PERCY MINIMUS AND HIS TOMMYThere were three Percys at Merivale, and they were all there together; and to masters they were, of course, known as Percy major, Percy minor, and Percy minimus, but we called them "the Three Maniacs."Though mad, they were nice chaps in a way, and did unexpected things and always interested everybody because of their surprises. They were all very different but very original, owing to their father being a well-known actor. And Percy major was already an actor by nature, and could imitate anything with remarkable exactness, from Dr. Dunston to a monkey on a barrel organ. He could even imitate a hen with chickens, but he was going for much higher flights when he went on the stage, and knew the parts of Hamlet and Macbeth and Richard III by heart; though he said to Travers, and I heard him, that it would probably be many a long day before he got a chance to act these great tragical characters before a London audience. His father, on the contrary, was a comedian, and Blades had once seen him in a pantomime and liked him, and said that he was good.Percy minor was not going on the stage, though when he liked he could be awfully funny. Only he was generally serious, and meant to be a painter. His great hope was to take likenesses, and he was always practising it, and his school books were full of portraits of chaps and masters. Some you could recognize.As for Percy minimus, he was the maddest of the lot, and my special friend. We were in the Lower Third; and Forbes minimus was also our special friend. But he chucked Merivale, as his parents went to the Cape of Good Hope and took him, and then Percy and I were left.Percy never came out much while his brothers were at Merivale, and his only strong point was singing in the choir. At music he was an undoubted dab, and he liked it, and he said that, if his voice turned into anything worth mentioning after it cracked, he should very likely be an opera singer of the first water. And if it failed and fizzled away to nothing after cracking, as treble voices sometimes do, then he was going to be a clergyman--if his father would let him.He certainly sang like the devil, and Mr. Prowse, our music-master, was fearfully keen on him, and arranged solos in chapel for him. And people came from long distances on Sundays to hear him sing, though old Dunston always thought, when outsiders turned up to the chapel services, it was to hear him preach. But far from it.Well, this Percy minimus was what you may call sentimental, and he certainly was a bit of a girl in some ways. I hated that squashy side of him, and tried to cure it; but I forgave him, because he liked me, and not many chaps did, owing to my having a stammer.Percy minimus was frightfully interested in my stammer, and said it would very likely be cured when I grew up. He said that people who stammer when they talk can often sing quite well; so I tried and found it was so. But here, again, there was a drawback, because my singing voice, though quite without any stammer, was right bang off as a voice, and even funnier than my stammer.Percy minimus said it was just the sound a fly made before it died, when it was caught by a spider; so naturally I chucked it.But this about Percy, not me. He had very kind instincts, and was of a gentle disposition. For instance, when three of the masters went to the war, and Dr. Dunston said he was going to fill the breach and do extra work and take our class; while we much regretted it, Percy minimus thought it was fine of the Doctor.He said:"Though it is bad hearing for us, Cornwallis, we are bound to admit it is sporting of him. Because, at his great age, it must be very tiring to do a lot of extra work; and no doubt to take the Lower Third must be fairly deadly for such a learned man as him.""It will be deadlier for us," I said; and, of course, it was. But that shows the queer views that Percy gets--hardly natural, I call it. And then, when the Doctor threw up the sponge and got a new master called Peacock to help and fill the gap till after the War, when Hutchings and Meadows would come back, if alive, Percy minimus was queer again.This Peacock was old and dreadfully humble. I don't think he'd ever been a master before, and he was very unlike his name in every way, and had no idea of keeping order, but went in for getting our affection. He tried frantically to be friendly; but he failed, because he was too wormlike, being a crushed and shabby man with a thin, grey beard. And when he attempted to fling himself into a game of hockey and be young and dashing, he hurt himself and had to go in and get brandy.I believe he was a sort of charity on old Dunston's part, really, for Mr. Peacock told Pegram that he had a wife and six children, and his eldest son was at the War, and his second son was in the General Post Office, and his eldest daughter was a schoolmistress at Bedford.Fancy telling Pegram these things! All Pegram did afterwards was to make fun of Peacock and treat him with scorn, and many did the same; but Percy minimus encouraged him, and he liked Percy minimus, and told him several things about the General Post Office not generally known.Peacock, finding that me and Percy minimus were rather above the common herd, told us that he was very anxious about his son at the War, and was very interested about the War in general, and made us interested in it, too. He read us a letter from his son at the Front, and Percy minimus said it brought home the horrors--especially in the matters of food.Though not a great eater, Percy liked nice food better than any other kind, and then, owing to this great feeling for nice food, there happened the curious, and in fact most extraordinary, adventure of his life.He came to me much excited one day with a newspaper. It was a week old, but otherwise perfect in every way, and it had started a scheme for sending the men at the Front a jolly good Christmas gift. For the sum of five shillings the newspaper promised to send off tobacco and cigarettes and sweets and chocolate and a new wooden pipe, all in one parcel; and so, as Percy minimus pointed out, if you could only rake up that amount and send it to the paper, it meant that one man in the trenches on Christmas Day would have the great joy of receiving all these luxuries in one simultaneous parcel from an unknown friend at home.I said:"It's a splendid idea, and I should like nothing better; but, of course, in our case, it is out of the question. We've both subscribed to the Hutchings' testimonial, and there's not a penny in sight for me this side of Christmas, and no more there is for you."He admitted this, but said, because there wasn't a penny in sight, it didn't follow we might not, by some unheard-of deeds, rake up the money in time. And I said, well knowing what five shillings meant, that the deeds would certainly have to be unheard-of. I said:"There's a fortnight before you have to send in the money, but, so far as I am concerned, it might just as well be ten years."And he said:"The problem simply is: How to raise five shillings out of nothing in fourteen days."And I said:"Yes."And he said:"It sounds simple enough."And I said:"The hardest problems often do."In two days he had got a shilling, by selling a thing he greatly valued. It was a tie his mother had given him, and it was made of sheeny silk, and changed colour according to which way you looked at it. His mother had given half a crown for it, and Percy wore it on Sundays only.It was Sutherland who gave the money; and that still left four shillings, and Percy minimus hadn't got another thing in the world worth twopence. He then tried writing home, and failed. He said his father was out of work, and, though a very generous and kind father as a rule, not just now. His mother also failed him. She wrote sorrowfully, but said that she and his father had done everything about the War they could for the present. He then wrote to his godmother, and got a shilling. Encouraged by this, he wrote to his godfather, who didn't answer the letter.Fourpence had gone on stamps for these four letters, and he was accordingly left with one and eightpence. Subtracting this from five shillings, you will find he still had to raise three shillings and fourpence.It looked hopeless, and I pointed out there was the additional danger that he might be accused of getting money under false pretences if he didn't collect the lot; but he did not fear that, because, as he said, whatever he might get, he could send to some other charity which was open to take less than five shillings.There were now seven days left, and he began to get very fidgetty and wretched. He said he was always seeing in his mind's eye a Tommy in the trenches waiting and watching and hoping, between his fights, that Percy minimus would send him one of those grand simultaneous packets. It got on his nerves after a bit, and twice he woke me in the dead of the night in our dormitory sniffing very loud.I said:"You're making a toil of a pleasure, Percy."And he said:"No, I'm not. Whenever I go to sleep, I dream of my Tommy in the trenches; and the parcels are being given out by Lord French, and my Tommy stretches up his hand eagerly and hopefully; but there's no parcel for him. And he shrugs his shoulders and just bears it, and goes back to his gun; but it's simply hell for me.""What's he like?" I asked, to get Percy minimus off the sad side of it."Huge and filthy," said Percy minimus. "He has a brown face and a big, black moustache and one of the new steel hats; and he's plastered with mud, and his eyes roll with craving for cigarettes and chocolates.""You needn't worry," I said. "He'll get his parcel all right. Of course, they won't miss him.""What a fool you are, Cornwallis!" he answered, still sniffing. "Can't you see that, if I don't send a parcel, there will be one parcel less; and so one man will go without who would otherwise have had a parcel; and that man will be this one I see in my dreadful dreams.""If you put it like that," I said--"of course."Then he had another beastly thought."I've got an idea the man is Peacock's son," he said. "And I feel a regular traitor to Peacock now every time I look at him.""Then why don't you ask him for some money?" I naturally answered."I feel he hasn't got any," replied Percy. "But I can try.""Besides," I said, "his son may be an officer, and, of course, they would be far above parcels.""I hope he is," said Percy; "but I don't think he is. And nobody would be above a parcel at a time like that."Anyway he asked Peacock, and Peacock gave him sixpence, and wished he could do better. This made two and twopence; and the same day Percy found a threepenny piece in the playground; and though, at another time, he would have mentioned this, with a view of returning it to the proper owner, now he didn't, but said it was a Providence, and added it to the rest.And this gave him another hopeful idea, and he mentioned the parcel for his Tommy in his prayers, morning and evening, and asked me to do so too. I was fed up with the whole thing by now, because Percy was getting fairly tormented by it, and even said he saw the Tommy looking at him in broad daylight sometimes--over the playground wall, or through the window in the middle of a class. Still I obliged him, and prayed four times for him to get his two and sevenpence; but there was no reply whatever; and in this way two days were wasted.Then he had a desperate but brilliant idea, and told me. He said:"After school on Friday, in the half-hour before tea, I'm going to break bounds and go down into Merivale and stand by the pavement and sing the solo from the anthem we did last Sunday! Many people who sing along by the pavement make money by doing so, and I might.""If you're caught, Dunston will flog you," I reminded him.But he was far past a thing like that. His eyes had glittered in rather a wild way for three days now, and he said the Tommy with the black moustache was always looking reproachfully at him, and if he shut his eyes he saw him more distinctly than ever. In fact, he was getting larger and more threatening every minute. He said:"A mere flogging is nothing to what they endure in the trenches."It was a sporting idea, and I would have risked it and gone with him; in fact, I offered, being his great chum, but he would not allow me."No," he said, "nothing is gained by your coming. This is entirely my affair. Besides, you wouldn't tempt people to subscribe."So he went, and escaped in the darkness, and I waited at the limit of "bounds" with great anxiety to meet him when he came back. My last word to him was not to sing his bit out of an anthem, but something comic about the War. But he didn't know anything comic about the War, and he said, even if he did, that such a thing would only amuse common people, who could not be supposed to give more than halfpence, if they gave anything at all; whereas a solo from a fine anthem would attract a better class, who understood more about music, and were more religious, and consequently had more money.So he went, and in about twenty minutes, to my great horror, I saw him being brought back in the custody of Brown--our well known master!The hateful Brown always loves to score off anybody not in his own class, and so, seeing Percy warbling out of bounds in the middle of Merivale, and about ten people, mostly kids, listening to him, he pounced on the wretched Percy and dragged him away. He'd been singing about ten minutes when the blow fell, and he was fearfully upset about it, because everything had been going jolly well, and he had already made no less than sevenpence in coppers, all from oldish women. He had been told to go away from in front of a butcher's shop, but nobody else had interfered with him in the least, and he had sung the anthem solo through twice, and was just off again when the brutal Brown came along and saw the Merivale colours on his cap, recognized Percy minimus, and very nearly had a fit.So there it was; and he got flogged, and Dr. Dunston said it showed low tastes, and would have been a source of great sorrow to his father. And he also said that to explode a sacred air in that way in hope of touching the charitable to fill his own pocket was about the limit, and a great disgrace to the school in general. All of which went off Percy like water off a duck's back, and the flogging didn't seem to hurt him either.And there were four days still, and he said his Tommy grew larger and larger, until he was almost as big as a house. In fact, Percy minimus was rapidly growing dotty, and, as his great friend, I felt I must do something, or he would very likely get some other dangerous illness, or have a fit, or lose his mind for ever and become a maniac in real earnest. So I told Percy minor; but unfortunately he and my Percy had quarrelled rather bitterly for the moment, and Percy minor said he didn't care what happened to Percy minimus; and that if he went out of his mind he wouldn't have far to go; while, as to Percy major, I couldn't tell him, because he had left Merivale the term before.The matron now discovered that Percy was queer, for she'd been making him take pills for two days, and then one night, hearing him sigh fearfully after he was in bed, she tried his temperature, and found it about three hundred degrees of warmth. So she lugged him off to the sick room, and Dr. Weston came in his motor, and said he couldn't see any reason for it, and gave Percy some muck to calm him down.Next day he was kept in the sick room, though cooler, and when Dr. Weston came on that day and questioned Percy in a kind tone of voice, he explained the whole thing to the doctor, and said that he was in fearful difficulties of mind. And Dr. Weston asked him what difficulties, and he said for two shillings, which, added to three, make five.Then the doctor told him to go on, so he did, and showed the doctor the advertisement from the paper about the simultaneous parcels. He also said that his Tommy had now grown as big as a cloud in the sky, and was always looking at him by night and day hungrily, and urging him on to fresh efforts. And he also said that if he was only allowed to go into the streets and sing an anthem for an hour or two, the two shillings would be accomplished, and all would be well. And encouraged by the great interest of Dr. Weston, Percy minimus ventured to ask him if he thought he could ask Dr. Dunston to allow this to be done, seeing it meant great comfort and joy for a Tommy in the trenches on Christmas Day.It made Percy much cooler and calmer explaining why his temperature had run up, and the doctor said it was undoubtedly not good for Percy to have the Tommy so much on his mind. He didn't approve of the idea of Percy singing either; but he put his hand into his waistcoat pocket and produced a two-shilling piece, as if it was nothing, and he said that if the matron or somebody, would get a postal order for five shillings and send it off at once, he had every reason to think that Percy would soon recover.Which was done, and I was allowed to see Percy, and bring from his desk the cutting out of the newspaper, which he had already signed with his name and address, which were to go to the Front with his parcel. And Percy said that a great weight had now been lifted from his brain, which no doubt it had.Anyhow, when Dr. Weston came next day he found Percy in a bath of perspiration, and was much pleased, and said he was practically cured. And Percy told him that his Tommy had now shrunk to about the size of an ordinary Tommy, and only came when he was asleep, and was not in the least reproachful, but quite pleasant and nice. And one day later the Tommy disappeared altogether, and Percy minimus became perfectly well. In fact, before the holidays arrived he seemed to have forgotten all about his Tommy, and I took jolly good care not to remind him.He got fearfully keen about Dr. Weston then, and said that he was the best man he had ever seen or heard of; and he even hoped that next term he might run up to three hundred degrees again--just for the great pleasure of seeing and talking to this doctor once more.But that wasn't all by any means--in fact, you might say that far the most remarkable part of the adventure of Percy minimus had yet to come. He went home for the holidays, and when he came back, much to my astonishment, he was full of his blessed Tommy again. He actually said that he'd got a photograph of him!I thought that coming back to school had made him queer once more, but he wasn't in the least queer, for I saw the photograph with my own eyes.It was like this: the Tommy who had got the Christmas parcel which Percy's five shillings bought, found Percy's address in it, according to the splendid arrangement of the newspaper, and, though far too busy in the trenches to take any notice of it just then, he was not too busy to smoke the new pipe and the cigarettes and eat the various sweets--no doubt between intervals of fiery slaughter. But he kept Percy's address in his pocket, for he was a good and grateful man; and then, most unfortunately, he was hit in the foot by a piece of shrapnel shell, and though far from killed, yet so much wounded that he had to retire from the Front. In fact, he was sent home to recover, and one day in hospital, about a week before the end of the holidays, he had found Percy minimus's name and address in the pocket of his coat, and had written Percy a most interesting letter of four pages, saying that the parcel had been a great comfort to him, and that he had sucked the last peppermint drop only an hour before being shrapnelled. And, having been photographed several times in the hospital by visitors, he sent Percy minimus one. And there he was!I said it was a jolly interesting thing, and so on; but I couldn't for the moment see why Percy was so frightfully excited about it, because it was quite a possible thing to happen, though, of course, very good in its way, and a letter he would always keep.And he said:"You don't seem to see the point, Cornwallis. It's a miracle."And I said:"Why?"And he said:"Because this is the very identical Tommy I was always seeing in my dreams--the very identical one!"I hadn't thought of that, but somehow taken it for granted. Then he pointed out it wasn't in the least a thing to take for granted, but the purest miracle that ever happened in the memory of man, and quite beyond human power to explain it in the world.I said there might be people in the world who could, but he wouldn't hear of such a thing. He said:"No--not in this world; but no doubt there are in the next."And I said:"Then you'll have to wait."And he said:"It's done one thing; it's quite decided me about my future. I'm going to be a clergyman."And I said:"Not if your voice doesn't crack, surely?""My voice!" answered Percy minimus with great scorn. "What is a voice compared to a miracle? If miracles happen to you, then, if you've got any proper feeling, you ought to insist on being a clergyman."So I suppose he will be. But whatever else he is--even if he rises to be a Canon or a Bishop--he'll always be a maniac, the same as his brothers.THE PRIZE POEMThings were beastly dull at Merivale when we went back after the Christmas holidays, and I believe even the Doctor felt it. Of course, from our point of view, his life must always be deadly, but I suppose he gets a certain amount of feeble excitement into it, in ways not known to us. It's rather interesting to wonder what old people do find worth doing; yet they must do something to amuse themselves, off and on, or they'd go mad, I should think, which they seldom do. The amusements of a very old person must be rather weird, yet they clearly like to be alive, for when my grandmother died, she was eighty--a time of life when you'd think there was simply nothing left. Yet, when I went to say farewell to her, she told me she hoped to see the spring flowers once more. She didn't; but it shows how fearfully hard-up old people must be for amusement of any kind; for who on earth would want to see flowers, spring or otherwise, if practically everything else had not been lost to them? Myself I would much rather have died years before than eat the food my grandmother ate, and never go out except in a bath-chair; but she found it good enough, strange to say. So, no doubt, Dr. Dunston, who is entirely active, and can eat meat and drink wine and walk rapidly about, still finds being Head of Merivale School all right.But the winter term was deadly, what with the bad weather and the slow progress of the War, and losing most of our football matches, owing to having a very weak team.Then old Peacock, of all men--the new master, I mean--got an idea, and Fortescue thought it was a good one, and Peacock proposed it to the Doctor, and Dr. Dunston agreed to it.In fact, he announced it after chapel during the third week of February in these words:"Our new friend, Mr. Peacock, has made a proposal to me, and I have great pleasure not only in agreeing with him, but in congratulating him on a very happy thought. Suspecting that there may be mute, inglorious Miltons amongst us--a sanguine hope I cannot share--Mr. Peacock has thought that it would add an interest to the term and wake a measure of enthusiasm and energy in the ranks of our versifiers if we initiate a competition. He suggests a prize poem upon the subject of the War; and while my heart misgives me, yet I bow to Mr. Peacock's generous proposal. You are invited, one and all of you, from the greatest to the least, to write a prize poem on the subject of the War, and if such a momentous theme fails to produce some notable addition to our war poetry, then Mr. Peacock's disappointment will be considerable. He trusts you to enter upon this task in no light spirit, and when I add that Mr. Peacock proposes to give a prize of one guinea--twenty-one shillings--to the victorious poet, you will see that a real effort is needed. You will have a calendar month to prepare and execute your verses, which must be composed outside the regular school hours; and I may tell you that unless a certain humble standard of intelligence and poetic ability is reached, I shall direct Mr. Peacock to withhold his prize."Well, there it was; and, of course, a good deal of excitement occurred, and it was jolly interesting to see who entered for the prize poem and who did not. No doubt Travers major would have won it without an effort, being so keen about everything to do with war; but, luckily for the rest, he had left to go to Woolwich the term before. Travers minor entered because he was strongly advised to, being a flier at literature in general and keen about poetry; but he said frankly he should not praise the War, but slate it, because he utterly disagreed with it and hated war in general.Of course, the prize being a guinea made a lot of difference, and many unexpected chaps decided to write a prize poem, though most of these, when they sat down with pens and ink to do it, found such a thing quite beyond them in every way.I myself--my name is Abbott--was one of these, and after reading a good many real poems of the War, which Mr. Fortescue, who was a great poet and much interested in the competition, kindly lent me, I found, on setting out to do it, that the difficulties were far too great. Rhymes are easy enough to get, in a way, but when you come to string the poem together, you generally find your rhymes aren't solemn enough. I believe I could have written a screamily funny prize poem; but, of course, that wouldn't have pleased the Doctor, or Peacock either, so it wasn't any good wasting time being funny. For instance, I wrote the following poem in less than ten minutes:The Hun, the Hun, the footling Hun,Most certainly doth take the bun.And Blades and several other chaps said it was jolly good. But Blades, who had also had a shot or two on the quiet, was like me--he could only make comic poems, and the stanzas of his poem took the form of Limericks. He said he could invent them with the greatest ease--in class, or at prayers, or at meals, or going to bed, or getting up, or in his bath--in fact, at any time when he wasn't playing football. He gave me an example, which seemed to me so frightfully good that I thought very likely Peacock would have given him a consolation prize. So he tried it on Peacock; but Mr. Peacock thought nothing of it, and said that was not at all the spirit of a prize poem, but belonged to the gutter-press, whatever that is. It ran like this:The Kaiser set off for PareeAs if it was only a spree,But old French's Army,It soon knocked him barmy,And now he is melancolee.He next had a flutter at Nancy,Though doubtless a little bit chancy;But his men got a doing,With plenty more brewing,So he galloped off, saying, "Just fancy!"There were hundreds more verses--in fact, you might say the whole history of the War as far as it had got; and I advised Blades to send it toThe Times--to buck it up--orPunch, or something; but he wouldn't, and when Peacock decided it was no use, he gave up writing it, so a good poem was lost, in my opinion.Many fell out before the appointed day for sending in the prize poems; but many did not, and though it was natural that a good few chaps chucked it, the extraordinary thing was the number of chaps who kept on to the bitter end, so to speak, and sent in poems. Almost the most amazing was Mitchell. He certainly had made a rude poem once in a moment of rage, but as to real poetry, a cabbage might just as well have tried to make a poem as him. He was only keen about one thing in the world, and that was money; and, of course, that was why he entered the competition. He said to me: "I'd do much worse things than make a prize poem, if anybody offered me a guinea. If it had been one of the Doctor's wretched prizes, I wouldn't have attempted it; but a guinea is a guinea, and as nobody here can make poetry for nuts, I'm just as likely to bring it off as anybody else. It's taking a risk, in a way, but I've got my ideas about the War, just as much as Travers minor or Sutherland, and, if I don't win, I shall get a bit of fun out of it, anyway."He was a mean beast always, but cunning and frightfully crafty; and as he had never had a decent idea in his life, let alone a poetical one, we were all frightfully interested in Mitchell's poem on the War.The chap Sutherland he had mentioned was regarded as having a chance, for he knew a lot about the War, and had two cousins in it, one in France and one with the Fleet. He got letters without stamps on them from these chaps, but there was never much in them. Thwaites also entered, and he was known to write poetry and send it home; but it had not been seen, and Thwaites, being delicate and rather fond of art and playing the piano and such like piffle, we didn't regard him as having warlike ideas. Besides, once, when Blades suddenly pulled out one of his teeth in class and bled freely over Thwaites, who sat next to him, Thwaites fainted at the sight of blood; which showed he couldn't possibly write anything worth mentioning on such a fearful subject as war; because, you may say, a war is blood or nothing.Only one absolute kid entered, and this was Percy minimus, who had sent a Christmas pudding to the Front, and had the photograph of a "Tommy" back. So he wrote a prize poem which he let his friends see, and Forbes minimus said it was good, as far as he could say to the contrary. No doubt it appeared so to a squirt like Forbes minimus, but, of course, it could not be supposed to stand against the work of Travers minor, or Sutherland, or Rice.I always rather thought myself that Rice might pull it off, being Irish and a great fighter by nature. Unfortunately, he didn't know anything whatever about poetry; yet his fighting instinct made him enter, and though he wasn't likely to rhyme very well, or look after the scanning and the feet and the spondees and dactyls, and all that mess, which, no doubt, would count, yet I hoped that, for simple warlike dash, Rice might bring it off. I asked him about it, and he said a good many things had gone wrong with it, but here and there were bits that might save it.He said:"I believe I shall either win the guinea right bang off, or get flogged." Which interested me fearfully, but didn't surprise me, because it was rather the way with Rice to rush at a thing head-long and come out top--or bottom. He only really kept cool and patient and never ran risks when he was fighting; but at everything else, which he considered less important, he just dashed. He had dashed at the prize poem--very different from Tracey, who was always cool about everything, and wouldn't have gone to the Front himself for a thousand pounds. Tracey was great at satire--in fact, satire was a natural gift with him--and though, of course, it didn't always come off, owing to being so satirical that nobody saw it, still he often did get in a nasty one; and sometimes got licked for doing so.He told me his prize poem was all pure satire, and I said:"I doubt if the Doctor or Peacock will see it."And Tracey said:"I can't help that. Poetry is art, and I can't alter my great feeling for satire to please them. It will come out; and even though old Dunston and Peacock don't see it, I know jolly well the Kaiser and the Crown Prince would, if they read it."Well, there it was, and that was about the lot worth mentioning who had a shot at Mr. Peacock's guinea. The calendar month passed, and one day, when classes began, the Doctor appeared, supported by Peacock, Fortescue, and Brown.Everybody was summoned into the chapel, and the Doctor, who dearly likes a flare-up of this kind, told us that the prize poems had been judged and were going to be read."I may tell you," he said, "that the prize has been won, contrary to my fear that none would prove worthy of it. But we are agreed that there is a copy of verses on the solemn subject set for discussion that disgraces neither the writer nor Merivale. Indeed, I will go further than that, and declare that one poem reflects no small credit on the youthful poet responsible for it; and Mr. Peacock and Mr. Fortescue, than whom you shall find no more acute and critical judges, share my own pleasure at the effusion."The Doctor then began to read the prize poems, and he started with that of Percy minimus, much to Percy's confusion."The views of Percy minimus on the War are elementary, as we should expect from a youth of his years," said old Dunston. "I may remark, however, that he rhymes with great accuracy, and if he shows an inclination to be didactic, and even give Lord Kitchener a hint or two, I frankly pardon him for the sake of his concluding line. This reveals in Percy minimus a flash of elevated feeling which does him infinite credit. One can only hope that his pious aspiration will be echoed by those great nations doomed to defeat in the appalling catastrophe which they have provoked."Then he gave us the poem.THE WARBY PERCY MINIMUSWar is a very fearful thing, I'm sure you'll all agree,But sometimes we have got to fight in order to be free.The Germans want to slaughter us, and do not understandWe are a people famed in fight, and also good and grand.We never were unkind to them and never turned them outWhen unto England's shores they came, to trade and look about.But all the time, I grieve to say, they only came as spies,So that, when came the dreadful "Day," they'd take us by surprise.Which they did do, and if our ships had not been all prepared,The Germans would have landed, and not you or I been spared.Now all is changed, and very soon, upon the Belgian strand,I promise you a million men of English breed shall land.And thanks to good Lord Kitchener, their wants will be suppliedWith splendid food and cosy clothes and many things beside;But he must bring the big siege guns when Antwerp we shall reach,Because with these fine weapons we have got to make a breach.So let us pray that very soon we smash the cruel Hun,And if, by dreadful luck, we lose--oh, then God's will be done!We applauded Percy minimus for his sporting attempt, feeling of course, it was piffle really, but good for a kid. Then the Doctor said he was going to read Rice."Mr. Fortescue," said Dunston, "has evinced the deepest interest in the achievement of Rice. He tells me that there is now a movement in art--including the sacred art of poesy--which is known as the Futurist Movement. Rice's effort reminds Mr. Fortescue of this lamentable outrage on the Muses, for it appears that the Futurists desire to thrust all that man has done for art into the flames--to forget the glories of Greece, to pour scorn on the Renaissance, to begin again with primal chaos in a world where all shall be without form and void. This is Nihilism and a crime against culture. For some mysterious reason, the boy Rice, who we may safely assume has never heard of the Futurists until this moment, appears to have emulated their methods and shared their unholy extravagance of epithets, their frenzied anarchy, their scorn of all that is lovely and of good repute. He even permits himself expressions that at another time would win something more than a rebuke. I will now read Rice, not for my pleasure or yours, but that at least you may learn what is not poetry, and can never be mistaken for poetry by those who, like ourselves, have drunk at the Pierian spring."WARBY RICESmash! Crash! Crash! Bang! Crash! Bang!Rattle, rattle, rattle, and crash again.Air full of puffs of smoke where shells are bursting overhead,Scream of shrapnel over the trenches and yells of rage!Roar of men charging and howling a savage song---"Now we shan't be long!" Tramp of feet--then flop! they fall,Dropping out here, there, and everywhere, and rolling headover heels like rabbits.And some sit up after the charge, and some don't.Shot through the heart or head, they roll gloriously over--all in!But on go the living, shouting and screaming, and some bleedingand not knowing it.As loud as the "Jack Johnsons" they howl, their rifles are atthe charge and the bayonets are white--The white arm that goes in in front and out behind--Or in behind and out in front of the Germans running away.The Boche hates the white arm--it sends him to hell by the million!Crash! Crash! Squash! Smash! Smash! Smash!The trench is reached. Blood spurts and bones crack like china.Gurgles! Chokes! Yells! Helmets fly, bayonets stickAnd won't come out! Everybody is dead or dying in thetrench--except twelve Tommies!Damns, growls, yells choked with blood!Death, awful wounds, mess, corpses, legs, arms, heads--all separate!The trench is taken, and England has gainedA hundred yards! Hoorooh!Hoorooh! Hoorooh! Hoorooh!And what must it be to be there!!!Signed RICE.I looked at Rice while his poem was being intoned by the Doctor. He had turned very red, but he stuck it well, and somehow, though, of course, it was right bang off, and no rhymes or anything, I liked it. And Mr. Fortescue liked it, as he afterwards told Rice; but the Doctor and Mr. Peacock fairly hated it, so that was the end of Rice.They thought nothing of Tracey's poem, either. The Doctor said:"Tracey has produced what, for reasons best known to himself, he calls 'a satire.' It possesses a certain element of crude humour, which, on such a solemn theme, is utterly out of place. Upon the whole, I regard it as discreditable in a Sixth Form boy, and do not think the better of Tracey for having written it."He then read Tracey.
PERCY MINIMUS AND HIS TOMMY
There were three Percys at Merivale, and they were all there together; and to masters they were, of course, known as Percy major, Percy minor, and Percy minimus, but we called them "the Three Maniacs."
Though mad, they were nice chaps in a way, and did unexpected things and always interested everybody because of their surprises. They were all very different but very original, owing to their father being a well-known actor. And Percy major was already an actor by nature, and could imitate anything with remarkable exactness, from Dr. Dunston to a monkey on a barrel organ. He could even imitate a hen with chickens, but he was going for much higher flights when he went on the stage, and knew the parts of Hamlet and Macbeth and Richard III by heart; though he said to Travers, and I heard him, that it would probably be many a long day before he got a chance to act these great tragical characters before a London audience. His father, on the contrary, was a comedian, and Blades had once seen him in a pantomime and liked him, and said that he was good.
Percy minor was not going on the stage, though when he liked he could be awfully funny. Only he was generally serious, and meant to be a painter. His great hope was to take likenesses, and he was always practising it, and his school books were full of portraits of chaps and masters. Some you could recognize.
As for Percy minimus, he was the maddest of the lot, and my special friend. We were in the Lower Third; and Forbes minimus was also our special friend. But he chucked Merivale, as his parents went to the Cape of Good Hope and took him, and then Percy and I were left.
Percy never came out much while his brothers were at Merivale, and his only strong point was singing in the choir. At music he was an undoubted dab, and he liked it, and he said that, if his voice turned into anything worth mentioning after it cracked, he should very likely be an opera singer of the first water. And if it failed and fizzled away to nothing after cracking, as treble voices sometimes do, then he was going to be a clergyman--if his father would let him.
He certainly sang like the devil, and Mr. Prowse, our music-master, was fearfully keen on him, and arranged solos in chapel for him. And people came from long distances on Sundays to hear him sing, though old Dunston always thought, when outsiders turned up to the chapel services, it was to hear him preach. But far from it.
Well, this Percy minimus was what you may call sentimental, and he certainly was a bit of a girl in some ways. I hated that squashy side of him, and tried to cure it; but I forgave him, because he liked me, and not many chaps did, owing to my having a stammer.
Percy minimus was frightfully interested in my stammer, and said it would very likely be cured when I grew up. He said that people who stammer when they talk can often sing quite well; so I tried and found it was so. But here, again, there was a drawback, because my singing voice, though quite without any stammer, was right bang off as a voice, and even funnier than my stammer.
Percy minimus said it was just the sound a fly made before it died, when it was caught by a spider; so naturally I chucked it.
But this about Percy, not me. He had very kind instincts, and was of a gentle disposition. For instance, when three of the masters went to the war, and Dr. Dunston said he was going to fill the breach and do extra work and take our class; while we much regretted it, Percy minimus thought it was fine of the Doctor.
He said:
"Though it is bad hearing for us, Cornwallis, we are bound to admit it is sporting of him. Because, at his great age, it must be very tiring to do a lot of extra work; and no doubt to take the Lower Third must be fairly deadly for such a learned man as him."
"It will be deadlier for us," I said; and, of course, it was. But that shows the queer views that Percy gets--hardly natural, I call it. And then, when the Doctor threw up the sponge and got a new master called Peacock to help and fill the gap till after the War, when Hutchings and Meadows would come back, if alive, Percy minimus was queer again.
This Peacock was old and dreadfully humble. I don't think he'd ever been a master before, and he was very unlike his name in every way, and had no idea of keeping order, but went in for getting our affection. He tried frantically to be friendly; but he failed, because he was too wormlike, being a crushed and shabby man with a thin, grey beard. And when he attempted to fling himself into a game of hockey and be young and dashing, he hurt himself and had to go in and get brandy.
I believe he was a sort of charity on old Dunston's part, really, for Mr. Peacock told Pegram that he had a wife and six children, and his eldest son was at the War, and his second son was in the General Post Office, and his eldest daughter was a schoolmistress at Bedford.
Fancy telling Pegram these things! All Pegram did afterwards was to make fun of Peacock and treat him with scorn, and many did the same; but Percy minimus encouraged him, and he liked Percy minimus, and told him several things about the General Post Office not generally known.
Peacock, finding that me and Percy minimus were rather above the common herd, told us that he was very anxious about his son at the War, and was very interested about the War in general, and made us interested in it, too. He read us a letter from his son at the Front, and Percy minimus said it brought home the horrors--especially in the matters of food.
Though not a great eater, Percy liked nice food better than any other kind, and then, owing to this great feeling for nice food, there happened the curious, and in fact most extraordinary, adventure of his life.
He came to me much excited one day with a newspaper. It was a week old, but otherwise perfect in every way, and it had started a scheme for sending the men at the Front a jolly good Christmas gift. For the sum of five shillings the newspaper promised to send off tobacco and cigarettes and sweets and chocolate and a new wooden pipe, all in one parcel; and so, as Percy minimus pointed out, if you could only rake up that amount and send it to the paper, it meant that one man in the trenches on Christmas Day would have the great joy of receiving all these luxuries in one simultaneous parcel from an unknown friend at home.
I said:
"It's a splendid idea, and I should like nothing better; but, of course, in our case, it is out of the question. We've both subscribed to the Hutchings' testimonial, and there's not a penny in sight for me this side of Christmas, and no more there is for you."
He admitted this, but said, because there wasn't a penny in sight, it didn't follow we might not, by some unheard-of deeds, rake up the money in time. And I said, well knowing what five shillings meant, that the deeds would certainly have to be unheard-of. I said:
"There's a fortnight before you have to send in the money, but, so far as I am concerned, it might just as well be ten years."
And he said:
"The problem simply is: How to raise five shillings out of nothing in fourteen days."
And I said:
"Yes."
And he said:
"It sounds simple enough."
And I said:
"The hardest problems often do."
In two days he had got a shilling, by selling a thing he greatly valued. It was a tie his mother had given him, and it was made of sheeny silk, and changed colour according to which way you looked at it. His mother had given half a crown for it, and Percy wore it on Sundays only.
It was Sutherland who gave the money; and that still left four shillings, and Percy minimus hadn't got another thing in the world worth twopence. He then tried writing home, and failed. He said his father was out of work, and, though a very generous and kind father as a rule, not just now. His mother also failed him. She wrote sorrowfully, but said that she and his father had done everything about the War they could for the present. He then wrote to his godmother, and got a shilling. Encouraged by this, he wrote to his godfather, who didn't answer the letter.
Fourpence had gone on stamps for these four letters, and he was accordingly left with one and eightpence. Subtracting this from five shillings, you will find he still had to raise three shillings and fourpence.
It looked hopeless, and I pointed out there was the additional danger that he might be accused of getting money under false pretences if he didn't collect the lot; but he did not fear that, because, as he said, whatever he might get, he could send to some other charity which was open to take less than five shillings.
There were now seven days left, and he began to get very fidgetty and wretched. He said he was always seeing in his mind's eye a Tommy in the trenches waiting and watching and hoping, between his fights, that Percy minimus would send him one of those grand simultaneous packets. It got on his nerves after a bit, and twice he woke me in the dead of the night in our dormitory sniffing very loud.
I said:
"You're making a toil of a pleasure, Percy."
And he said:
"No, I'm not. Whenever I go to sleep, I dream of my Tommy in the trenches; and the parcels are being given out by Lord French, and my Tommy stretches up his hand eagerly and hopefully; but there's no parcel for him. And he shrugs his shoulders and just bears it, and goes back to his gun; but it's simply hell for me."
"What's he like?" I asked, to get Percy minimus off the sad side of it.
"Huge and filthy," said Percy minimus. "He has a brown face and a big, black moustache and one of the new steel hats; and he's plastered with mud, and his eyes roll with craving for cigarettes and chocolates."
"You needn't worry," I said. "He'll get his parcel all right. Of course, they won't miss him."
"What a fool you are, Cornwallis!" he answered, still sniffing. "Can't you see that, if I don't send a parcel, there will be one parcel less; and so one man will go without who would otherwise have had a parcel; and that man will be this one I see in my dreadful dreams."
"If you put it like that," I said--"of course."
Then he had another beastly thought.
"I've got an idea the man is Peacock's son," he said. "And I feel a regular traitor to Peacock now every time I look at him."
"Then why don't you ask him for some money?" I naturally answered.
"I feel he hasn't got any," replied Percy. "But I can try."
"Besides," I said, "his son may be an officer, and, of course, they would be far above parcels."
"I hope he is," said Percy; "but I don't think he is. And nobody would be above a parcel at a time like that."
Anyway he asked Peacock, and Peacock gave him sixpence, and wished he could do better. This made two and twopence; and the same day Percy found a threepenny piece in the playground; and though, at another time, he would have mentioned this, with a view of returning it to the proper owner, now he didn't, but said it was a Providence, and added it to the rest.
And this gave him another hopeful idea, and he mentioned the parcel for his Tommy in his prayers, morning and evening, and asked me to do so too. I was fed up with the whole thing by now, because Percy was getting fairly tormented by it, and even said he saw the Tommy looking at him in broad daylight sometimes--over the playground wall, or through the window in the middle of a class. Still I obliged him, and prayed four times for him to get his two and sevenpence; but there was no reply whatever; and in this way two days were wasted.
Then he had a desperate but brilliant idea, and told me. He said:
"After school on Friday, in the half-hour before tea, I'm going to break bounds and go down into Merivale and stand by the pavement and sing the solo from the anthem we did last Sunday! Many people who sing along by the pavement make money by doing so, and I might."
"If you're caught, Dunston will flog you," I reminded him.
But he was far past a thing like that. His eyes had glittered in rather a wild way for three days now, and he said the Tommy with the black moustache was always looking reproachfully at him, and if he shut his eyes he saw him more distinctly than ever. In fact, he was getting larger and more threatening every minute. He said:
"A mere flogging is nothing to what they endure in the trenches."
It was a sporting idea, and I would have risked it and gone with him; in fact, I offered, being his great chum, but he would not allow me.
"No," he said, "nothing is gained by your coming. This is entirely my affair. Besides, you wouldn't tempt people to subscribe."
So he went, and escaped in the darkness, and I waited at the limit of "bounds" with great anxiety to meet him when he came back. My last word to him was not to sing his bit out of an anthem, but something comic about the War. But he didn't know anything comic about the War, and he said, even if he did, that such a thing would only amuse common people, who could not be supposed to give more than halfpence, if they gave anything at all; whereas a solo from a fine anthem would attract a better class, who understood more about music, and were more religious, and consequently had more money.
So he went, and in about twenty minutes, to my great horror, I saw him being brought back in the custody of Brown--our well known master!
The hateful Brown always loves to score off anybody not in his own class, and so, seeing Percy warbling out of bounds in the middle of Merivale, and about ten people, mostly kids, listening to him, he pounced on the wretched Percy and dragged him away. He'd been singing about ten minutes when the blow fell, and he was fearfully upset about it, because everything had been going jolly well, and he had already made no less than sevenpence in coppers, all from oldish women. He had been told to go away from in front of a butcher's shop, but nobody else had interfered with him in the least, and he had sung the anthem solo through twice, and was just off again when the brutal Brown came along and saw the Merivale colours on his cap, recognized Percy minimus, and very nearly had a fit.
So there it was; and he got flogged, and Dr. Dunston said it showed low tastes, and would have been a source of great sorrow to his father. And he also said that to explode a sacred air in that way in hope of touching the charitable to fill his own pocket was about the limit, and a great disgrace to the school in general. All of which went off Percy like water off a duck's back, and the flogging didn't seem to hurt him either.
And there were four days still, and he said his Tommy grew larger and larger, until he was almost as big as a house. In fact, Percy minimus was rapidly growing dotty, and, as his great friend, I felt I must do something, or he would very likely get some other dangerous illness, or have a fit, or lose his mind for ever and become a maniac in real earnest. So I told Percy minor; but unfortunately he and my Percy had quarrelled rather bitterly for the moment, and Percy minor said he didn't care what happened to Percy minimus; and that if he went out of his mind he wouldn't have far to go; while, as to Percy major, I couldn't tell him, because he had left Merivale the term before.
The matron now discovered that Percy was queer, for she'd been making him take pills for two days, and then one night, hearing him sigh fearfully after he was in bed, she tried his temperature, and found it about three hundred degrees of warmth. So she lugged him off to the sick room, and Dr. Weston came in his motor, and said he couldn't see any reason for it, and gave Percy some muck to calm him down.
Next day he was kept in the sick room, though cooler, and when Dr. Weston came on that day and questioned Percy in a kind tone of voice, he explained the whole thing to the doctor, and said that he was in fearful difficulties of mind. And Dr. Weston asked him what difficulties, and he said for two shillings, which, added to three, make five.
Then the doctor told him to go on, so he did, and showed the doctor the advertisement from the paper about the simultaneous parcels. He also said that his Tommy had now grown as big as a cloud in the sky, and was always looking at him by night and day hungrily, and urging him on to fresh efforts. And he also said that if he was only allowed to go into the streets and sing an anthem for an hour or two, the two shillings would be accomplished, and all would be well. And encouraged by the great interest of Dr. Weston, Percy minimus ventured to ask him if he thought he could ask Dr. Dunston to allow this to be done, seeing it meant great comfort and joy for a Tommy in the trenches on Christmas Day.
It made Percy much cooler and calmer explaining why his temperature had run up, and the doctor said it was undoubtedly not good for Percy to have the Tommy so much on his mind. He didn't approve of the idea of Percy singing either; but he put his hand into his waistcoat pocket and produced a two-shilling piece, as if it was nothing, and he said that if the matron or somebody, would get a postal order for five shillings and send it off at once, he had every reason to think that Percy would soon recover.
Which was done, and I was allowed to see Percy, and bring from his desk the cutting out of the newspaper, which he had already signed with his name and address, which were to go to the Front with his parcel. And Percy said that a great weight had now been lifted from his brain, which no doubt it had.
Anyhow, when Dr. Weston came next day he found Percy in a bath of perspiration, and was much pleased, and said he was practically cured. And Percy told him that his Tommy had now shrunk to about the size of an ordinary Tommy, and only came when he was asleep, and was not in the least reproachful, but quite pleasant and nice. And one day later the Tommy disappeared altogether, and Percy minimus became perfectly well. In fact, before the holidays arrived he seemed to have forgotten all about his Tommy, and I took jolly good care not to remind him.
He got fearfully keen about Dr. Weston then, and said that he was the best man he had ever seen or heard of; and he even hoped that next term he might run up to three hundred degrees again--just for the great pleasure of seeing and talking to this doctor once more.
But that wasn't all by any means--in fact, you might say that far the most remarkable part of the adventure of Percy minimus had yet to come. He went home for the holidays, and when he came back, much to my astonishment, he was full of his blessed Tommy again. He actually said that he'd got a photograph of him!
I thought that coming back to school had made him queer once more, but he wasn't in the least queer, for I saw the photograph with my own eyes.
It was like this: the Tommy who had got the Christmas parcel which Percy's five shillings bought, found Percy's address in it, according to the splendid arrangement of the newspaper, and, though far too busy in the trenches to take any notice of it just then, he was not too busy to smoke the new pipe and the cigarettes and eat the various sweets--no doubt between intervals of fiery slaughter. But he kept Percy's address in his pocket, for he was a good and grateful man; and then, most unfortunately, he was hit in the foot by a piece of shrapnel shell, and though far from killed, yet so much wounded that he had to retire from the Front. In fact, he was sent home to recover, and one day in hospital, about a week before the end of the holidays, he had found Percy minimus's name and address in the pocket of his coat, and had written Percy a most interesting letter of four pages, saying that the parcel had been a great comfort to him, and that he had sucked the last peppermint drop only an hour before being shrapnelled. And, having been photographed several times in the hospital by visitors, he sent Percy minimus one. And there he was!
I said it was a jolly interesting thing, and so on; but I couldn't for the moment see why Percy was so frightfully excited about it, because it was quite a possible thing to happen, though, of course, very good in its way, and a letter he would always keep.
And he said:
"You don't seem to see the point, Cornwallis. It's a miracle."
And I said:
"Why?"
And he said:
"Because this is the very identical Tommy I was always seeing in my dreams--the very identical one!"
I hadn't thought of that, but somehow taken it for granted. Then he pointed out it wasn't in the least a thing to take for granted, but the purest miracle that ever happened in the memory of man, and quite beyond human power to explain it in the world.
I said there might be people in the world who could, but he wouldn't hear of such a thing. He said:
"No--not in this world; but no doubt there are in the next."
And I said:
"Then you'll have to wait."
And he said:
"It's done one thing; it's quite decided me about my future. I'm going to be a clergyman."
And I said:
"Not if your voice doesn't crack, surely?"
"My voice!" answered Percy minimus with great scorn. "What is a voice compared to a miracle? If miracles happen to you, then, if you've got any proper feeling, you ought to insist on being a clergyman."
So I suppose he will be. But whatever else he is--even if he rises to be a Canon or a Bishop--he'll always be a maniac, the same as his brothers.
THE PRIZE POEM
Things were beastly dull at Merivale when we went back after the Christmas holidays, and I believe even the Doctor felt it. Of course, from our point of view, his life must always be deadly, but I suppose he gets a certain amount of feeble excitement into it, in ways not known to us. It's rather interesting to wonder what old people do find worth doing; yet they must do something to amuse themselves, off and on, or they'd go mad, I should think, which they seldom do. The amusements of a very old person must be rather weird, yet they clearly like to be alive, for when my grandmother died, she was eighty--a time of life when you'd think there was simply nothing left. Yet, when I went to say farewell to her, she told me she hoped to see the spring flowers once more. She didn't; but it shows how fearfully hard-up old people must be for amusement of any kind; for who on earth would want to see flowers, spring or otherwise, if practically everything else had not been lost to them? Myself I would much rather have died years before than eat the food my grandmother ate, and never go out except in a bath-chair; but she found it good enough, strange to say. So, no doubt, Dr. Dunston, who is entirely active, and can eat meat and drink wine and walk rapidly about, still finds being Head of Merivale School all right.
But the winter term was deadly, what with the bad weather and the slow progress of the War, and losing most of our football matches, owing to having a very weak team.
Then old Peacock, of all men--the new master, I mean--got an idea, and Fortescue thought it was a good one, and Peacock proposed it to the Doctor, and Dr. Dunston agreed to it.
In fact, he announced it after chapel during the third week of February in these words:
"Our new friend, Mr. Peacock, has made a proposal to me, and I have great pleasure not only in agreeing with him, but in congratulating him on a very happy thought. Suspecting that there may be mute, inglorious Miltons amongst us--a sanguine hope I cannot share--Mr. Peacock has thought that it would add an interest to the term and wake a measure of enthusiasm and energy in the ranks of our versifiers if we initiate a competition. He suggests a prize poem upon the subject of the War; and while my heart misgives me, yet I bow to Mr. Peacock's generous proposal. You are invited, one and all of you, from the greatest to the least, to write a prize poem on the subject of the War, and if such a momentous theme fails to produce some notable addition to our war poetry, then Mr. Peacock's disappointment will be considerable. He trusts you to enter upon this task in no light spirit, and when I add that Mr. Peacock proposes to give a prize of one guinea--twenty-one shillings--to the victorious poet, you will see that a real effort is needed. You will have a calendar month to prepare and execute your verses, which must be composed outside the regular school hours; and I may tell you that unless a certain humble standard of intelligence and poetic ability is reached, I shall direct Mr. Peacock to withhold his prize."
Well, there it was; and, of course, a good deal of excitement occurred, and it was jolly interesting to see who entered for the prize poem and who did not. No doubt Travers major would have won it without an effort, being so keen about everything to do with war; but, luckily for the rest, he had left to go to Woolwich the term before. Travers minor entered because he was strongly advised to, being a flier at literature in general and keen about poetry; but he said frankly he should not praise the War, but slate it, because he utterly disagreed with it and hated war in general.
Of course, the prize being a guinea made a lot of difference, and many unexpected chaps decided to write a prize poem, though most of these, when they sat down with pens and ink to do it, found such a thing quite beyond them in every way.
I myself--my name is Abbott--was one of these, and after reading a good many real poems of the War, which Mr. Fortescue, who was a great poet and much interested in the competition, kindly lent me, I found, on setting out to do it, that the difficulties were far too great. Rhymes are easy enough to get, in a way, but when you come to string the poem together, you generally find your rhymes aren't solemn enough. I believe I could have written a screamily funny prize poem; but, of course, that wouldn't have pleased the Doctor, or Peacock either, so it wasn't any good wasting time being funny. For instance, I wrote the following poem in less than ten minutes:
The Hun, the Hun, the footling Hun,Most certainly doth take the bun.
The Hun, the Hun, the footling Hun,Most certainly doth take the bun.
The Hun, the Hun, the footling Hun,
Most certainly doth take the bun.
And Blades and several other chaps said it was jolly good. But Blades, who had also had a shot or two on the quiet, was like me--he could only make comic poems, and the stanzas of his poem took the form of Limericks. He said he could invent them with the greatest ease--in class, or at prayers, or at meals, or going to bed, or getting up, or in his bath--in fact, at any time when he wasn't playing football. He gave me an example, which seemed to me so frightfully good that I thought very likely Peacock would have given him a consolation prize. So he tried it on Peacock; but Mr. Peacock thought nothing of it, and said that was not at all the spirit of a prize poem, but belonged to the gutter-press, whatever that is. It ran like this:
The Kaiser set off for PareeAs if it was only a spree,But old French's Army,It soon knocked him barmy,And now he is melancolee.He next had a flutter at Nancy,Though doubtless a little bit chancy;But his men got a doing,With plenty more brewing,So he galloped off, saying, "Just fancy!"
The Kaiser set off for PareeAs if it was only a spree,But old French's Army,It soon knocked him barmy,And now he is melancolee.He next had a flutter at Nancy,Though doubtless a little bit chancy;But his men got a doing,With plenty more brewing,So he galloped off, saying, "Just fancy!"
The Kaiser set off for PareeAs if it was only a spree,But old French's Army,It soon knocked him barmy,And now he is melancolee.
The Kaiser set off for PareeAs if it was only a spree,But old French's Army,It soon knocked him barmy,And now he is melancolee.
The Kaiser set off for Paree
As if it was only a spree,
But old French's Army,It soon knocked him barmy,
But old French's Army,
It soon knocked him barmy,
And now he is melancolee.
He next had a flutter at Nancy,
Though doubtless a little bit chancy;
But his men got a doing,With plenty more brewing,
But his men got a doing,
With plenty more brewing,
So he galloped off, saying, "Just fancy!"
There were hundreds more verses--in fact, you might say the whole history of the War as far as it had got; and I advised Blades to send it toThe Times--to buck it up--orPunch, or something; but he wouldn't, and when Peacock decided it was no use, he gave up writing it, so a good poem was lost, in my opinion.
Many fell out before the appointed day for sending in the prize poems; but many did not, and though it was natural that a good few chaps chucked it, the extraordinary thing was the number of chaps who kept on to the bitter end, so to speak, and sent in poems. Almost the most amazing was Mitchell. He certainly had made a rude poem once in a moment of rage, but as to real poetry, a cabbage might just as well have tried to make a poem as him. He was only keen about one thing in the world, and that was money; and, of course, that was why he entered the competition. He said to me: "I'd do much worse things than make a prize poem, if anybody offered me a guinea. If it had been one of the Doctor's wretched prizes, I wouldn't have attempted it; but a guinea is a guinea, and as nobody here can make poetry for nuts, I'm just as likely to bring it off as anybody else. It's taking a risk, in a way, but I've got my ideas about the War, just as much as Travers minor or Sutherland, and, if I don't win, I shall get a bit of fun out of it, anyway."
He was a mean beast always, but cunning and frightfully crafty; and as he had never had a decent idea in his life, let alone a poetical one, we were all frightfully interested in Mitchell's poem on the War.
The chap Sutherland he had mentioned was regarded as having a chance, for he knew a lot about the War, and had two cousins in it, one in France and one with the Fleet. He got letters without stamps on them from these chaps, but there was never much in them. Thwaites also entered, and he was known to write poetry and send it home; but it had not been seen, and Thwaites, being delicate and rather fond of art and playing the piano and such like piffle, we didn't regard him as having warlike ideas. Besides, once, when Blades suddenly pulled out one of his teeth in class and bled freely over Thwaites, who sat next to him, Thwaites fainted at the sight of blood; which showed he couldn't possibly write anything worth mentioning on such a fearful subject as war; because, you may say, a war is blood or nothing.
Only one absolute kid entered, and this was Percy minimus, who had sent a Christmas pudding to the Front, and had the photograph of a "Tommy" back. So he wrote a prize poem which he let his friends see, and Forbes minimus said it was good, as far as he could say to the contrary. No doubt it appeared so to a squirt like Forbes minimus, but, of course, it could not be supposed to stand against the work of Travers minor, or Sutherland, or Rice.
I always rather thought myself that Rice might pull it off, being Irish and a great fighter by nature. Unfortunately, he didn't know anything whatever about poetry; yet his fighting instinct made him enter, and though he wasn't likely to rhyme very well, or look after the scanning and the feet and the spondees and dactyls, and all that mess, which, no doubt, would count, yet I hoped that, for simple warlike dash, Rice might bring it off. I asked him about it, and he said a good many things had gone wrong with it, but here and there were bits that might save it.
He said:
"I believe I shall either win the guinea right bang off, or get flogged." Which interested me fearfully, but didn't surprise me, because it was rather the way with Rice to rush at a thing head-long and come out top--or bottom. He only really kept cool and patient and never ran risks when he was fighting; but at everything else, which he considered less important, he just dashed. He had dashed at the prize poem--very different from Tracey, who was always cool about everything, and wouldn't have gone to the Front himself for a thousand pounds. Tracey was great at satire--in fact, satire was a natural gift with him--and though, of course, it didn't always come off, owing to being so satirical that nobody saw it, still he often did get in a nasty one; and sometimes got licked for doing so.
He told me his prize poem was all pure satire, and I said:
"I doubt if the Doctor or Peacock will see it."
And Tracey said:
"I can't help that. Poetry is art, and I can't alter my great feeling for satire to please them. It will come out; and even though old Dunston and Peacock don't see it, I know jolly well the Kaiser and the Crown Prince would, if they read it."
Well, there it was, and that was about the lot worth mentioning who had a shot at Mr. Peacock's guinea. The calendar month passed, and one day, when classes began, the Doctor appeared, supported by Peacock, Fortescue, and Brown.
Everybody was summoned into the chapel, and the Doctor, who dearly likes a flare-up of this kind, told us that the prize poems had been judged and were going to be read.
"I may tell you," he said, "that the prize has been won, contrary to my fear that none would prove worthy of it. But we are agreed that there is a copy of verses on the solemn subject set for discussion that disgraces neither the writer nor Merivale. Indeed, I will go further than that, and declare that one poem reflects no small credit on the youthful poet responsible for it; and Mr. Peacock and Mr. Fortescue, than whom you shall find no more acute and critical judges, share my own pleasure at the effusion."
The Doctor then began to read the prize poems, and he started with that of Percy minimus, much to Percy's confusion.
"The views of Percy minimus on the War are elementary, as we should expect from a youth of his years," said old Dunston. "I may remark, however, that he rhymes with great accuracy, and if he shows an inclination to be didactic, and even give Lord Kitchener a hint or two, I frankly pardon him for the sake of his concluding line. This reveals in Percy minimus a flash of elevated feeling which does him infinite credit. One can only hope that his pious aspiration will be echoed by those great nations doomed to defeat in the appalling catastrophe which they have provoked."
Then he gave us the poem.
THE WAR
BY PERCY MINIMUS
War is a very fearful thing, I'm sure you'll all agree,But sometimes we have got to fight in order to be free.The Germans want to slaughter us, and do not understandWe are a people famed in fight, and also good and grand.We never were unkind to them and never turned them outWhen unto England's shores they came, to trade and look about.But all the time, I grieve to say, they only came as spies,So that, when came the dreadful "Day," they'd take us by surprise.Which they did do, and if our ships had not been all prepared,The Germans would have landed, and not you or I been spared.Now all is changed, and very soon, upon the Belgian strand,I promise you a million men of English breed shall land.And thanks to good Lord Kitchener, their wants will be suppliedWith splendid food and cosy clothes and many things beside;But he must bring the big siege guns when Antwerp we shall reach,Because with these fine weapons we have got to make a breach.So let us pray that very soon we smash the cruel Hun,And if, by dreadful luck, we lose--oh, then God's will be done!
War is a very fearful thing, I'm sure you'll all agree,But sometimes we have got to fight in order to be free.The Germans want to slaughter us, and do not understandWe are a people famed in fight, and also good and grand.We never were unkind to them and never turned them outWhen unto England's shores they came, to trade and look about.But all the time, I grieve to say, they only came as spies,So that, when came the dreadful "Day," they'd take us by surprise.Which they did do, and if our ships had not been all prepared,The Germans would have landed, and not you or I been spared.Now all is changed, and very soon, upon the Belgian strand,I promise you a million men of English breed shall land.And thanks to good Lord Kitchener, their wants will be suppliedWith splendid food and cosy clothes and many things beside;But he must bring the big siege guns when Antwerp we shall reach,Because with these fine weapons we have got to make a breach.So let us pray that very soon we smash the cruel Hun,And if, by dreadful luck, we lose--oh, then God's will be done!
War is a very fearful thing, I'm sure you'll all agree,
But sometimes we have got to fight in order to be free.
The Germans want to slaughter us, and do not understand
We are a people famed in fight, and also good and grand.
We never were unkind to them and never turned them out
When unto England's shores they came, to trade and look about.
But all the time, I grieve to say, they only came as spies,
So that, when came the dreadful "Day," they'd take us by surprise.
Which they did do, and if our ships had not been all prepared,
The Germans would have landed, and not you or I been spared.
Now all is changed, and very soon, upon the Belgian strand,
I promise you a million men of English breed shall land.
And thanks to good Lord Kitchener, their wants will be supplied
With splendid food and cosy clothes and many things beside;
But he must bring the big siege guns when Antwerp we shall reach,
Because with these fine weapons we have got to make a breach.
So let us pray that very soon we smash the cruel Hun,
And if, by dreadful luck, we lose--oh, then God's will be done!
We applauded Percy minimus for his sporting attempt, feeling of course, it was piffle really, but good for a kid. Then the Doctor said he was going to read Rice.
"Mr. Fortescue," said Dunston, "has evinced the deepest interest in the achievement of Rice. He tells me that there is now a movement in art--including the sacred art of poesy--which is known as the Futurist Movement. Rice's effort reminds Mr. Fortescue of this lamentable outrage on the Muses, for it appears that the Futurists desire to thrust all that man has done for art into the flames--to forget the glories of Greece, to pour scorn on the Renaissance, to begin again with primal chaos in a world where all shall be without form and void. This is Nihilism and a crime against culture. For some mysterious reason, the boy Rice, who we may safely assume has never heard of the Futurists until this moment, appears to have emulated their methods and shared their unholy extravagance of epithets, their frenzied anarchy, their scorn of all that is lovely and of good repute. He even permits himself expressions that at another time would win something more than a rebuke. I will now read Rice, not for my pleasure or yours, but that at least you may learn what is not poetry, and can never be mistaken for poetry by those who, like ourselves, have drunk at the Pierian spring."
WAR
BY RICE
Smash! Crash! Crash! Bang! Crash! Bang!Rattle, rattle, rattle, and crash again.Air full of puffs of smoke where shells are bursting overhead,Scream of shrapnel over the trenches and yells of rage!Roar of men charging and howling a savage song---"Now we shan't be long!" Tramp of feet--then flop! they fall,Dropping out here, there, and everywhere, and rolling headover heels like rabbits.And some sit up after the charge, and some don't.Shot through the heart or head, they roll gloriously over--all in!But on go the living, shouting and screaming, and some bleedingand not knowing it.As loud as the "Jack Johnsons" they howl, their rifles are atthe charge and the bayonets are white--The white arm that goes in in front and out behind--Or in behind and out in front of the Germans running away.The Boche hates the white arm--it sends him to hell by the million!Crash! Crash! Squash! Smash! Smash! Smash!The trench is reached. Blood spurts and bones crack like china.Gurgles! Chokes! Yells! Helmets fly, bayonets stickAnd won't come out! Everybody is dead or dying in thetrench--except twelve Tommies!Damns, growls, yells choked with blood!Death, awful wounds, mess, corpses, legs, arms, heads--all separate!The trench is taken, and England has gainedA hundred yards! Hoorooh!Hoorooh! Hoorooh! Hoorooh!And what must it be to be there!!!Signed RICE.
Smash! Crash! Crash! Bang! Crash! Bang!Rattle, rattle, rattle, and crash again.Air full of puffs of smoke where shells are bursting overhead,Scream of shrapnel over the trenches and yells of rage!Roar of men charging and howling a savage song---"Now we shan't be long!" Tramp of feet--then flop! they fall,Dropping out here, there, and everywhere, and rolling headover heels like rabbits.And some sit up after the charge, and some don't.Shot through the heart or head, they roll gloriously over--all in!But on go the living, shouting and screaming, and some bleedingand not knowing it.As loud as the "Jack Johnsons" they howl, their rifles are atthe charge and the bayonets are white--The white arm that goes in in front and out behind--Or in behind and out in front of the Germans running away.The Boche hates the white arm--it sends him to hell by the million!Crash! Crash! Squash! Smash! Smash! Smash!The trench is reached. Blood spurts and bones crack like china.Gurgles! Chokes! Yells! Helmets fly, bayonets stickAnd won't come out! Everybody is dead or dying in thetrench--except twelve Tommies!Damns, growls, yells choked with blood!Death, awful wounds, mess, corpses, legs, arms, heads--all separate!The trench is taken, and England has gainedA hundred yards! Hoorooh!Hoorooh! Hoorooh! Hoorooh!And what must it be to be there!!!Signed RICE.
Smash! Crash! Crash! Bang! Crash! Bang!
Rattle, rattle, rattle, and crash again.
Air full of puffs of smoke where shells are bursting overhead,
Scream of shrapnel over the trenches and yells of rage!
Roar of men charging and howling a savage song---
"Now we shan't be long!" Tramp of feet--then flop! they fall,
Dropping out here, there, and everywhere, and rolling head
over heels like rabbits.
over heels like rabbits.
And some sit up after the charge, and some don't.
Shot through the heart or head, they roll gloriously over--all in!
But on go the living, shouting and screaming, and some bleeding
and not knowing it.
and not knowing it.
As loud as the "Jack Johnsons" they howl, their rifles are at
the charge and the bayonets are white--
the charge and the bayonets are white--
The white arm that goes in in front and out behind--
Or in behind and out in front of the Germans running away.
The Boche hates the white arm--it sends him to hell by the million!
Crash! Crash! Squash! Smash! Smash! Smash!
The trench is reached. Blood spurts and bones crack like china.
Gurgles! Chokes! Yells! Helmets fly, bayonets stick
And won't come out! Everybody is dead or dying in the
trench--except twelve Tommies!
trench--except twelve Tommies!
Damns, growls, yells choked with blood!
Death, awful wounds, mess, corpses, legs, arms, heads--all separate!
The trench is taken, and England has gained
A hundred yards! Hoorooh!
Hoorooh! Hoorooh! Hoorooh!
And what must it be to be there!!!
Signed RICE.
I looked at Rice while his poem was being intoned by the Doctor. He had turned very red, but he stuck it well, and somehow, though, of course, it was right bang off, and no rhymes or anything, I liked it. And Mr. Fortescue liked it, as he afterwards told Rice; but the Doctor and Mr. Peacock fairly hated it, so that was the end of Rice.
They thought nothing of Tracey's poem, either. The Doctor said:
"Tracey has produced what, for reasons best known to himself, he calls 'a satire.' It possesses a certain element of crude humour, which, on such a solemn theme, is utterly out of place. Upon the whole, I regard it as discreditable in a Sixth Form boy, and do not think the better of Tracey for having written it."
He then read Tracey.