not yet returned.
"LITTLE PROGRESS MADE.KING STILL DEFIANT."Daily Paper.
Daily Paper.
Oh, dear! Another complication!Who is the monarch? Which the nation?We breathe again. The Leicester pro.Kept up his end four hours or so.
Oh, dear! Another complication!Who is the monarch? Which the nation?We breathe again. The Leicester pro.Kept up his end four hours or so.
Oh, dear! Another complication!
Who is the monarch? Which the nation?
We breathe again. The Leicester pro.
Kept up his end four hours or so.
"Another of the big round landlords of London is selling his estate.Sir Joseph Doughty Tichborne is selling his Doughty Estate of 14 acres."—Evening Paper.
"Another of the big round landlords of London is selling his estate.
Sir Joseph Doughty Tichborne is selling his Doughty Estate of 14 acres."
—Evening Paper.
It recalls the famous case. "The Claimant" would certainly have made "a big round landlord."
"Here then is a new development of serious local journalism. Just an unpretentious but exceedingly well-printed village sheet, breathing local atmosphere, emitting nothing that can possibly interest the natives."Local Paper.
"Here then is a new development of serious local journalism. Just an unpretentious but exceedingly well-printed village sheet, breathing local atmosphere, emitting nothing that can possibly interest the natives."
Local Paper.
But we seem to have seen journals like this before.
From a Dutch bulb-grower's catalogue:—
"Nothing but Inferior quality being sent out from my Nurseries. My terms are Cash with order only."
"Nothing but Inferior quality being sent out from my Nurseries. My terms are Cash with order only."
In matters of commerce this Dutchman appears to be maintaining his country's reputation.
It began as quite an ordinary day. I read my paper at breakfast and Kathleen poured out the coffee. She wore that little frown between her eyebrows that means that she is thinking out the menu for lunch and dinner and hoping that Nurse hasn't burnt Baby's porridge again. This is married life.
Then I started in a hurry for the office, hurling a "Good-bye, dear" through the open window as I passed. The 9.15 leaves little time for affection. That too is married life.
It was the sweetbriar hedge that made me decide to miss the 9.15. It clutched hold of me suddenly and told me that the sky was very blue and the woods very green, and that the office was an absurd thing on such a day.
I went slowly back home round the outside of the garden wall. Someone was singing in the garden. I stopped and whistled a tune. A face appeared over the wall—rather an attractive face.
"Hello!" it said; "someone I knew a long time ago used to whistle that tune outside my garden."
"Hello!" I said; "come out for a walk?"
"I can't come out at the bidding of young men on the highway. It isn't done."
"Never mind. Come out."
"Have I ever been introduced to you?"
"Introductions went out years ago. Come by the side gate."
She came. She held a shady hat in her hand and walked on tip-toe.
"Sh!" she cautioned; "no one must see me. I have a reputation, you know. I don't want the Vicar to denounce me from the pulpit on Sunday in front of Baby."
"I will be quite frank with you," she went on, holding out her left hand with a dramatic flourish; "I am married—I have a husband."
I gave a hollow groan; then, with a manly effort, I mastered my emotion.
"I hope he's nice to you," I said.
"No, he isn't. He grouches off to the office in the morning and grouches back in the evening and reads newspapers. He's just grouched off now."
"The callous brute!" I hissed through my teeth.
"There's worse than that," she said darkly.
"No!"
"Yes. To-day, to-day is an anniversary, and he forgot it." The manner was that ofMadame Bernhardt.
"Anniversaries," I said reassuringly, "are difficult to remember. They accumulate so."
"Are you defending him?" she protested.
"Er—no," I said hastily. "The man's an unmitigated scoundrel. He ought to be divorced or something. What anniversary was it?"
"Our wedding-day," she said with a sob in the voice.
"Heavens!" I said. "Oh, the dastardly ruffian!"
"Youwouldn't forget your wedding-day, would you?"
"Never!" I said hoarsely.
"You're quite rather nice," she sighed.
"You're adorable," I said readily.
"How lovely! My husband never says things like that." And she leant against my shoulder.
We got on rather well after that. We had lunch in an inn garden, where you could smell lavender and sweet peas and roses and where there were box hedges turned under magical spells into giant birds. We discovered a stream in a wood with hart's-tongue fern growing along its banks. I picked her armfuls of wild roses.
"It's to make up," I said, "because your brute of a husband forgot your wedding-day."
"I'd love to be married to you," she said brazenly.
I turned aside to brush away a bitter tear.
It was almost dusk when we got back to the side gate.
"Good-bye," she whispered. "Go away quickly; I believe that's the Vicar coming down the road."
Then she shut the gate with gentle swiftness in my face. I walked round to the front door. She was in the hall.
"Hello!" she said; "I hope you had a good day at the office?"
"Thanks," I said; "pretty rotten."
"I've had a lovely day," she said; "I picked up such a nice young man in the high road. He's taking me out to-night. He's just going to ring up for seats."
Without a word I went to the telephone.
"A Gentleman would be pleased to Recommend his Butler in whose service he has been three years."—Daily Paper.
"A Gentleman would be pleased to Recommend his Butler in whose service he has been three years."
—Daily Paper.
"To Americans in London.—The ——, Cornwall, offers you comfortable home while on this side; far away from the madding crown."—Daily Paper.
"To Americans in London.—The ——, Cornwall, offers you comfortable home while on this side; far away from the madding crown."
—Daily Paper.
Republican prejudices respected.