"At a time like this we must be prepared to have our prejudices shattered. When the whole world has been turned upside down, is it fair that women should be left standing still?"
"At a time like this we must be prepared to have our prejudices shattered. When the whole world has been turned upside down, is it fair that women should be left standing still?"
It is a delicate question, and the women must be left to take up their own position in the matter.
Village ConstableVillage Constable(to the Vicar, who has been hurrying to fetch fire engine). "So your 'ouse is afire, is it? Ah! I've bin a-watchin' that light. Didn't expect to run intome, did you? 'Ow'm I to know you bain't signallin' to Germany?"
Village Constable(to the Vicar, who has been hurrying to fetch fire engine). "So your 'ouse is afire, is it? Ah! I've bin a-watchin' that light. Didn't expect to run intome, did you? 'Ow'm I to know you bain't signallin' to Germany?"
JOHNSON.
When the task of training scholars Johnson manfully essayedAt a school whose Eton collars were the finest ever made,It was largely lack of dollars drove him to the teaching trade.Nature meant, had Fate allowed, him to command a t.b.d.,Both his parents gladly vowed him to the service of the sea,But the Navy doctors ploughed him for someitisof the knee.Yet, in spite of this embargo, he had spent each Oxford vac.In a tramp as supercargo or on board a fishing-smack,Till of sailors' lore andargothe was full as he could pack.In the sphere of gerund-grinding Johnson wasn't a success;Boys are overprone to finding fault with masters who transgressRules which they consider binding in regard to form and dress.Johnson's taste was always slightlyoutréin his ties and caps;Furthermore he never rightly saw the fun of booby traps;And he clouted, none too lightly, boys who larked with watertaps.Some considered him half-witted, or at best a harmless freak;Some reluctantly admitted that he knew a lot of Greek;All agreed he was unfitted for the calling of a "beak."So, reluctantly returning to their mid-autumnal grind,Nearly all the boys, on learning Mr. Johnson had resigned,Showed the usual undiscerning acquiescence of their kind.Thus he passed unmourned, unheeded, by nine boys in ev'ry ten,And as week to week succeeded, bringing Christmas near again,Quite a miracle was needed to recall him to their ken.Deeds that merit lasting glory almost daily leap to light;But one morning brought a story which was "excellently bright,"And the Head,rotunda ore, read it out in Hall that night.'Twas a tale of nerve unshrinking—of a "sweeper" off the Tyne,Which had rescued from a sinking trawler, shattered by a mine,Though a submarine was slinking in her wake, a crew of nine.Well, you won't be slow in guessing at the gallant skipper's name,Or from whom the most caressing message to the hero came—Boys are generous in redressing wrongs for which they are to blame.Johnson still continues "sweeping," in the best of trim and cheer,As indifferent to reaping laurels as immune from fear,While five hundred boys are keeping friendly watch on his career.
When the task of training scholars Johnson manfully essayedAt a school whose Eton collars were the finest ever made,It was largely lack of dollars drove him to the teaching trade.
Nature meant, had Fate allowed, him to command a t.b.d.,Both his parents gladly vowed him to the service of the sea,But the Navy doctors ploughed him for someitisof the knee.
Yet, in spite of this embargo, he had spent each Oxford vac.In a tramp as supercargo or on board a fishing-smack,Till of sailors' lore andargothe was full as he could pack.
In the sphere of gerund-grinding Johnson wasn't a success;Boys are overprone to finding fault with masters who transgressRules which they consider binding in regard to form and dress.
Johnson's taste was always slightlyoutréin his ties and caps;Furthermore he never rightly saw the fun of booby traps;And he clouted, none too lightly, boys who larked with watertaps.
Some considered him half-witted, or at best a harmless freak;Some reluctantly admitted that he knew a lot of Greek;All agreed he was unfitted for the calling of a "beak."
So, reluctantly returning to their mid-autumnal grind,Nearly all the boys, on learning Mr. Johnson had resigned,Showed the usual undiscerning acquiescence of their kind.
Thus he passed unmourned, unheeded, by nine boys in ev'ry ten,And as week to week succeeded, bringing Christmas near again,Quite a miracle was needed to recall him to their ken.
Deeds that merit lasting glory almost daily leap to light;But one morning brought a story which was "excellently bright,"And the Head,rotunda ore, read it out in Hall that night.
'Twas a tale of nerve unshrinking—of a "sweeper" off the Tyne,Which had rescued from a sinking trawler, shattered by a mine,Though a submarine was slinking in her wake, a crew of nine.
Well, you won't be slow in guessing at the gallant skipper's name,Or from whom the most caressing message to the hero came—Boys are generous in redressing wrongs for which they are to blame.
Johnson still continues "sweeping," in the best of trim and cheer,As indifferent to reaping laurels as immune from fear,While five hundred boys are keeping friendly watch on his career.
THE OUTCASTTHE OUTCAST.A PLACE IN THE SHADOW.
THE OUTCAST.
A PLACE IN THE SHADOW.
ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.
(Extracted from the Diary of Toby, M.P.)
House of Commons, Tuesday, 2nd February.—First business on resumption of sittings after Recess was issue of writ for election of Member for Shipley Division of Yorkshire to fill the seat ofPercy Illingworth, whose place on Treasury Bench and in Whips' Room will know him no more.
Herein a tragedy notable even amid absorbing interest of the War. When in last week of November House adjourned for recess, theChief Liberal Whipwas in what seemed to be perfection of health. A little tired perhaps with exhausting labour of prolonged Session, but cheerily looking forward to interval of comparative rest. Physically and intellectually in the prime of life, he had happy constitutional turn of making the best of everything. A good sportsman, a famed footballer, healthy in mind and body, he habitually counteracted influence of sedentary life by outdoor exercise. If one had cast an eye round Benches on both sides and estimated which was the most likely man for whose county or borough a writ would, on reassembling of Parliament, be moved to fill vacancy created by his death, one would last of all have thought ofPercy Illingworth.
Two years ago selection byPrime Ministerof a young, comparatively unknown, inexperienced man to fill important post of Chief Ministerial Whip was regarded with some surprise. That shrewd judge of character and capacity as usual justified by the event,Illingworthspeedily made his mark. Courteous in manner, frank in speech, swift and capable in control of circumstance, he gained, and in increasing measure maintained, that confidence and personal popularity indispensable to the successful Whip.
Pleasant for his many friends to think that he lived long enough to have conferred upon him a Privy Councillorship—a simple title, but good enough forPeelandGladstone, and forDizzythroughout the plenitude of his prime.
It was not without emotion thatGulland, promoted to the Chair in the Whips' Room vacated by his esteemed Leader, moved the writ. He was comforted and encouraged by hearty cheers, not wholly confined to Ministerial side, approving thePremier'schoice.
Promoted to the ChairPromoted to the Chair in the Whips' Room.(Mr. J. W. Gulland.)
Promoted to the Chair in the Whips' Room.
(Mr. J. W. Gulland.)
Full but not crowded attendance such as usually foregathers on opening days of the school at Westminster. Khaki-clad warriors moving about House and Lobbies with martial step suggested explanation of falling-off. Two hundred Members are at the Front on active service, a score or more engaged in civilian service in connection with the War.
Business brief, curiously lifeless. Only one Question on Printed Paper where in ordinary times not unusual to find two hundred. On motion for adjournment, made within twenty minutes ofSpeaker'staking the Chair, number of desultory topics were introduced by way of cross-examination of Ministers. No disposition shown to pursue them in controversial mood. At 4.30 House adjourned.
Business done.—Both Houses reassembled after Winter Recess. In CommonsPremierannounced that Government will take the whole time for official business. Private Members and their Bills thus shunted, it will not be necessary to meet on Fridays.
Wednesday.—Gloom that lies like a pall over House momentarily lifted by unexpected agency. As at the circus when things are drifting into dullness the Clown suddenly enters, displacing monotony by merriment, so when Questions about enemy alien and the sacredness of the rights of private Members had droned along for some time Mr.Ginnell, who classifies himself as "an Independent Nationalist," presented himself from below Gangway. First distinguished himself above common horde on occasion of election ofSpeakerat opening sitting of present Parliament. TheSpeakerbeing as yet non-existent, the authority of the Chair undelegated, he had House at his mercy. Might talk as long as he pleased, say what he thought proper, with none to call him to order. Used opportunity to make violent personal attack onSpeaker-designate.
On the old tackOn the old tack.(Mr. Ginnell.)
On the old tack.
(Mr. Ginnell.)
Up again now on same tack. Appears that yesterday he handed in at the Table two Bills he proposed to carry through. No record of the procedure on to-day's Paper. Mr.Ginnellsmelt a rat. He "saw it moving in the air" in person of theSpeaker, who was "perverting against the House powers conferred on him for the maintenance of its functions and its privileges." Mr.Ginnellnot sort of man to stand this. Proposed to indictSpeakerfor misconduct. But not disposed to be unreasonable; always ready to oblige.
"If," he said, addressing theSpeaker, "I should be out of order now, may I to-morrow call attention to your conduct in the Chair?"
Speakercautiously replied that before ruling on the point he would like to see the terms of motion put down on the Paper.
Thereupon Mr.Ginnellproceeded to read a few remarks not entirely complimentary to theSpeaker, which for greater accuracy he had written out on whatPrince Arthuronce alluded to as a sheet of notepaper. Holding this firmly with both hands, lest some myrmidon of the Chair should snatch it from him, he emphasised his points by bobbing it up and down between his chin and his knee. Whilst primarily denunciatory of theSpeakerhe had a word to say in reproof ofPrime Minister, whose concession to private Members of opportunity for an hour's talk on motion for adjournment he described as being "like cutting off a private Member's head, then clipping off a portion of his ear and throwing it to his relatives."
Business done.—Without division House consented that Government business shall have precedence on every day the House sits.Premierin exquisite phrases lamented the early cutting-off ofPercy Illingworth, of whom he said: "No man had imbibed and assimilated with more zest and sympathy that strange, indefinable, almost impalpable atmosphere compounded of old traditions and of modern influences which preserves, as we all of us think, the unique but indestructible personality of the most ancient of the deliberative assemblies of the world."
Impossible more fully and accurately to describe that particular quality of the House of Commons which every one who intimately knows it feels but would hesitate to attempt to define.
Thursday.—Noble Lords are studiously and successfully disposed to conceal passing emotion. Masters of themselves though China fall, even should it drag down with it Japan and Korea. Return of LordLansdowneafter prolonged bout of illness, an event so popular that it broke through this iron shield of hereditary conventionality. His reappearance welcomed from both sides with hearty cheer, in volume more nearly approaching House of Commons habit than what is familiar in the Lords.
Leader of Oppositionis unquestionably one of the most highly esteemed among Peers. There have been crises in history of present Parliament when, through attitude taken by extreme partisans, he has found himself in difficult situation. Invariably circumvented it. Without making pretension to be a Parliamentary orator—pretension of any kind is foreign to his nature—he has the gift of saying the right thing in appropriate words at the proper moment. Looks a little worn down with long seclusion in sick chamber. But, as the House noticed with satisfaction gracefully reflected by LordCrewe, "is unimpaired in his power of Parliamentary expression."
This afternoon, to debate on LordParmoor'sBill amending Defence of Realm Act he contributed a weighty speech instinct with sound constitutional principles.
Business done.—In CommonsMcKennafound opportunity of refuting by statement of simple facts circumstantial fables about Home Office patronage of ex-German waiters. Supplementary Estimates for Civil Service voted. House counted out at 5.40. Adjourned till Monday.
PEOPLE WHO OUGHT TO BE INTERNEDPEOPLE WHO OUGHT TO BE INTERNED."I might let Harold go to the front if I thought it really necessary. But there are so many boys who are more used to roughing. You see, Harold has been so very carefully brought up."
PEOPLE WHO OUGHT TO BE INTERNED.
"I might let Harold go to the front if I thought it really necessary. But there are so many boys who are more used to roughing. You see, Harold has been so very carefully brought up."
ST. VALENTINE'S DAY, 1915.
A Missive from the Front.
Ere the first grey dawn has banishedRestless night and her alarms,When the sleeper's snores have vanishedOn the order "Stand to arms!"When the sky is bleak and drearyAnd the rain is chill and thin,Be I ne'er so damp and weary,Yet my thoughts on You I pin.When the bullets fly unheededO'er the meagre parapet,As I pace my ditch impededBy the squelching mud and wet;When I eat my Army rationWith my fingers caked in clay—You can stake your total cash onMe remembering You this day.Though the glittering knight whose chargerBore him on his lady's questWith an infinitely largerShare of warfare's pomp was blest,Yet he offered love no higher,No more difficult to quench,Than this filthy occupierOf an unromantic trench.
Ere the first grey dawn has banishedRestless night and her alarms,When the sleeper's snores have vanishedOn the order "Stand to arms!"When the sky is bleak and drearyAnd the rain is chill and thin,Be I ne'er so damp and weary,Yet my thoughts on You I pin.
When the bullets fly unheededO'er the meagre parapet,As I pace my ditch impededBy the squelching mud and wet;When I eat my Army rationWith my fingers caked in clay—You can stake your total cash onMe remembering You this day.
Though the glittering knight whose chargerBore him on his lady's questWith an infinitely largerShare of warfare's pomp was blest,Yet he offered love no higher,No more difficult to quench,Than this filthy occupierOf an unromantic trench.
RecruitRecruit(who had given his age as 33 on enlistment). "Did you 'ear that? Told me my bridle wasn't put on right! Bless 'is bloomin' innocence! And me bin in a racin' stable for the last five-and-thirty year!"
Recruit(who had given his age as 33 on enlistment). "Did you 'ear that? Told me my bridle wasn't put on right! Bless 'is bloomin' innocence! And me bin in a racin' stable for the last five-and-thirty year!"
A TERRITORIAL IN INDIA.
IV.
My dearMr. Punch,—In case you formed any mental pictures of my first Christmas as a Territorial in India, let me hasten to assure you that every single one of them was wrong. I neither took part in the uproarious festivities of the Barracks nor shared the more dignified rejoicings of the Staff Office in which I am condemned for a time to waste my military talents. An unexpected five days' holiday, and a still more unexpected windfall of Rs. 4 as a Christmas Box (fabulous gift for an impecunious private) enabled me to pay a visit to some relatives, who live at, well ——. One has to be careful. The Germans are getting desperate, and they would give worlds to know exactly where I am.
---- is a place rich in historical interest and scenic beauties. Freed from the rigid bonds of military discipline and the still more hampering restrictions of official routine, I was at liberty to enjoy them to the full. It was the opportunity of a lifetime to see something of the real India. Did I take it? No,Mr. Punch, to be honest, I did not.
After hundreds of years (so it seems) of Army active service rations, of greasy mess tins and enamelled iron mugs, I found myself suddenly confronted by civilised food waiting to be eaten in a civilised fashion. And I fell. Starting withchota hazriat 7A.M., I ate steadily every day till midnight. That is how I spent my holiday. I may as well complete this shameful confession; it was the best time I ever had in my life.
I feel confident that my stomachic feats will never be forgotten in ----. I shouldn't be surprised if in years to come the natives are found worshipping a tree trunk or stone monolith rudely carved into the semblance of an obese Territorial. It is pleasant to think that one may even have founded a new religion.
But I am grieved and troubled about one thing. I ate plantains and guavas and sweet limes and Cape gooseberries and pomolos and numberless other Indian fruits (O bliss!), but not custard apples. Custard apples, it appears, are the best of all, and they went out of season just before I arrived in India and will not come into season again for months and months.
I am confident that you will appreciate my predicament. I want the War to finish quickly, but I want to eat custard apples. I want to get to the Front and have a go at the Germans, but I desire passionately to eat custard apples. I want to get home again to you, but after all I have heard about them I feel that my life will have been lived in vain if I do not eat custard apples. It is a trying position.
Home was very much in my thoughts at Christmas time. The fact of having relatives around me, the plum pudding, the mince pies, the mistletoe, the clean plates, the china cups and saucers, the crackers, the cushions, the absence of stew,—all these and many other circumstances served to remind me vividly of the old life in England. And when regretfully I left ——, and (like a true soldier cheerfully running desperate risks) travelled back in a first-class carriage with a third-class ticket, I found at the Office yet another reminder of home and the old days. My kindly colleagues had determined that I should not feel I was in a strange land amid alien customs. They had let all the work accumulate while I was away and had it waiting for me in a vast pile on my return.
That is why this is such a short letter.
Yours ever,One of thePunchBrigade.
THE CHEERY DOGS.
I.—Mr. A.
"Well, what have we done?—that's what I want to know. Where are the Germans? In France and Belgium. Where are we? This side of them. Where is their Navy? Still only too active. And so it goes on. My dear fellow, I like to be cheerful, but you give me no material to do it on. The cold truth is that we are just where we were months ago. 'Time is on our side,' you say. May be; but the War can't go on for ever, and meanwhile look at things here—food rising, coal rising, distress all around. What do you think the income-tax is going to be soon? Ha! Still it does not do to air these opinions and doubts. We must all be gay. That is our first duty."
II.—Mr. B.
"Yes, of course there's Russia, as you say. But what is Russia? You know what Russia is. They've no heart in fighting, and I'm told that many personages in high places, and one very high indeed, are moving at this moment towards peace. That would be a nice thing, wouldn't it? It would liberate all the East frontier men and guns to come over to the West. And there's another thing about Russia too—how is it to get any more ammunition into the country with Archangel frozen? I suppose you know that we have been supplying them with ammunition ever since the start; and there's precious little left, I can tell you. You didn't know that? You surprise me. No, it doesn't do to lean too much on Russia. And money too. Where is that coming from? For ultimately, you know, all wars are fought with money. We shall have to find that too. So it isn't too easy to grin, is it? And yet I flatter myself that I succeed in conveying an impression of distinct optimism."
III.—Mr. C.
"Well, of course, if all the naturalised Germans in this country are not interned we have only ourselves to thank if we are completely conquered. Think of the terrible advantage to the enemy to have waiters spying on the guests in hotels and at once communicating with Berlin! What chance have we if that kind of thing goes on? I was in an hotel at Aylesbury only yesterday, and I am sure a waiter there was a German, although he was called Swiss. He watched everything I ate. I tell you there are German spies everywhere. What can a waiter at Aylesbury tell Berlin? Ah! that's what we don't understand. But something of the highest moment and all to our disadvantage in war. But we have spies too? Never. I can't believe that England would ever be clever enough to make use of any system of secret service. No, Sir, we're back numbers. Still, it mustn't get out. We must all pretend, as I do, that everything is all right."
IV.—Mr. D.
"I don't like the look of things in America, I can assure you. Anything but satisfactory.Dernburg'sa clever fellow and the politicians can't forget what the German vote means to them. I see nothing but trouble for us there. This Shipping Purchase Bill—that's very grave, you know; and they don't like us—it's no use pretending that they do. I read an extract only this morning from a most significant article inThe Wells Fargo Tri-Weekly Leafletwhich shows only too clearly how the wind is blowing. No, I view America and its share in the future with the gloomiest forebodings, although of course I do my best to conceal them. To the world I turn as brave a face as anyone, I trust."
V.—Mr. E.
"I don't doubt the bravery of the French; but what I do say is, where is the advance we were promised? Nibbling is all very well, but meanwhile men are dying by the thousand, and the Germans are still in the invaded country. I hear too of serious disaffection in France. There's a stop-the-war party there, growing in strength every day. We'll have 'em here soon, mark my words. The French have no stomach for long campaigns. They want their results quickly, and then back to their meals again. I take a very serious view of the situation, I can tell you, although I do all I can to keep bright and hopeful, and disguise my real feelings."
VI.—Mr. F.
"This activity of the German submarines is most depressing. Man for man we may have a better navy, but when it comes to submarines they beat us. What kind of chance have we against these stealthy invisible death-dealers? They're the things that are going to do for us. I can see it coming. But I keep the fact to myself as much as possible—one must not be a wet blanket."
VII.—Mr. G.
"If only we had a decent government, instead of this set of weaklings, I should feel more secure. But with this Cabinet—some of them pro-Germans at heart, if the truth were known—what can you expect? Still, one must not drag party politics in now. We must be solid for the country, and if anyone raises his voice against the Liberals in my presence he gets it hot, I can tell you. None the less a good rousing attack byBonar Lawon the Government, root and branch, every few days would be a grand thing. As I always say, the duty of the Opposition is to oppose."
And these are not all.
REVERSES.
(From the Front.)
Just a line to let you know, Jim, howall goes.Well, in spite of Bosches, rain and mud and muck,I've had nothing to complain of as I knowsTill last week, when comes a run of rotten luck.First, a Black Maria busts aside o' me,And I lost, well, I should say a hundred fags!Then I goes and drops a fine mouth-organ—see?And it sinks in one of these here slimy quags.Then I chucks my kit down when we charged next day(You've no use for eighty pounds odd when you sprints),And while we was at it, what d' yer think, mate, eh?Why, some blighter pinched my tin o' peppermints!Crool luck, warn't it? But I'm pretty bobbish still—Here's the Surgeon come, a very decent bloke;I'm in horspital, I should 'a' said—not ill,Just my right leg crocked and four or five ribs broke.
Just a line to let you know, Jim, howall goes.Well, in spite of Bosches, rain and mud and muck,I've had nothing to complain of as I knowsTill last week, when comes a run of rotten luck.
First, a Black Maria busts aside o' me,And I lost, well, I should say a hundred fags!Then I goes and drops a fine mouth-organ—see?And it sinks in one of these here slimy quags.
Then I chucks my kit down when we charged next day(You've no use for eighty pounds odd when you sprints),And while we was at it, what d' yer think, mate, eh?Why, some blighter pinched my tin o' peppermints!
Crool luck, warn't it? But I'm pretty bobbish still—Here's the Surgeon come, a very decent bloke;I'm in horspital, I should 'a' said—not ill,Just my right leg crocked and four or five ribs broke.
First Lessons in Seamanship.
Extract from theChurchillinterview:—
"Pacing his room thoughtfully, Mr. Churchill paused before a globe which he twirled round in his fingers like the rudder of a ship."
"Pacing his room thoughtfully, Mr. Churchill paused before a globe which he twirled round in his fingers like the rudder of a ship."
This is "What 'Roger' Hears" inThe Northampton Daily Chronicle:—
"That a burglar entered 34, Birchfield road, Northampton, last evening, and decamped with several articles of jewellery while the residents, Mr. and Mrs. Mace, were out for an hour and a half.That the Belgian guests who are being so generously entertained by the Mount Pleasant friends were present, and rendered musical items."
"That a burglar entered 34, Birchfield road, Northampton, last evening, and decamped with several articles of jewellery while the residents, Mr. and Mrs. Mace, were out for an hour and a half.
That the Belgian guests who are being so generously entertained by the Mount Pleasant friends were present, and rendered musical items."
On police whistles, we hope.
Small boySmall boy."What's on the poster, mother?"Mother."Only 'more gains and losses,' but whether on our side or the other it doesn't say."
Small boy."What's on the poster, mother?"
Mother."Only 'more gains and losses,' but whether on our side or the other it doesn't say."
BROKEN MELODIES.
"Aren't music publishers maddening?" said Clarice. "Here's a tune that promises awfully well, and breaks off suddenly."
I went over to the piano.
On the music-rest was a sheet of music, back to front, showing the opening bars of several songs the publishers wished to commend to our notice; appetisers, as it were.
Clarice played the opening bars, the only ones which were given.
"Please continue," I said; "I'm beginning to like it already."
"How can I?" said Clarice. "How do I know how it goes on? It's simply maddening."
"Aren't there any rules?" I said. "What I mean is, don't certain notes follow certain other notes?"
"Not necessarily," said Clarice. "Why should they?"
"Why shouldn't they?" I persisted. "In hockey, footer, billiards and the other arts certain movements are inevitably followed by certain consequences. It ought to be the same in music. However, as a poet it is the words which really interest me. Listen to this: 'Somebody whispered to me yestre'en, Somebody whispered to me, And my heart gave a flutter and—' Ah, of course I know—and I trod on the butter."
"Which soon wasn't fit to be seen," said Clarice.
"Bravo," I said, "very soulful. Now look at the one above it: 'The rosy glow of summer is on thy dimpled cheek, While——' There's a poser for you."
"Oh, how pretty!" said Clarice. "And listen to the tune." She played what notes there were two or three times over. "I really must get that one," she added.
"Do," I said. "I should like to hear more about that girl. These publishers know how to whet one's appetite, don't they? By Jove, here's a gem—'I sat by the window dreaming, In the hush of eventide, Of the——' Now what does one dream about at that time?"
"You dream of dinner chiefly, I've noticed," said Clarice.
"That's the idea," I said. "Of the soup (tomato) steaming, The steak and mushrooms fried.Who's the publisher?"
"Crammer," said Clarice.
I took up another sheet of music and hunted for more treasure. "Here's something fruity," I said, "published by Scarey and Co.: 'Oh, the lover hills are happy at the dawning of the day; There are winds to kiss and bless us, there is——'"
"What?" said Clarice.
"How should I know?" I said. "Let's get the song and find out. Get them all, in fact."
"Do you think we ought to?" said Clarice.
"Yes, certainly," I said. "It's good for trade. My motto is 'Music as Usual during the War.'"
The Contractor's Touch.
From a label on a tin of Army jam:—"DAMSON AND APPLE,From Seville Oranges and Refined Sugar only."
From a label on a tin of Army jam:—
"DAMSON AND APPLE,From Seville Oranges and Refined Sugar only."
Thus monotony is avoided.
"In standing at ease recruitswillnot carry the left leg twelve paces to the left, and balance the body on both legs equally."—Royal Magazine.
"In standing at ease recruitswillnot carry the left leg twelve paces to the left, and balance the body on both legs equally."—Royal Magazine.
Probably they think that they would not feel really at ease if they did. Personally we find that two paces and a half is our limit.
MORE THAN TWO.
Host.No, please don't sit there.
1st Guest.Oh yes, I much prefer it.
2nd Guest.Do let me.
Host.I can't have you sitting there.
1st Guest.I assure you I like being back to the driver.
Host.No, if anyone sits there, naturally it must be me.
2nd Guest.Do let me.
1st Guest.Not at all.
2nd Guest.I assure you I prefer it too.
Host.No, sit here. When you're both comfortably settled, I'll get in.
1st Guest.Oh no, please. I'm sure you never sit there. I hate to take away your own place.
2nd Guest.Do let me.
Host.I insist.
1st Guest.Please don't say any more about it. See, I'm in now and quite comfy.
Host.It's very wrong of you to be there.
2nd Guest.Do let me.
Host.Can't I persuade you to change?
1st Guest.No.
2nd Guest.Do let me.
Host.Well, it's very wrong. I know that.
1st Guest. Please let us get on now. I never was more comfy in my life.
Host.You're sure?
2nd Guest.Do let me.
Host.But it's most unsatisfactory.
1st Guest.Not at all.
Host.Then you're sure you're all right?
1st Guest.Absolutely. I love it here.
Host.Very well then. (Sighs.)
2nd Guest.Do let me.
1st Guest.No, we're all fixed now.
Host.All right. (To chauffeur) Let her go! (To 1st Guest) It's a great shame, though.
1st Guest.I love it.
2nd Guest.I do wish you had let me.
And that is what happens whenever three polite people are about to ride in a motor-car.
Shares.
"A purse, containing sum of money; owner can have some."—Advt. in "Portsmouth Evening News."
"A purse, containing sum of money; owner can have some."—Advt. in "Portsmouth Evening News."
And the finder may keep the rest for his trouble.
The Daily Chronicle(Kingston, Jamaica) says of the new Military Decoration:—
"It is of silver, and bears the imperial crown on each arm and in the centre the letters 'G.R.I.' (George, ex-Imperator)."
"It is of silver, and bears the imperial crown on each arm and in the centre the letters 'G.R.I.' (George, ex-Imperator)."
At least that'sWilliam'sinterpretation of it.
CLEAN BRITISH HUMOURCLEAN BRITISH HUMOUR.(As the saying is.)Mr. Hawtrey and Miss Compton exchange Badinage over a bar of soap.
CLEAN BRITISH HUMOUR.
(As the saying is.)
Mr. Hawtrey and Miss Compton exchange Badinage over a bar of soap.
AT THE PLAY.
"A Busy Day."
I have always wanted to be a grocer. To spend the morning arranging the currants in the window; to spend the afternoon recommending (with a parent's partiality) such jolly things as bottled gooseberries and bloater paste; to spend the evening examining the till and wondering if you have got off the bad half-crown yet—that is a life. Many grocers, I believe, do not realise it, and envy (foolishly enough) the dramatic critic, knowing little of the troubles hidden behind his apparently spotless shirt-front; but even they will admit that to be a grocer for an hour would be fun.
And that (very nearly) wasLord Charles Temperleigh'sluck. Being a spendthrift he was kept at The Bungalow, Ashford, without money; he escaped to the shop of his old nurse at Mudborough, with the idea of borrowing from her—and if you are a clever dramatist you can easily arrange that he should be left alone in the shop and mistaken for the genuine salesman. Unfortunately for my complete happiness (and no doubtLord Charles'stoo) the shop was a chandler's; however, if that is not the rose, it is at least very near it. The chandler sells soap and the grocer sells cheese, and you can make a joke about the likeness as Mr.R. C. Cartondid. And ifLord Charlesshould happen to be Mr.Charles Hawtreyand he should be accompanied by MissCompton, you can understand that this and other jokes would lose nothing in their delivery.
Yet somehow the shop scene was not the success it should have been. The First and Third Acts were better; they left more to Mr.Hawtrey. When Mr.Cartonis trying to be funny, even Mr.Hawtreycannot help him much; but when he is taking it easily then he and Mr.Hawtreytogether are delightful. Mr.Edward Fitzgeraldas an Irish waiter was a joy. MissComptonwas MissCompton; if you like her (as I do), then you like her. The others had not much chance. It is aHawtreyevening, and (as such) an oasis in a desert of War thoughts.
M.
A PRELUDE.
["Birds in London are already growing alive to the approach of Spring."—The Times.]
["Birds in London are already growing alive to the approach of Spring."—The Times.]
A portly, fancy-vested thrush,That carolled, on a wintry spray,A crazy song of Spring-time—Hush!No, not the oneByMendelssohnVictorian Britons used to play,But just the sort of casual thingAn absent-minded bird might sing.Observing whom—"Alas," I said,"Good friend, how premature your theme!By some phenomenon misled,You've overshotThe date a lot;Things are so seldom what they seem!""Then hear the simple truth," quoth he,"For that's another rarity."There is a foreign, furious man,That sends great engines through the airTo deal destruction where they can,To rain their firesOn ancient spires,Ousting the birds that settle there,And agitates, of fixed intent,Our pleasaunce in the firmament."And everybody says the SpringWill see him pay the price of it,So that is why I choose to singWhat isn't true—But as for you,Be off and do your little bit!It's not for you to stand and quiz—The season'swhat I say it is!"
A portly, fancy-vested thrush,That carolled, on a wintry spray,A crazy song of Spring-time—Hush!No, not the oneByMendelssohnVictorian Britons used to play,But just the sort of casual thingAn absent-minded bird might sing.
Observing whom—"Alas," I said,"Good friend, how premature your theme!By some phenomenon misled,You've overshotThe date a lot;Things are so seldom what they seem!""Then hear the simple truth," quoth he,"For that's another rarity.
"There is a foreign, furious man,That sends great engines through the airTo deal destruction where they can,To rain their firesOn ancient spires,Ousting the birds that settle there,And agitates, of fixed intent,Our pleasaunce in the firmament.
"And everybody says the SpringWill see him pay the price of it,So that is why I choose to singWhat isn't true—But as for you,Be off and do your little bit!It's not for you to stand and quiz—The season'swhat I say it is!"
"A Chicago Reuter message says that Hugh Henderson has won the American draughts championship by defeating Alfred Jordan, the London champion.Draught horses were in most demand at Aldridge's, St. Martin's-lane, yesterday, and the sums obtained ranged from 30gs. to 49gs."
"A Chicago Reuter message says that Hugh Henderson has won the American draughts championship by defeating Alfred Jordan, the London champion.
Draught horses were in most demand at Aldridge's, St. Martin's-lane, yesterday, and the sums obtained ranged from 30gs. to 49gs."
Daily Telegraph.
The forty-nine guinea one has challengedHugh Henderson.
East Coast FarmerEast Coast Farmer."Have I really to do this wi' all my beasts, if so be as the Germans land in these parts?"Officer."Yes. Live stock of every description has to be branded and driven west."Farmer."I can see my way all right except for my bees. What am I to do wi' my bees?"
East Coast Farmer."Have I really to do this wi' all my beasts, if so be as the Germans land in these parts?"
Officer."Yes. Live stock of every description has to be branded and driven west."
Farmer."I can see my way all right except for my bees. What am I to do wi' my bees?"
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
(By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks.)
There are few living writers of romance who can carry the sword and doublet with the ease of MissMarjorie Bowen. She has long since proved herself a practised mistress of mediævalism, andThe Carnival of Florence(Methuen) finds her therefore on sure ground. It is a pleasantly stimulating tale of love and adventure in the days ofSavonarola. The heroine is oneAprilis, a fair Florentine whose matrimonial affairs were complicated by the fact that early in the story she had been abducted (strictlypour le bon motifin order to score off the gentleman to whom she was then engaged) by the too notoriousPiero dei Medici. The unfortunate results were twofold, for thoughApriliswas returned unharmed to her father's house her noble betrothed would have no more of her, so she had to put up with another husband who took her for charity, and to suffer in addition the pangs of unrequited love for the Lord of Florence whom she was unable to forget. What happened—how theMediciwere turned from their heritage, and the part played in all this by the grim Revivalist of San Marco—is the matter of a story well worth reading. As is his way with tales in which he appears, the figure ofSavonarolacomes gradually to dominate the whole; did he not even masterGeorge Eliot? The present story is dedicated "In Memory of Florence, Summer 1914." Presumably, therefore, MissBowenshares with me certain memories that have been very vividly recalled by her pages—memories of a June evening when, as in the days of which she writes, the Piazza della Signoria echoed to the clash of swords and the tumult of an angry mob. That it has thus reminded me of what would, but for greater happenings since, have been one of my most thrilling chimney-corner reminiscences, is among the pleasures that I owe to a stirring and successful novel.
Among my favourite gambits in fiction is the return to his impoverished home of one who left it a supposed wastrel, and has now lots and lots of money. Personally, if I have a preference, it is that my wanderer should be at first unrecognised; but I am perhaps too fastidious. Certainly I am not going to complain aboutBig Tremaine(Mills and Boon) just because when he came back to the Virginian township that he had quitted as a bank thief his old coloured nurse saw through him in once. There is, of course, Homeric precedent for the situation; it is one that, deftly handled, can scarcely fail of its effect. And the story ofBig Tremaineis very deftly handled almost all through.Marie Van Vorstevidently knows the gentle Southern life thoroughly; her pictures of it have served to increase my conviction that Virginia must be one of the pleasantest places on earth. Not less true and delicate is her treatment of the relations between masterfulTremaineand the gently obstinate mother who turns so slowly from distrust to adoration of her returned son. There are, in short, a great many qualities in this story that I havefound vastly agreeable. Also what seems to me one big defect. But as this latter is so far essential that without it there would be no story I am unable further to tell you about it. Still, I am bound to say that its revelation was a nasty shock to my admiration, which had been roused more than anything else by the sincerity and unconventionality of the argument. This is a matter on which you shall pass your own verdict. Mine would be "A Happy Ending committed through unjustified fear of the libraries"; and in view of the charm of her earlier chapters I should discharge the author with a friendly caution.