Travellers
Dame(seeing the signpost). "Stop, Jenkins—stop! I think it would be safer to turn back. They may have catapults or something dangerous."
Dear Mr. Punch,—I am writing to you about uncles because you are in a way a kind of general uncle. Uncles are much more useful than aunts, because uncles always give money and aunts mostly give advice. Only, as the Head always says when he jaws our form, "I regret to see in this form a serious deterioration"—I mean in uncles. They come down here and trot us round and say what a luxurious place it is compared with the stern old Spartan days. They know something, though. They ask us to have meals with them at an hotel. They take care not to face a luxurious house-dinner. And while we dine they tell yarns about the hardness of the old days and how it toughened a fellow. And then, because about 1870 it was the custom to tip a boy five bob, they fork out five bob and tell you not to waste it.
If the Head had any sense—only you can't expect sense from Heads—he'd put up a notice at the school gates: "Parents, Uncles and Friends are respectfully reminded that the cost of tuck has increased three hundred per cent. since 1914." Why, old Badham, my bedroom prefect, who was a fag in 1914, turned up the other day and declared that then he could buy four pounds of strawberries for a bob, and that a fag could get enough chocolate for two bob to give him a week in the sick-room.
Yet we have uncles coming down in trains (fare fifty per cent. extra), smoking cigars (costing two hundred per cent. extra), cabbing it up to school (a hundred-and-fifty per cent. extra) and then tipping as if the oldKaiserwas still swanking in Potsdam.
Now Sutton minor, who has a positive beast of a house-master and is practically a Bolshevist, says that we ought to go on strike against the tipping system and demand a regular living wage from relations. He says that if a scavenger gets four quid a week a fellow who has to tackle Greek aorists ought to get eight quid a week.
But I'm afraid a strike might aggravate uncles. It's no use upsetting the goose that lays the silver eggs, so I thought it better to write to you, pointing out that there was one luxury still at pre-war prices and that uncles should never miss a chance of indulging in it, and whenever high prices bothered them they should write us a bright cheerful letter enclosing a postal order—they're still quite cheap.
Chalmers major, who has read this and leads a sad life, having only aunts, says that the only hope for him is in fixing a standard tip of 9s.11¾d.or, better still, 19s.11¾d., that women couldn't help giving.
So hoping that all uncles will put their hands to the plough—I mean in their pockets—and then the bitter cry of the New Poor will cease in our public schools,
Yours respectfully,Bruce Tertius.
"Notice.
My wife, Roxie M.——, having left my bed and board, I will not be responsible for any bills contracted after this date, June 21, 1920.Fred——."American Paper.
"Notice.
The undersigned wishes to state I had just cause to leave, but I left neither bed nor board as I furnished my own board, and the bed being mine I took it.Roxie——."Same Paper, following day.
A good example of whatTouchstonecalls "The lie with circumstance."
"To-Night at9.30. NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH.For the first time in Calcutta."Indian Paper.
Where was the Censor?
Wedding arrangements
Bridegroom-Elect."—and we wants to have the hymn, 'The flag that waved o'er Eden.'"
(By a Student of Film Politics.)
Great satisfaction has been evinced in film circles over the conferment of a signal honour on SignorPavanelli, the outstanding Italian screen luminary. The rank of Chevalier of the Crown of Italy is equivalent to a knighthood in this country, andPavanelli's elevation is a gratifying proof of the paramount position which the cinema is assuming in Italian national affairs. But gratification is sadly tempered by the deplorable lack of State recognition from which film-artists suffer in this country. The joint co-starring Sovereigns of the Screen, though acclaimed by the populace with an enthusiasm unparalleled in the annals of adoration, were allowed to depart from our shores without a single official acknowledgment of their services to humanity. No vote of congratulation was passed by the Houses of Parliament; no honorary degree was conferred on them by any University; no ode of welcome was forthcoming from the pen of thePoet Laureate.
The discontent caused by the indifference of the Government to the wishes of the people is fraught with formidable possibilities. Already there are serious rumours of the summoning of a Special Trade Union Congress to discuss the desirability of direct action as a means of compelling the Government to abandon their attitude of hostility to the only form of monarchy which the working-classes can conscientiously support. It is further reported that Lieutenant-CommanderKenworthy, M.P., will seize the first opportunity to move the impeachment of Dr.Bridges. The indignation in Printing House Square has reached boiling-point, and it is reported that the authorities are only awaiting the delivery of a huge consignment of small pica type to launch a fresh and final onslaught on the Coalition.
Bad for the Bull
The provocation has undoubtedly been intense. It was proved in an article of studied moderation and exquisite taste that the time had come to revise our estimates of bygone grandeur and substitute for the devotion to a Queen of tarnished fame and disastrous tendencies the spontaneous and chivalrous worship of her beneficent and prosperous namesake. Yet in spite of this dignified and convincing appeal no invitation was sent to the one person whose presence at the recent proceedings at Holyrood would have lent them a crowning lustre. The action or inaction of theLord Chamberlainis inexplicable, except on the assumption that Queen Pickford's engagement to attend the Spa Conference would have rendered it impossible for her to accept the invitation to Edinburgh. None the less the invitation should have been sent. Besides, the resources of aviation might have surmounted the difficulty. In any case this deplorable oversight has knocked one more nail in the coffin of thePrime Minister.
"At the fifth each played a magnificent tea shot. Hodgson again used his favourite spoon."—Provincial Paper.
Obviously the right club for the purpose.
"'The Tongue Can no Man Tame.'St. Peter."Heading in Daily Paper.
A clear case of robbingJamesto payPeter.
Monday, July 12th.—ViscountCurzon's complaint about "crawling" taxi-cabs was ostensibly based upon the obstruction thus caused to more rapidly moving traffic. But I fancy that it was really due to an inherent belief that the motor-car is a noble creature, only happy when exceeding the speed-limit and dashing through police-controls, and that to compel the poor thing to crawl is "agin natur'" and ought to be dealt with by the R.S.P.C.A.
As usual much of Question-time was devoted to Russian affairs. ColonelWedgwoodwanted to know whether the Cabinet had approved a message from Mr.Churchillto the late AdmiralKolchak, advising him how to commend his Administration to thePrime Minister, who was described in the telegram as "all-powerful, a convinced democrat and particularly devoted to advanced views on the land question." Mr.Law, while provisionally promising a Blue-book on Siberia, declined to pick out a single message from a whole bunch.
The news that the Soviet Government had accepted the British conditions with regard to the resumption of trade and had thereupon been requested to conclude an armistice with Poland did not seem particularly welcome to any section of the House. Those whom Mr.Stantonin stentorian whispers daily describes as the "Bolshies" evidently feared that the request had been accompanied by a threat, while others were horrified at the idea of recognising the presentrégimein Russia, and drew from Mr.Lawa hasty disclaimer. The House as a whole would, I think, have liked to learn how you can do business with a person whom you do not recognise?
TheChancellor of the Exchequerrefused to accept Mr.George Terrell's proposal to reduce the Excess Profits Tax from sixty per cent. to forty, but, in reply to SirG. Younger—who "has such a way wid him"—promised that next year he would make the reduction. He admitted that it was in many ways an unsatisfactory tax, but the Government could not afford to part with it unless a substitute was provided. Somebody suggested "Economy," and SirF. Banburyproved to his own satisfaction that the present estimates could be reduced by a hundred-and-fifty millions. But unexpected support for the Government came from Mr.Asquith, who as the original sponsor of the tax felt it his duty to support it.
Sir Frederick
"To produce a saving of one hundred-and-fifty millions you merely have to hold the hat firmly in the left hand—thus."
There was a perfect E.P.D.mic of criticism, but it was brilliantly countered by Mr.Baldwin, who declared that theChancellor, far from leading the country down the rapids, "was the one man who had seized a rock in mid-stream and was hanging on to it with hands and feet." The Amendment was rejected by 289 to 117, and the clause as a whole was passed by 202 to 16.
The Limpet
Mr. Baldwin portrays his chief "hanging to a rock with hands and feet."
Tuesday, July 13th.—LordO'Haganwas one of the Peers who helped to outvote the Government a few days ago on a motion excusing them of extravagance. Yet that did not prevent him to-day from saying that the War Office should be more generous in their financial treatment of the Territorial Force, and particularly of the Cadet Corps. Naturally LordPeeldid not refrain from calling attention to this inconsistency—common to most of the financial critics of the Administration—but nevertheless he made a reply indicating that the grants for the Territorial Force were being revised, presumably in an upward direction, since LordO'Haganexpressed himself grateful.
The Commons, like the Lords, are all for economy collectively, if not individually. General cheers greeted Mr.Bonar Law's announcement that all war-subsidies—save that on wheat—were to be brought to an end as soon as possible, but then there were similar cheers for those Members who urged the substitution of ex-service men for the less highly-paid women in various Public Departments.
The House enjoyed the unusual experience of hearing from Lieut.-CommanderKenworthyan apology—and a very handsome one too—for something that he had said in debate about ColonelCroft. It was accompanied by a tribute to his military efficiency which made that gallant warrior blush. It only now remains for the Leader of the National Party to reciprocate by rescuing from the Naval archives some equally complimentary reference to the services of Lieut.-CommanderKenworthy.
A new sport has been invented by ColonelGuinness. It consists in sending two telegrams simultaneously to Paris, oneviâLondon and the otherviâNew York, and seeing which gets there first. At present New York wins by twenty minutes. Mr.Illingworthexcused himself from giving an immediate explanation on the ground that he had not had time to check the facts. No doubt he hopes that in the interim other Members will follow ColonelGuinness's example and, by joining in the new pastime, bring grist to the Post-Office mill.
Wednesday, July 14th.—LordMilnermust have thought he was back in the era of "Chinese Slavery" when he found himself assailed on all sides because the Chief Native Commissioner in Kenya Colony (late British East Africa) had issued a circular instructing the chiefs to influence their followers in the direction of honest toil. LordIslingtondescribed this as "perilously near forced labour;" His Grace ofCanterburyfacetiously suggested that the chiefs' idea of influence would be the sjambok; and LordEmmotttalked of "Prussianism."
Taught by past experience LordMilnerdid not make light of the accusations, but set himself to show how little real substance they contained. The Chief Native Commissioner was "not a Prussian"; on the contrary the local white population thought him too great an upholder of native privileges. But he was very keen on getting the black man to work, and had therefore issued this circular, which was open to misinterpretation. An explanatory document would be issued shortly.
Echoes of theDyerdebate are still reverberating through the Commons, and Mr.Montaguwas put through a searching cross-examination regarding his relations with Mr.Gandhi. Apparently that gentleman has a very simple plan of campaign. He agitates more and more dangerously until he is threatened with prosecution. Then he says "Sorry!" and Mr.Montagubegs him off. After a brief interval of quiescence he starts again. Just now he is once more nearing the imaginary line that separates proper fromimpropa-Gandhism.
Sir Alfred Mond
B.C. 1920.SirAlfred Mond."What atopping idea! They'll never get a more suitable design from the Office of Works—not if they wait 3840 Years."
The House was delighted to see Mr.Devlinand Mr.MacVeaghback in their places. A little honest Irish obstruction would be a refreshing change after the feeble imitations of the Kenworthies and Wedgwoods. But theSpeakercould not accept the proposition that a speech delivered three weeks ago, in which an Irish official was alleged to have prophesied some dreadful things which as a matter of fact had not happened, could be regarded as "a definite matter of urgent public importance."
It is unfortunate that thePrime Ministerwas unable to get back from Spa in order to assist in the final suppression of his famous land-duties. Most of the speeches delivered were made up of excerpts from his old orations of ten years ago—that almost prehistoric era known as the Limehouse Period—and it would have been an object-lesson in political gymnastics to see him explaining himself away.
The land-taxers made a gallant effort to frighten their opponents away by chanting the "Land Song" in the Lobby, but it is supposed that the Government supporters had copied Ulysses' method with the Sirens, for enough of them remained faithful to defeat the land-taxers by 190 to 68.
Mr. NealMr.Neal."Your fares will cost you more."
Mr.Neal."Your fares will cost you more."
Thursday, July 15th.—Mr.Neal's announcement that the proposed increase in rail way fares had been postponed until August 5th, in order not to spoil the Bank Holiday, was far from satisfying the House. Mr.Clynespointed out that large numbers of the working-classes now took their long holidays in August. Mr.Palmerwas of opinion that the working-classes could pay well enough; it was the middle-class that would suffer most; and Mr.R. McNeill, following up this assertion, suggested (without success) that for the sake of poverty-stricken M.P.'s the House should adjourn before the fateful date.
SirH. Greenwoodgave particulars of the Sinn Fein raid on the Dublin Post-Office, but declined to give an opinion as to whether there had been any collusion with the staff inside. Judging by the promptitude and efficiency of the raiders' procedure it seems highly improbable that postal officials had anything to do with it.
"Each day the barometer seems to drop a little lower, the rain seems to drop a little more persistent and wet."—Provincial Paper.
It is this persistent wetness that is so annoying. Nobody would mind a little dry rain.
Country weather
Farmer."I wonder what some of these London folks 'ud say to this?"
Farm-hand."Zay? They'd zay as we must be makin' our fortunes out o' mushrooms."
We were sitting in the verandah, Ernest and I. On the greensward before us Ernest Junior and James Junior (I am James) disported themselves as became their years, which were respectively 1¾ and 15/8. In the middle distance, or as middle as the size of our lawn permits, might be seen the mothers of Ernest Junior and James Junior deep in conversation, discussing, perhaps, the military prowess of their lords, though I rather fear I caught the word "jumper" every now and then.
A loud difference of opinion between James II. and Ernest II. as to the possession of a wooden horse momentarily disturbed the peaceful scene. It was left to Ernest and myself to settle it, our incomparable wives being still completely engrossed with the subject of our militaryprowess (or of jumpers). When quiet reigned once more Ernest said, "Have you ever looked twenty years on?"
"Practically never," I answered. "It is too exhausting."
"It is exhausting, but with my usual energy I do it all the same," said Ernest, who is as a fact the world's champion lotus-eater. "Last night I was picturing a little scene in the year 1940. Shall I tell you of it?" And without waiting for my assent he proceeded:—
"The scene is laid in an undergraduate's rooms. Ernest Junior and James Junior are discovered innégligéattitudes and the conversation proceeds something like this:—
"Ernest Junior.What are you going to do with yourself in the Vac.?
"James Junior.I shall go abroad, in spite of my choice of objectives being so terribly restricted.
"Ernest Junior.Why restricted?
"James Junior.Well, I wouldn't say this to anybody else, but to tell you the truth it is impossible for me to go to either France, Belgium or Italy. You see my dear old father was in these countries during the first Great War, and if I were so much as to mention them he'd never stop talking. If I were to say that I proposed spending a fortnight in the Ardennes it would let loose such a flood of reminiscence that I should hardly get away before next term begins.
"He gets a little confused too at times. He told me the other day a long story about the relief of Ypres, and he also boasted of having himself captured a large number of Turks on the Somme.
"And it isn't only that. My mother was a V.A.D. in France, you know. And when the old man had done talking of Ypres and the Somme she'd begin about Rouen and Etaples."
I laughed, but without mirth, for I did not really think this at all funny. And after all I might have said just the same about Ernest, if only I'd thought of it first.
[The Manchester Daily Dispatchgives a most distressing account of the bibulous hooliganism which is becoming more rampant week by week among char-à-bancs trippers.]
The patrons of the charabangEmploy the most outrageous slangAnd talk with an appalling twang.Their manners ape the wild orang;They do not care a single hangFor sober folk on foot who gang,But as they roll, with jolt and clang,For parasang on parasang,They cause a vulgarSturm und Drang.They never heard ofAndrew Lang,Or even Mr.William Strang;They are, I say it with a pang,A most intolerable gang;In fact I wish them at PenangOr on the banks of Yang-tse-Kiang—Somefolk who use the charabang.
The patrons of the charabangEmploy the most outrageous slangAnd talk with an appalling twang.Their manners ape the wild orang;They do not care a single hangFor sober folk on foot who gang,But as they roll, with jolt and clang,For parasang on parasang,They cause a vulgarSturm und Drang.They never heard ofAndrew Lang,Or even Mr.William Strang;They are, I say it with a pang,A most intolerable gang;In fact I wish them at PenangOr on the banks of Yang-tse-Kiang—Somefolk who use the charabang.
The patrons of the charabang
Employ the most outrageous slang
And talk with an appalling twang.
Their manners ape the wild orang;
They do not care a single hang
For sober folk on foot who gang,
But as they roll, with jolt and clang,
For parasang on parasang,
They cause a vulgarSturm und Drang.
They never heard ofAndrew Lang,
Or even Mr.William Strang;
They are, I say it with a pang,
A most intolerable gang;
In fact I wish them at Penang
Or on the banks of Yang-tse-Kiang—
Somefolk who use the charabang.
"Wanted, a good, clean General, for private."—Provincial Paper.
Discipline is going to the dogs.
The manager had seen to it that the party of young men, being very obviously rich, at any rate for this night, had some of the best attendance in the restaurant. Several waiters had been told off specially to look after them, the least and busiest of whom was little more than a boy—a slender pale boy, who was working very hard to give satisfaction. The cynic might think—and say, for cynics always say what they think—that this zeal was the result of his youth; but the cynic for once would be only partly right. The zeal also had sartorial springs, this eventful day being the first on which the boy had been promoted to full waiter-hood, and the first therefore on which he had ever worn a suit of evening dress; which by dint of hard saving his family had been able to obtain for him. Wearing a uniform of such dignity and conscious that he was on the threshold of his career, he was trying very hard to make good and hoping very fervently that he would get through without any drops or splashes to impair the freshness of his new and wonderful attire.
The party of young men, who had been at a very illustrious English school together and now were either at a university or in the world, were celebrating an annual event and were very merry about it. For themost part they had, between the past and the present, as many topics of conversation as were needed, but now and then came a lull, during which some of them would look around at the other tables, note the prettier of the girls or the odder of the men and comment upon them; and it chanced that in such a pause one of the diners happened for the first time to notice with any attention the assiduous young waiter. Although not old enough to have given any thought to the anomaly of youth (though lowly) attending upon youth (though gilded) at its meals in this way—not old enough indeed to have pondered at all upon the relations of Capital and Labour or of the domineering and the servile—he had reflected a good deal upon the cut and fit of clothes, and there was something about the waiting-boy's evening coat that outraged his critical sense. Nor did the fact that the other's indifferent tailoring throw the perfection of his own into such brilliant contrast—the similarity between the livery of service and the male costumede luxefostering such comparisons—make him any more lenient.
"Did you ever see," he asked his neighbour, "such a coat-collar as that waiting Johnnie's? I ask you. How can anyone, even a waiter, wear a thing like that? Don't they ever see themselves in the glass, or if they do can't they see straight? Why, it covers his collar altogether."
His companion agreed. "And the shoulders! You'd have thought that in a restaurant like this the management would be more particular. By George, that's a jolly pretty girl coming in! Look—over there, just under the clock, with the red hair." And the waiter was forgotten. Only, however, by his table critics, for at that moment a little woman who had made friends with the hall-porter for this express purpose was peering through the window of the entrance, searching the room for her son. She had never yet seen him at his work at all, and certainly not in his grand waiting clothes, and naturally she wanted to.
"Ah!" she said at last, pointing the boy out to the porter, "there he is! At that table with all the young gentlemen. Doesn't he look fine? And don't they fit him beautifully? Why, no one would know the difference if he were to sit down and one of those young gentlemen were to wait on him."
E.V.L.
While waiting for proof-sheets of my book onThe Dynamic Force of Modern ArtI thought I might get a certain amount of amusement out of a little correspondence with my neighbour, Mr. Gibbs, small farmer and dairyman, between whom and myself letters had passed a short time ago on the subject of a noisy cow, since removed from the field below the study window of the house that has been lent me by my friend Hobson. With this end in view I wrote to Mr. Gibbs as follows:—
My dear Mr. Gibbs,—The field of the uproarious cow has, I notice, suddenly become tenanted again, this time by what appears to be a school, herd or murrain of swine. Their number seems to vary. Sometimes I count ten younglings, sometimes as many as thirteen, and once I made it as much as fourteen.
Did you know they were there, or are they a crop? Or is the field suffering from swine fever, of which they are the outward manifestation? Anyhow, whether they are friends of yours or have merely just happened, as it were, they are distinctly intriguing.
My wife was remarking to me only yesterday how nice some pork would be as a change from the eternal verities, beef and mutton, and I told her that if she would look out of my window she would see the pork running about, simply asking for it. There are so many of these piglets that I don't think the old sow would miss one. Swine can't count, can they?
But apart from food values they interest me as subjects for the Cubist, the Vorticist and other exploiters of dynamic force in the Art of to-day (I fancy I told you in a previous letter that I am engaged upon a tome on this subject).
Figure to yourself,mon ami, what delightful rhomboidal figuresWyndham Lewisand his school would make of these budding porkers with the sleek torso and the well-poised angular snout, and, having visualised their treatment of the theme, compare it with the painted effigies of such animals byGeorge Morland, which were merely pigs, Sir, and nothing more. No symbolism, no force. You get me—what?
But looking at these piglets from a more intimate point of view, don't you think (if they should happen to be yours, and you have any influence with their parents) that something should be done about their faces? They have such a pushed-in appearance. Can this be normal? If so, it must seriously interfere with their truffling. But perhaps this is not good truffle-hunting country. I'm sorry if this is so, as I could do with a nice brace of truffles now and again.
Remember me kindly to our mooing friend, and believe me, dear Mr. Gibbs,
Yours sincerely,Arthur K. Wilkinson.
How this early touch of Spring has got into the blood, to be sure.
To this letter Mr. Gibbs replied thus:—
Dear Sir,—i cant make much of your letter except a riglemerole about pigs and dinamite and pictures but what they have to do with one another i dont know if you want some pork why dont you say so strait out like mr Hobson does i shall be killing one this week shall i send you a nice leg and remain
Yours obedientHenry Gibbs.
My reply, given in the affirmative, resulted in the arrival of a succulent-looking joint with a bill for leg of pork special 5½ lbs. at 2s.per lb. 11s.
As the price too was rather special I returned the bill with the following:—
My dear Mr. Gibbs,—What a rapturous piece of pork! Lovely in life, and oh, how beautiful in death. I count the hours till 7.30 to-morrow.
I am truly sorry you couldn't read my letter with comfort. I have derived great pleasure from yours. You appear to have a strong leaning towards phonetic orthography which is very refreshing and seems to bear the same relation to the generally accepted rules of the art that the modern dynamic art (a favourite topic of mine, as you know) does to the academics of the late nineteenth century.
When the proof-sheets of my book arrive I should be glad of your assistance in going through them. My tendency, I think, is to over-punctuate, and your proclivity would, I believe, counteract this.
Mais revenons à nos moutons(mutatis mutandis, of course). The specialist who superintends my diet allows me to eat pork at 1s.9d.per lb., but does not approve of my indulgence in it at a higher figure. If you will meet his views (and I am sure you will) I shall absorb my full share of the dainty you have provided. Otherwise I must return it with many exquisite regrets.
Anticipating your favourable recognition of my specialist's absurd prejudice, I enclose a cheque for 9s.8d.
Accept my word for it that I amYours ever most truly,Arthur K. Wilkinson.
To this Mr. Gibbs offered the following reply:—
Deer Sir,—i thought being a friend of mr Hobson you was a gentleman as wouldn't mind paying a bit extra for something special like this pork which these pigs was by Barnsley Champion III i cant charge less. i dont know who your specialist is but he dont know much about pork the bests the safest. please send ballance and remain
Yours obedient,Henry Gibbs.
We were still in March and pork had not yet been decontrolled, so I returned the bill again with this brief but incisive note:—
My dear Mr. Gibbs,—I have never met your friend from Barnsley, but am surprised that you haven't come across my specialist, whose address is the Local Food Control Office at Harbury. Would you like to meet him? He is very interested in pigs, also in milk and other things in which you specialise expensively, so you would have lots to talk about, no doubt.
Yours sincerely,Arthur K. Wilkinson.
The receipt in full, which reached me in reply, was very satisfactory. The pork was delicious.
Country Post
Country Postman."I'm sorry, Ma'am, I seem to have lost your postcard; but it only said Muriel thanked you for the parcel, and so did John, and they were both very well and the children are happy and she'll give your message to Margery. That'll be your other daughter, I'm thinkin'?"
Under two secret arching hedgesMasses of Bedstraw grow,Silvery-white among the sedges,Like drifts of fairy-snow;Deep's the middle, fringed the edges;Who sleeps there? Do you know?Do you? Or you?Hark! for the breezes know."Oh, there my Lady Summer liesAdream beneath cool April skies;About her blossoms fallOn her long limbs and secret eyes.Still she sleeps, virginal;Then—hark! June's clarion call!She lifts her wistful wilful eyes,Springs light afoot and away she flies.But her Bedstraw dies."
Under two secret arching hedgesMasses of Bedstraw grow,Silvery-white among the sedges,Like drifts of fairy-snow;Deep's the middle, fringed the edges;Who sleeps there? Do you know?Do you? Or you?Hark! for the breezes know.
Under two secret arching hedges
Masses of Bedstraw grow,
Silvery-white among the sedges,
Like drifts of fairy-snow;
Deep's the middle, fringed the edges;
Who sleeps there? Do you know?
Do you? Or you?
Hark! for the breezes know.
"Oh, there my Lady Summer liesAdream beneath cool April skies;About her blossoms fallOn her long limbs and secret eyes.Still she sleeps, virginal;Then—hark! June's clarion call!She lifts her wistful wilful eyes,Springs light afoot and away she flies.But her Bedstraw dies."
"Oh, there my Lady Summer lies
Adream beneath cool April skies;
About her blossoms fall
On her long limbs and secret eyes.
Still she sleeps, virginal;
Then—hark! June's clarion call!
She lifts her wistful wilful eyes,
Springs light afoot and away she flies.
But her Bedstraw dies."
"We have received from—— Manufacturing Company, New York, makers of Distructive Stationery for Social Correspondence, copies of their artistic Wall Calendars."West Indian Paper.
The calendars don't interest us, but a few samples of the "distructive stationery" would come in useful for answering bores.
Of course I suppose I ought to be grateful for the opportunity of having a front seat at one of Nature's romances, but I imagine she reaps more applause at matinées than at soirées. I know that I—But judge for yourself.
Thedramatis personæwere corncrakes, neighbours of mine. The heroine—a neat line in spring birdings—I labelled "Thisbe," and she had evidently inspired affection of no mean degree in the hearts of two enthusiastic swains, Strong-i'-th'-lung and Eugène. I know all this because Thisbe's home is a small tuft of grass not distant from my bedroom, and her admirers wooed her at long range from opposite corners of my field.
Now, as a cursory study of ornithology will tell you, the corncrake's method of attracting his bride is by song, and the criterion of excellence in C.C. circles is that the song shall be protracted, consistent and perfectly monotonous. To those who are unacquainted with his note I would describe it as rather similar to the intermittent buzzing noise which an inexperienced telephone operator lets loose when she can't think of a wrong number to give you. It has also points of resemblance to the periodic thud of the valve of a motor-tube when one is running on a deflated tyre. But there is no real standard of comparison. As a musical feat it is unique, and I for one am glad it is.
It was night. Eugène was in possession of the stage when I began to take an interest in the romance. I cannot say for how long he had serenaded his divinity before I became conscious of his lay, but I do know that thereafter he put in one and a half hours of good solid craking before he desisted. I then felt grateful for the silence, rolled over and prepared to get on with my postponed slumber.
But Strong-i'-th'-lung decreed otherwise. With a contemptuous snort at his rival's performance he opened his epic. He was splendid. For one and three-ninths hours he descanted on the glories of field life, on the freshness of the night, on the brilliance of the June foliage; for the next two hours he ardently proclaimed the surpassing beauty of Thisbe's eye, the glossiness of her plumage, the neatness of her claw, and he wound up with a mad twenty minutes of piercing monotony as he depicted the depth of his devotion for her.
When he ceased, in a silence which was almost deafening, I could visualise Thisbe dimpling with satisfaction and undoubtedly filled with tenderness toward a lover capable of expressing himself so eloquently. I turned over with a sigh of relief and closed my eyes in pleasurable anticipation of rest.
But Eugène felt it necessary to reply. I think his intention was to crake disbelief of his rival's sincerity, to throw cold water on his burning professions, perhaps even to question the excellence of his intentions. But his nerve was obviously shaken by his competitor's undoubtedly fine performance, and he craked indecisively. At 4.30a.m.I distinctly heard him utter a flat note. At 4.47 he missed the second part of a bar entirely. Thisbe's beak, I must believe, curled derisively; Strong-i'-th'-lung laughed contemptuously, and at 5.10a.m.Eugène faltered, stammered and fled from the field defeated.
The sequel I have had to build up on rather fragmentary data, but it appears that Eugène fled as far as Pudberry Parva, and endeavoured to cool his discomfiture in a dewy hayfield.
To him there came an old crone, the "father and mother" of all corncrakes, who comforted him, cossetted him, and from a fund of deep experience offered him hints on voice production. She also gave him of a nostrum of toadwort and garlic, which mollified his lacerated chords, and she prescribed massage of the throat by rubbing against a young beech stem.
Within two days Eugène was back in my field. In tones that feigned to falter he craked a few bars to open the performance. Strong-i'-th'-lung at once rose full of pitying confidence and craked for two and a half hours the song of the practically accepted suitor. It was a good song, and Thisbe seemed pleased, though I fancy she rather resented the note of assurance which he imparted to his ballad.
Then Eugène came on. Bearing well in mind all the instruction of his recent benefactress, he commenced at 11.45p.m.such a masterpiece as has never before been heard in the bird world. His consistency of period was masterly, his iteration superb and his even monotony incomparable. Crake succeeded crake with dull regular inevitability. So far as I know he carried his bat. He was still playing strongly when I fell on a troubled sleep about 5.30....
The next day, walking through the field, I put up two birds which flew away together. One was Thisbe. And the other? Well, not Strong-i'-th'-lung. I stumbled across him a little later, dead without a wound.
"Wanted Music Masterfor 2 girls; also Mincing Machine."—Local Paper.
One way or another they seem determined that the poor girls shall be "put through it."
The recent discovery of a London millionaire, who not only lives in a small suburban villa, where his wife dispenses with servants, goes to bed at 7.30p.m.and rises at 3a.m., but readsHomerin the Greek, has caused a sensation.
His endeavours to prove to a doubting world the truth of a favourite British adage is admirable; and his modest establishment only bears out what the millionaires keep on telling us, that, owing to high taxation and the abnormal cost of luxuries, they must really be reckoned as poormen. But his study ofHomerprovokes a difference of opinion.
Our representative, in interviewing a venerable sociologist on the subject, was told that the study of Greek for millionaires is, within proper limits, comparatively harmless, but thatHomercontains the elements of danger.
"It is inHomer's apotheosis of heroism in human combat that the peril lies," he said. "Having regard to the part played in the past by financiers in the wars between civilised nations, the security of the League of Nations will be threatened if the millionaires of to-day come under the spell of that great poet, who, with all his excellent qualities, directed his genius so persistently to the praise of warfare."
One of the millionaire class was next approached, and was asked what he thought of millionaires readingHomer.
"Why not?" he asked. "Some millionaires are great readers. I am one myself. There are not half-a-dozen ofOppenheim's I haven't read; and I likeHall Caine—andEthel Dell's not bad. Who is thisHomer? If he's any good I may as well order him."
"Well,Homerwas a poet, you know, a—"
"I've no use for poetry," said the millionaire.
"A Greek poet, who lived—"
"Greek. AGreek, did you say?" A shrewd look came into his eyes. "Some of the cutest devils I know are Greeks." He pulled down a shirt-cuff and took a diamond-studded pencil from his waistcoat pocket. "How do you spell it? With an H?"
"POULTRY AND EGGS.
Belfast or Neighbourhood.—Locum Tenency or Sunday duty wanted by well-known Rector during holiday."—Irish Paper.
It looks as if he had been mistaken for a Lay-reader.
"Nothing is left of the knave of the church, but the choir still remains."—Scotch Paper.
We are glad they discarded the knave.