MINOR WAR GAINS.

Headquarters, Poppy Patrol Boy Scouts, Cliffe, Norfolk.

Dear Sir,—I don't think there is much use in your troops landing. In this county alone there are two hundred and ninety-five more scouts than there were in August, and they are still coming in. Of course come if you like, but don't say I didn't warn you.

Yours,

T. Smith,Patrol Leader.

Imperial Studios, Yarmouth.

Sir,—Hearing that your troops are thinking of visiting the above town, we should be glad to take you, in small or large groups. We understand that your excursion will be only a half-day one, but we have facilities for the immediate development of negatives.

Yours obediently,

George Gelatine Jones.

Warning! To the Kaiser.

From the Huntsman of the Bungay Foxhounds.

Send your men over if you like. Let them turn their guns on all our ancient buildings, destroy crops, blow up bridges; butMIND, if one of your Huns raises a rifle to any Norfolk or Suffolk fox, there will be trouble of a serious kind.

KILLEDKILLED![WithMr. Punch'scompliments to GeneralBotha.]

[WithMr. Punch'scompliments to GeneralBotha.]

Old LadyOld Lady(to District Visitor). "Did you hear a strange noise this morning, Miss, at about four o'clock? I thought it was one of them aireoplanes; and my neighbour was so sure it was one he went down and let his dog loose."

Old Lady(to District Visitor). "Did you hear a strange noise this morning, Miss, at about four o'clock? I thought it was one of them aireoplanes; and my neighbour was so sure it was one he went down and let his dog loose."

The year that is stormily endingHas brought us full measure of grief,And yet we must thank it for sendingAt times unexpected relief;These boons are not felt in the trenchesOr make our home burdens less hard;They're not a bonanza, but merit a stanzaOr two from the doggerel bard.The names of musicians and mummersNo longer are loud on our lips;By the side of our buglers and drummersCarusoendures an eclipse;And the legions of freaks and of faddistsWho hailed him with rapturous awe,O wonder of wonders, are finding out blunders,And worse, in the writings of SHAW!GoodBegbie, no longer upraisingHis plea for the "uplift" of Hodge,Has ceased for a season from praisingLloyd Georgeand SirOliver Lodge;And there hasn't been much in the papersAbout the next novel fromCaine(No doubt he's in Flanders, the guest of commandersWho reverence infinite brain).John Wardhas forgiven the Curragh(The Curragh's forgottenJohn Ward);No longer he cries "Wurra Wurra!"At sight of an officer's sword;MacDonald, the terror of tigers,Sits silent and meek as a mouse,And the greatvon Keirhardiis curiously tardyIn "voicing" his spleen in the House.The screeds of professors and juristsHave quite disappeared from the Press;'Tis little we hear of Futurists,And frankly we care even less;Why,Trevelyan, the martyr to candour,Who lately his office resigned,Though waters were heaving has sunk without leavingThe tiniest ripple behind.In fine, though there fall to our fightersToo many hard buffets and humps,'Tis a comfort to think that our blightersAre down in the deadliest dumps;And whatever the future may bring usIn profits or pleasures or painsThe ill wind that's blowing to-day is bestowingA number of negative gains.

The year that is stormily ending

Has brought us full measure of grief,

And yet we must thank it for sending

At times unexpected relief;

These boons are not felt in the trenches

Or make our home burdens less hard;

They're not a bonanza, but merit a stanza

Or two from the doggerel bard.

The names of musicians and mummersNo longer are loud on our lips;By the side of our buglers and drummersCarusoendures an eclipse;And the legions of freaks and of faddistsWho hailed him with rapturous awe,O wonder of wonders, are finding out blunders,And worse, in the writings of SHAW!

The names of musicians and mummers

No longer are loud on our lips;

By the side of our buglers and drummers

Carusoendures an eclipse;

And the legions of freaks and of faddists

Who hailed him with rapturous awe,

O wonder of wonders, are finding out blunders,

And worse, in the writings of SHAW!

GoodBegbie, no longer upraisingHis plea for the "uplift" of Hodge,Has ceased for a season from praisingLloyd Georgeand SirOliver Lodge;And there hasn't been much in the papersAbout the next novel fromCaine(No doubt he's in Flanders, the guest of commandersWho reverence infinite brain).

GoodBegbie, no longer upraising

His plea for the "uplift" of Hodge,

Has ceased for a season from praising

Lloyd Georgeand SirOliver Lodge;

And there hasn't been much in the papers

About the next novel fromCaine

(No doubt he's in Flanders, the guest of commanders

Who reverence infinite brain).

John Wardhas forgiven the Curragh(The Curragh's forgottenJohn Ward);No longer he cries "Wurra Wurra!"At sight of an officer's sword;MacDonald, the terror of tigers,Sits silent and meek as a mouse,And the greatvon Keirhardiis curiously tardyIn "voicing" his spleen in the House.

John Wardhas forgiven the Curragh

(The Curragh's forgottenJohn Ward);

No longer he cries "Wurra Wurra!"

At sight of an officer's sword;

MacDonald, the terror of tigers,

Sits silent and meek as a mouse,

And the greatvon Keirhardiis curiously tardy

In "voicing" his spleen in the House.

The screeds of professors and juristsHave quite disappeared from the Press;'Tis little we hear of Futurists,And frankly we care even less;Why,Trevelyan, the martyr to candour,Who lately his office resigned,Though waters were heaving has sunk without leavingThe tiniest ripple behind.

The screeds of professors and jurists

Have quite disappeared from the Press;

'Tis little we hear of Futurists,

And frankly we care even less;

Why,Trevelyan, the martyr to candour,

Who lately his office resigned,

Though waters were heaving has sunk without leaving

The tiniest ripple behind.

In fine, though there fall to our fightersToo many hard buffets and humps,'Tis a comfort to think that our blightersAre down in the deadliest dumps;And whatever the future may bring usIn profits or pleasures or painsThe ill wind that's blowing to-day is bestowingA number of negative gains.

In fine, though there fall to our fighters

Too many hard buffets and humps,

'Tis a comfort to think that our blighters

Are down in the deadliest dumps;

And whatever the future may bring us

In profits or pleasures or pains

The ill wind that's blowing to-day is bestowing

A number of negative gains.

"Are we sending Christmas cards this year? Yes," said Blathers, "but not next year, or the year after that, as we shall be retrenching. They are quite modest trifles, yet at the mere sight of the envelope each recipient will, cheerfully, I hope, pay twopence towards the sinews of war. One hundred of these contributions will amount, I am told, to sixteen shillings and eightpence; not much, but it is my little offering to the country in her hour of need. This is the card I propose to send out in a sealed and unstamped cover":—

Mr. and Mrs. Blathers wish you A Happy Christmas 1914, 1915 and 1916, and A Bright New Year 1915, 1916 and 1917.

The Ferns, Tooting.

"The Russian mining engineers who have been sent to Galicia since the occupation report that the oil districts will suffice to supply the whole of South-Western Russia. The working of the fields will start in the spring; moreover salt and iron abound, also sporadicalli, silver, copper, lead and the rarer metals."

Cork Examiner.

For vermicelli, however, it will still be necessary to go to Italy.

III.

To the list of things that the Belgians in Crashie Howe do not understand, along with oatmeal, honey in the comb, and tapioca, must now be added the Scottish climate. They do not complain, but they are puzzled, and after sixty-five consecutive hours of rain they wonder wistfully if it is always like this. We simply dare not tell them the truth.

By every post we are busy hunting for lost relatives who are scattered before the shattering fist of theKaiserover Great Britain, Belgium, Holland and France. We have not been very successful so far, but one or two we have found, at points as far apart as York and Milford Haven, and, best of all, we have unearthed a great-grandmother, last seen in an open coal boat off Ostend, who is now in comfortable quarters in a village in Ayrshire.

Our language difficulties have not been assisted by the arrival of a family from Antwerp who talk nothing but Walloon, but, on the other hand, the progress of the children is now beginning to afford certain frail lines of communication. The least of them, Élise, can already count up to twenty in English (with a strong Scoto-Flemish accent), and so it came about that when I took my little nieces round to pay calls, relations were at once established on a numerical basis.

"One, two, three," said Sheila, holding out her hand.

"Four," retorted Juliette, gurgling with delight.

"Five, six, seven," shouted Betty.

"Eight, nine?" enquired Juliette....

At the next cottage, where we were all rather shy, we began tentatively with "One?" But we finally gained so much confidence that by the time we reached our last visit we ran it up to ten at a single burst, and were consequently received with open arms.

One of our main concerns has been the Santa Claus question, and that is a matter which touches us closely, as we have among our number eleven children of Santa Claus age. There are a good many pitfalls here, and it is now unfortunately too late to warn other people of the chief of them. For the fact is—as we found to our amazement—that Santa Claus (you must, by the way, call him St. Nicholas; after all, it is his proper name) comes to Belgium and Russia, not on December 25th, but on December 6th. All our attempts to explain this phenomenon by the difference in the Russian calendar, though ingenious, have failed; it doesn't work out at all. Still, for some reason, that is how it is, and we cannot but be grateful to St. Nicholas for this delicate attention to our allies, by which no doubt they get the pick of the toys, even though we were nearly let in by him. Indeed Pierre had practically given up hope. He had told his mother that he was afraid St. Nicholas would never find his way to Scotland, it was too far.

Then there is another thing which might easily have been overlooked. It's no use putting out stockings, as we prefer to do in our insular way; one must put outshoes. At first sight it looks as if we in this country have the pull over our allies here, for one pair of little shoes does not hold much stuff. But fortunately it is the happy custom in all lands to allow of overflow to any extent. And finally St. Nicholas never comes down the chimney; he pops in through the window (which should be left slightly open at the bottom so that he can get in his thumb and prize it up). Also he never drove a reindeer in his life. He rides a horse. And this is of the first importance, for the one condition attaching to his benevolence is that you must put out a good wisp of hay for the horse, along with your shoes, or else he will simply pass on and you will get nothing at all.

Having collected and considered all these facts we were fully prepared to meet the situation—even down to the small gingerbread animals which always grace the day—on December 6th, and to deal faithfully with the little rows of clogs, bulging with hay, which awaited us on St. Nicholas Eve.

Weary Variety AgentWeary Variety Agent."And what'syourparticular claim to originality?"Artiste."I'm the only Comedian who has so far refrained from addressing the orchestra as 'you in the trench.'"

Weary Variety Agent."And what'syourparticular claim to originality?"

Artiste."I'm the only Comedian who has so far refrained from addressing the orchestra as 'you in the trench.'"

"It's perfectly simple," said the Reverend Henry, adopting his lofty style. "We must cut the whole lot. There is no other course."

"I don't consider that your opinion is of any value whatever," said Eileen. "In fact you ought not to be allowed to take part in this discussion. Every one knows that you have always tried to get out of Christmas presents, and now you are merely using a grave national emergency to further your private ends."

The Reverend Henry was squashed; but Mrs. Sidney had a perfect right to speak, for she has been without doubt the most persistent and painstaking Christmas provider in the family, and has never been known to miss a single relation even at the longest range.

"I quite agree with Henry," said she. "This is no time for Christmas presents—except to hospitals and Belgians and men at the Front."

"You mean that you would scratch the whole lot," said I, "even the pocket diary for 1915 that I send to Uncle William?"

"Yes, even that. You can send the diary to Sidney" (who is in Flanders). "I have always wanted him to keep a diary."

"What about the children?" said I.

"The children must realise," said the Reverend Henry solemnly, "what it means for the nation to be at war."

"Oh, no," Laura broke in impetuously. "How can they realise? How can you expect Kathleen to realise?"

"Do you know," said the Reverend Henry, "that only last Sunday my niece Kathleen was marching all over the house singing at the top of her voice, 'It's a long, long way to Tipperary: the Bible tells me so'? Obviously she realises."

"But what about——" Eileen was beginning.

"Let's have a scrap of paper," said I, "a contract that we can all sign, and then we can put down the exceptions to the rule."

Henry was already hard at work with a sheet of foolscap.

" ... not to exchange, give, receive or swap in celebration of Christmas, 1914, any gift, donation, subscription, contribution, grant, token or emblem within the family and its connections: and further not to permit any gift, donation, subscription, contribution, grant, token or emblem to emanate from any member of the family to such as are outside."

"Good so far," said I.

"The following recipients to be excepted," Henry went on,

"(1) All Hospitals; (2) Belgians; (3) His Majesty's Forces——"

"(4) The Poor and Needy," suggested Eileen.

"(5) The Aged and Infirm," said I. "I only want to get in Great-aunt Amelia. She mustn't be allowed to draw a blank."

"That's true," said Henry; "we'll fix the age limit at ninety-one. That'll bring her in."

"(6) Children of such tender age that they are unable to realise the national emergency," said Mrs. Sidney.

"Quite so," said Henry. "What would you suggest as the age limit? Three?"

"Four," said Laura simultaneously.

"I should like to suggest five," said I, "to bring in Kathleen."

"Let's make it seven," said Mrs. Henry. "I can hardly believe that Peter realises, you know."

"Stop a bit," said I. "If you take in Peter you can't possibly leave out Tom. Make it eight-and-a-half."

"That seems a little hard on Alice, doesn't it?" said Eileen.

"Any advance on eight-and-a-half?" called Henry from the writing-desk. And from that moment the discussion assumed the character of an auction, Laura finally running it up to thirteen (which brings in the twins) to the general satisfaction.

When the contract was signed, witnessed and posted on its way to the other signatories there was a general sense of relief that Christmas would not be very different from usual after all. Henry growled a good deal. But we know our Reverend Henry: he will do his duty when the time comes.

"The Prince of Wales noticed a private in his own regiment, the Grenadier Guards, who is six feet inches in height. He is six feet inches in height."—Scotsman.

It sounds silly, but the writer evidently means it.

THE RULING PASSIONTHE RULING PASSION.Voice from below."For 'eaven's sake, mum, get back. The fire-escape will be 'ere in five minutes."Endangered Female."Five minutes? Then throw me back my knitting."

Voice from below."For 'eaven's sake, mum, get back. The fire-escape will be 'ere in five minutes."

Endangered Female."Five minutes? Then throw me back my knitting."

A Philistine? Then you will smileAt this old willow-pattern plateAnd junks of long-forgotten dateThat anchor off Pagoda Isle;At little pig-tailed simpering rakesWho kiss their hands (three miles away)To dainty beauties of CathayBeside those un-foreshortened lakes.With hand on heart they smile and sue.Their topsy-turvy world, you say,Is out of all perspective? Nay,'Tis we who look at life askew.Dreams lose their spell; hard facts we prizeIn our humdrum philosophy;But, could we change, who would not beA suitor for those azure eyes?Who would not sail with fairy freightPiloting some flat-bottomed barge—A size too small, or else too large—On this old willow-pattern plate?

A Philistine? Then you will smileAt this old willow-pattern plateAnd junks of long-forgotten dateThat anchor off Pagoda Isle;

A Philistine? Then you will smile

At this old willow-pattern plate

And junks of long-forgotten date

That anchor off Pagoda Isle;

At little pig-tailed simpering rakesWho kiss their hands (three miles away)To dainty beauties of CathayBeside those un-foreshortened lakes.

At little pig-tailed simpering rakes

Who kiss their hands (three miles away)

To dainty beauties of Cathay

Beside those un-foreshortened lakes.

With hand on heart they smile and sue.Their topsy-turvy world, you say,Is out of all perspective? Nay,'Tis we who look at life askew.

With hand on heart they smile and sue.

Their topsy-turvy world, you say,

Is out of all perspective? Nay,

'Tis we who look at life askew.

Dreams lose their spell; hard facts we prizeIn our humdrum philosophy;But, could we change, who would not beA suitor for those azure eyes?

Dreams lose their spell; hard facts we prize

In our humdrum philosophy;

But, could we change, who would not be

A suitor for those azure eyes?

Who would not sail with fairy freightPiloting some flat-bottomed barge—A size too small, or else too large—On this old willow-pattern plate?

Who would not sail with fairy freight

Piloting some flat-bottomed barge—

A size too small, or else too large—

On this old willow-pattern plate?

"The 'Figaro' publishes a telegram from Petrograd which contradicts the German announcement that Lodz is occupied by the Kermans."—Lancashire Evening Post.

And quite right too.

There was a battlefield, I was told, with a ruined village near it, about as far from Paris as Sevenoaks is from London, and I decided to see it. The preliminaries, they said, would be difficult, but only patience was needed—patience and one's papers all in order. It would be necessary to go to the War Bureau, opposite the Invalides.

I went to the War Bureau opposite the Invalides one afternoon. I rang the bell and a smiling French soldier opened the door. Within were long passages and other smiling French soldiers in little knots guarding the approaches, all very bureaucratic. The head of the first knot referred me to the second knot; the head of the second referred me to a third. The head of this knot, which guarded the approach to the particular military mandarin whom I needed or thought I needed, smiled more than any of them, and, having heard my story, said that that was certainly the place to obtain leave. But it was unwise and even impossible to go by any other way than road, as the railway was needed for soldiers and munitions of war, and therefore I must bring my chauffeur with me, with his papers, which must be examined and passed.

My chauffeur? I possessed no such thing. Necessary then to provide myself with a chauffeur at once. Out I went in a fusillade of courtesies and sought a chauffeur. I visited a taxi rank and stopped this man and that, but all shied at the distance. At last one said that his garage would provide me with a car. So off to the garage we went, and there I had an interview with a manager, who declined to believe that permission for the expedition would be made at all, except possibly to oblige a person of great importance. Was I a person of great importance? he asked me. Was I? I wondered. No, I thought not. Very well then, he considered it best to drop the project.

I came away and hailed another taxi, driven by a shaggy grey hearthrug. I told him my difficulties, and he at once offered to drive me anywhere and made no bones about the distance whatever. So it was arranged that he should come for me on the morrow—say Tuesday, at a quarter to eleven, and we would then get through the preliminaries and my lunch comfortably by noon and be off and away. So do hearthrugs talk with foreigners—light-heartedly and confident. But Heaven disposes. For when we reached the Bureau at a minute after eleven the next morning the smiling janitor told us we were too late. Too late at eleven? Yes, the office in question was closed between eleven and two; we must return at two.

"But the day will be over," I said; "the light will have gone. Another day lost!" Nothing on earth can crystallize and solidify so swiftly and implacably as the French official face. At these words his smile vanished. He was not angry or threatening—merely granite. Those were the rules, and how could anyone question them? At two, he repeated: and again I left the building, this time not bowing quite so effusively, but suppressing a thousand criticisms which might have been spoken were not the French our allies.

Three hours to kill in a city where everything is shut. No Louvre, no Carnavalet! However, the time went, chiefly over lunch, and at two we were there again, the hearthrug and I, and were shown into a waiting-room where far too many other persons had already assembled. To me this congestion seemed deplorable; but the hearthrug merely grinned. It was all a new experience to him, and his meter was registering the time. We waited, I suppose, forty minutes and then came our turn, and we were led to a little room where sat a typical elderly French officer at a table. He had white moustaches and was in uniform with blue and red about it. I bowed, he bowed, the hearthrug grovelled. I explained my need, and he replied instantly that I had come to the wrong place; the right place was the Conciergerie.

Another rebuff! In England I might have told him that it was one of his own idiotic men who had told me otherwise, but of what use would that be in France? In France a thing is or is not, and there is no getting round it if it is not. French officials are portcullises, and they drop as suddenly and as effectively. Knowing this, so far from showing resentment or irritation, I bowed and made my thanks as though I had come for no other purpose than a dose of frustration; and again we left this cursed Bureau.

I re-entered the taxi, which, judging by the meter, I should very soon have completely paid for, and we hurtled away (for the hearthrug was a demon driver) to Paris's Scotland Yard. Here were more passages, more little rooms, more inflexible officials. I had bowed to half-a-dozen and explained my errand before at last the right one was reached, and him the hearthrug grovelled to again and called "Mon Colonel." He sat at a table in a little room, and beside him, all on the same side of the table, sat three civilians. On the wall behind was a map of France. What they did all day, I wondered, and how much they were paid for it; for we were the only clients, and the suggestion of the place was one of anecdotage and persiflage rather than toil. They acted with the utmost unanimity. First "Mon Colonel" scrutinised my passport, and then the others, in turn, scrutinised it. What did I want to go to —— for? (The name is suppressed because it is two or three months since the battle was fought there.) I replied that my motive was pure curiosity. Did I know it was a very dull town? I wanted to see the battlefield. That would betristetoo. Yes, I knew, but I was interested. "Mon Colonel" shrugged and wrote on a piece of paper and passed the paper to the first civilian, who wrote something else and passed it on, and finally the last one got it and discovered a mistake in the second civilian's writing, and the mistake had to be initialled by all the lot, each making great play with a blotter; and at last the precious document was handed to me and I was really free to start. But it was now dark.

The road from —— leaves the town by a hill, crosses a canal, and then mounts and winds, and mounts again, and dips and mounts, between fields of stubble, with circular straw-stacks as their only occupants. The first intimation of anything untoward, besides the want of life, was the spire of the little white village of —— on the distant hill, which surely had been damaged. As one drew nearer it was clear that not only had the spire been damaged, but that the houses had been damaged too. The place seemed empty and under a ban.

I stopped the car outside, at the remains of a burned shed, and walked along the desolate main street. All the windows were broken; the walls were indented with little holes or perforated with big ones. The roofs were in ruins. Here was the post-office; it is now half demolished and boarded up. There was the inn; it is now empty and forlorn. Half the great clock face leant against a wall. Everyone had fled—it is a "deserted village" with a vengeance: nothing left but a few fowls. Everything was damaged; but the church had suffered most. Half of the shingled spire was destroyed, most of the roof, and the great bronze bell lay among thedébrison the ground. It is as though the enemy's policy was to intimidate the simple folk through the failure of their super-natural stronghold. "If the church is so pregnable, then what chance have we?"—that is the question which it was hoped would be asked; or so I imagined as I stood before this ruinedsanctuary. Where, I wondered, are those villagers now, and what chances are there of the rebuilding of these old peaceful homes, so secure and placid only four months ago?

And then I walked to the battlefield a few hundred yards away, and only too distinguishable as such by the little cheap tricolors on the hastily-dug graves among the stubble and the ricks. Hitherto I had always associated these ricks with the art of Claude Monet, and seeing the one had recalled the other; but henceforward I shall think of those poor pathetic graves sprinkled among them, at all kinds of odd angles to each other—for evidently the holes were dug parallel with the bodies beside them—each with a little wooden cross hastily tacked together, and on some the remnants of the soldier's coat or cap, or even boots, and on some the blue, white and red. As far as one can distinguish, these little crosses break the view: some against the sky-line, for it is hilly about here, others against the dark soil.

It was a day of lucid November sunshine. The sky was blue and the air mild. A heavy dew lay on the earth. Not a sound could be heard; not a leaf fluttered. No sign of life. We were alone, save for the stubble and the ricks and the wooden crosses and the little flags. How near the dead seemed: nearer than in any cemetery.

Suddenly a distant booming sounded; then another and another. It was the guns at either Soissons or Rheims—the first thunder of man's hatred of man I had ever heard.

So I, too, non-combatant, asAnno-Dominiforces me to be, know something of war—a very little, it is true, but enough to make a difference when I read the letters from the trenches or meet a Belgian village refugee.

Pompous LadyPompous Lady."I shall descend at Knightsbridge."Tommy(aside). "Takes 'erself for a bloomin' Zeppelin!"

Pompous Lady."I shall descend at Knightsbridge."Tommy(aside). "Takes 'erself for a bloomin' Zeppelin!"

"General Joffre then engaged in a short conversation with several journalists, and when they referred to the military medal which M. Poincaré pinned on his chest, he said: '3/8 All this counts for nothing.'"

Manchester Guardian.

But on the other 5/8 we offer our respectful congratulations.

I have a friend, a gloomy soul,Who daily wails about the war,Taking the line that, on the whole,Our luck is rotten at the core,And into each successReads some disaster, rather more than less.Another friend I have, whose heartBeats with "abashless" confidence,Who sees theKaiserin the cartAnd hung in chains "a fortnight hence";He saw this months ago,And some day hopes to say, "I told you so."When Heraclitus brings a cloud,Democritus provides the sun;Or should the Hopeful crow too loud,I listen to the Mournful One;And thus, between the two,I find a fairly rational point of view.

I have a friend, a gloomy soul,Who daily wails about the war,Taking the line that, on the whole,Our luck is rotten at the core,And into each successReads some disaster, rather more than less.

I have a friend, a gloomy soul,

Who daily wails about the war,

Taking the line that, on the whole,

Our luck is rotten at the core,

And into each success

Reads some disaster, rather more than less.

Another friend I have, whose heartBeats with "abashless" confidence,Who sees theKaiserin the cartAnd hung in chains "a fortnight hence";He saw this months ago,And some day hopes to say, "I told you so."

Another friend I have, whose heart

Beats with "abashless" confidence,

Who sees theKaiserin the cart

And hung in chains "a fortnight hence";

He saw this months ago,

And some day hopes to say, "I told you so."

When Heraclitus brings a cloud,Democritus provides the sun;Or should the Hopeful crow too loud,I listen to the Mournful One;And thus, between the two,I find a fairly rational point of view.

When Heraclitus brings a cloud,

Democritus provides the sun;

Or should the Hopeful crow too loud,

I listen to the Mournful One;

And thus, between the two,

I find a fairly rational point of view.

"Once or twice he sighed a little, although he had an uninterrupted view of a profile as regular as a canoe."—New Magazine.

"The Man Who Stayed at Home."

No, he was not a shirker, as you thought. Nor was he engaged in making munitions of war, or khaki, or woollens, or military boots, or in exporting cocoa to the enemyviâneutral Holland—that roaring monopoly of the Pacificist. His business was to spy at spies—a task that called for as much coolness and courage as any job at the Front. And so when the officious flapper presented him with a white feather he had no use for it except as a pipe-cleaner.

For his purposeChristopher Brenthad taken up his residence at a "select boarding establishment" on the East Coast, which contained the following members of the German Secret Service:Mrs. Sanderson, proprietress;Carl, her son, clerk in the British Admiralty;Fräulein Schroeder, boarder, andFritz, waiter. Their design, if I rightly penetrated its darkness, was to give information of the whereabouts of a certain section of the Expeditionary Force which was "coming through from the North"; to supply Berlin with plans of the coast defences; and finally to give a signal to a German submarine by the firing of the house, which would incidentally mean the roasting alive of its innocent contents. All this (for the sake ofAristotleand the Unities) was to take place in a single day, though I for one could not believe that either the pigeon post or the ordinary mail would be equal to the strain.

Their utensils included a Marconi instrument concealed in the chimney; a bomb; a revolver; maps of the minefield and harbour; a carrier-pigeon, and a knife for disposing of the cliff-sentry.

Hands up"Hands up!""Hands up yourself!"Carl Sanderson... Mr.Malcolm Cherry.Christopher Brent... Mr.Dennis Eadie.

"Hands up!""Hands up yourself!"

Carl Sanderson... Mr.Malcolm Cherry.Christopher Brent... Mr.Dennis Eadie.

To frustrate their schemes something more was needed than the wit ofBrentand his ally, the widowLeigh; something more, even, than his skill in shooting pigeons in flight with an air-rifle. The vacuum was supplied by the crass stupidity of theEmperor'sminions. Even when full credit is given toBrentfor letting his bath overflow so as to flood the public salon and render it untenable, it was surely unwise ofMrs. Sandersonto offer her private parlour for the use of the boarders on the very day set apart for the execution of her plans which were centred in this room. It was also gross carelessness on the part of her son, when he hadBrent, with hands up, at his mercy, to place his own revolver on the table and to use, in exchange, the unloaded weapon which he had taken from his opponent's pocket. It was puerile, too, to accept without proof the verbal assurances of the widowLeighthat she was one of themselves, a loyal German spy. AndFritzcommitted an unpardonable error in giving away the site of the Marconi apparatus by his undisguised suspicion of anybody who took any interest in the fireplace.

And so their schemes all went agley; the whole pack was arrested; and when the curtain fell on a happy group of boarders in midnightdéshabillethere was every promise that the misdemeanants would receive a month's imprisonment or at least a caution to be of good behaviour for the future.

I understand, on good authority, that the tendency of the public at this juncture of the War is to demand light refreshment. Well, they have it here. For, though the subject deals with a serious problem of the hour, it can be treated, and is treated, with a very permissible humour that just stops short of farce. Some of the stage-devices, as I am assured by my betters, may have a touch of antiquity, but their application is as modern as can well be, and I should indeed be ungrateful if after an entertainment so smoothly and dexterously administered I were to be captious about origins or other matters of pedantry.

Mr.Dennis Eadie, asBrent, both in his real character of detective and in the assumed futility of his disguise as a genial idiot, was equally excellent, and again proved his gift for quick-change artistry. MissMary Jerrold'sFräulein Schroederwas extraordinarily Teutonic in all but her quiet humour, which she seemed to have caught from the country of her adoption. TheFritzof Mr.Henry Edwardswas another delightful sketch, though his actual German birth and his allegation of Dutch nationality were both belied by the red Italian corpuscles with which the authors had inoculated him. MissJean Cadell, as usual, played a pale and fatuous spinster, but this time, in the part ofMiss Myrtle, she had her chance, and seized it bravely. When that typical British boarder, Mr.John Preston, M.P.. (interpreted with great relish and vigour by Mr.Hubert Harben), remarked, "I call a spade a spade," she replied, "And I suppose you would call a dinner-napkin aserviette"—one of the pleasantest remarks in a play where the good things said were many and unforced.

I have not mentioned the admirable performance—its merits might easily be missed—of Mr.Stanley Loganas a Territorial Tommy; or the very natural manners of Mrs.Robert BroughasMrs. Sanderson; or the quiet art of MissRuth Mackayin a part (Miriam Leigh) that offered a too-limited scope to her exceptional talents. MissIsobel Elsomcontributed her share of the rather perfunctory love-interest with a very pretty sincerity; and Mr.Malcolm Cherry, in the ungrateful part of the spyCarl, did his work soundly, with a lofty sacrifice of his own obvious good-nature. Indeed, it was a very excellent cast.

I should like to congratulate the authors, Messrs.Lechmere Worrall, andHarold Terry, on having given the public what they want, without lapsing into banality. The attraction of the first two Acts was not, perhaps, fully sustained in the third, but they gave us quite a cheerful evening; and at the fall of the curtain the audience was so importunate in their applause that Mr.Dennis Eadiehad to break it to them that, though the loss of their company would give him pain, he thought the time had come for them to go away.

I did not notice Mr.Reginald McKennain the stalls, but it was a great night for him and the Home Office.

O. S.

Says the sleek humanitarian: "Any sacrifice I'd makeFor the voluntary system—up to going to the stake,"Which inspires the obvious comment that contingencies like thisTurn the coming of conscription to unmitigated bliss.

Says the sleek humanitarian: "Any sacrifice I'd make

For the voluntary system—up to going to the stake,"

Which inspires the obvious comment that contingencies like this

Turn the coming of conscription to unmitigated bliss.

"The remaining characters were taken by Mr.Herbert Lomasas Ever, a splendid actor...."—Manchester City News.

You should see SirHerbert Treeas Always.

LANGUAGE-KULTUR.LANGUAGE-KULTUR.Voice from the darkness."Doand shood! Doand shood! Ve vos de Viltshires."

Voice from the darkness."Doand shood! Doand shood! Ve vos de Viltshires."

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

IfThe Prussian Officer, a study of morbidly vicious cruelty practised by a captain of Cavalry on his helpless orderly (and the first of a sheaf of collected stories, short or shortish, by Mr.D. H. Lawrence, issued by Messrs.Duckworth), had been written since the declaration of war it would certainly be discounted as a product of the prevailingodium bellicosum. But it appeared well in the piping times of peace, and I remember it (as I remember others of the collection) with a freshness which only attaches to work that lifts itself out of the common ruck. An almost too poignant intensity of realism, expressed in a distinguished and fastidious idiom, characterises Mr.Lawrence'smethod. It is a realism not of minutely recorded outward happenings, trivial or exciting, but of fiercely contested agonies of the spirit. None of those stories is a story in the accepted mode. They are studies in (dare one use the overworked word?) psychological portraiture. I don't know any other writer who realises passion and suffering with such objectiveforce. The word "suffering" drops from his pen in curiously unexpected contexts. The fact of it seems to obsess him. Yet it is no morbid obsession. He seems to be dominated by sympathy in its literal meaning, and it gives his work a surprising richness of texture.... I dare press this book upon all such as need something more than mere yarns, who have an eye for admirably sincere workmanship and are interested in their fellows—fellows of all sorts, soldiers, keepers, travellers, clergymen, colliers, with womenfolk to match.

On a map of the North you may be able to find an island named after oneMargaret. It should lie, though I have sought it in vain, just about where the florid details of the Norwegian coast-line run up to those blank spaces that are dotted over, it would seem, only by the occasional footprints of polar bears. Anyhow it was so christened by two bold mariners who lived in theSpacious Days(Murray) ofQueen Elizabeth. That they both loved the lady (Elizabeth, of course, too—but I meanMargaret) may be assumed; but that they should eventually, with one accord, desire to resign their claims upon her affection must be read to be understood. I for one did not quarrel with them on this score. For had not their mistress in the meantime found companionship more suitable than theirs? Besides, if even the author is so little courteous to his heroine as to invite her to appear only in two chapters between the third and the twenty-seventh, why should two rough sea-dogs—or you and I—be more attentive? And indeed it is a correct picture of his period that Mr.Ralph Durandis concerned to present rather than a love story. In the writing of the love scenes considered necessary to the mechanism of the plot he seems very little at his ease; and so marked at times is his discomfort that I must confess to having felt some irritation when my willingness to be convinced was not met halfway. In the handling of his sheets and oars I like the author better, though even here I miss what might have brought me into a companionship with his people as close as I could wish on a most adventurous journey of nearly four hundred pages. But perhaps that is my fault; and, at the least, here is a straightforward sea story—as honest as the sea and as clean.

Llanyglowas a child with fair hair and blue eyes, and how she grew and what she learnt, and all the changes of her dresses and her soul, are set forth by Mr.Oliver OnionsinMushroom Town(Hodder and Stoughton). She differed from the children of other novelists who grow up to be men and women, because she was made of bricks and mortar and iron girders and romantic scenery and ozone (especially ozone), and the people who lived with her or took trips to see her are treated as a mere emblematical garnish of her character and growth.Llanyglois a daughter of Wales, but she is not any town that you may happen to have seen, although possibly Blackpool and Douglas and Llandudno have met her, and turned up their noses at her, as she turned up her nose at them. Lancashire built and conquered her, to be conquered and annually recuperated in turn.Cymria capta ferum... might have been the motto of her municipal arms. Exactly how Mr.Onionsexhibits the romantic spectacle of her development, with the strange knowledge she picked up, as from virgin wildness she became first select and then popular, I cannot hope to explain. Suffice it to say that the process is epitomised in sketches of the various people who helped in the moulding of her—the drunkenKerrbrothers, who built a house in a single night;Howell Gruffydd, the wily grocer;Dafydd Dafis, the harper; andJohn Willie Garden, son of the shrewd cotton-spinner who first saw the possibilities of the place, and won the heart of the untamed gipsy girl,Ynys. This is surely Mr.Onions' best novel sinceGood Boy Seldom; and asLlanyglois safely ensconced on the West coast you should go there at once for the winter season.

Spragge's Canyon(Smith, Elder), takes its title, as you might guess, from the canyon where theSpraggeslived. It was a delightful spot, a kind of earthly paradise (snakes included), and theSpraggefamily had made it all themselves out of unclaimed land on the Californian coast. Wherefore theSpraggesloved it with a love only equalled perhaps by the same emotion in the breast of Mr.H. A. Vachell, who has written a book about it. TheSpraggesof the tale areMrs. Spragge, widow of the pioneer, and her sonGeorge. With them on the ranch lived also a cousin,Samantha, a big-built capable young woman, destined by Providence andMrs. Spraggeto be the helpmate ofGeorge. ButGeorge, though he was strong and handsome and a perfect marvel with rattlesnakes (which he collected as a subsidiary source of income), was also a bit of a fool; and when, on one of his rare townward excursions, he got talking toHazel Goodrichin a street car, her pale attractiveness and general lure proved too much for him. AccordinglyHazelwas asked down to the ranch on a visit (I am taking it on trust that Mr.Vachellknows the Californian etiquette in these matters) and has the time of her life, flirting with the love-lornGeorge, impressing his mother, and generally scoring off poorSamantha. At least so she thought. Really, however,Mrs. Spraggehad takenHazel'smeasure in one, and was all the time quietly fighting her visitor for her son's future. This fight, and the character of the mother who makes it, are the best things in the book. I shall not tell you who wins. Personally I had expected a comedy climax, and was unprepared for creeps. ButGeorge, I may remind you, collected snakes. A good and virile tale.

SirMelville Macnaghtenhopes, in his Introduction toDays of my Years(Arnold), that his reminiscences "may be found of some interest to a patient reader"; and, when one considers thatSir Melvillespent twenty-four years at Scotland Yard, many of them as chief of the Criminal Investigation Department, he can hardly be accused of undue optimism. Speaking as one of his readers, I found no difficulty at all in being patient. I have always had a weakness for official detectives, and have resented the term "Scotland Yard bungler" almost as if it were a personal affront; and now I feel that my resentment is justified. Scotland Yard does not bungle; and the advice I shall give for the future to any eager-eyed, enthusiastic young murderer burning to embark on his professional career is, don't practise in London. I would not lightly steal a penny toy in the Metropolitan area. There are two hundred and seventy-nine pages in this story of crime, as seen by the man at the very centre of things, and nearly every one of them is packed with matter of absorbing interest. Consider the titles of the chapters: "Bombs and their Makers"; "Motiveless Murders"; "Half-a-day with the Blood-hounds." This, I submit, is the stuff; this, I contend, is the sort of thing you were looking for. There is something so human and simple in SirMelville'smethod of narration that it is with an effort that one realises what an important person he really was, and what extraordinary ability he must have had to win and hold his high position. Even when he disparages blood-hounds I reluctantly submit to his superior knowledge and abandon one of my most cherished illusions. I hate to do it, but if he says that a blood-hound is no more use in tracking criminals than a Shetland pony would be, I must try to believe him.

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