The Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch or the London Charivari, Vol. 147,
December 9, 1914, by Various

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org


Title: Punch or the London Charivari, Vol. 147, December 9, 1914

Author: Various

Release Date: July 22, 2009 [EBook #29491]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH ***




Produced by Neville Allen, Malcolm Farmer and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net






[Pg 469]

PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 147


December 9, 1914.


CHARIVARIA.

We are told that "it is confidently believed by the advisers to the Treasury that the new issue of £1 notes cannot be successfully imitated." We think that it is a mistake to put our artists on their mettle in this way.


A black eagle, a contemporary tells us, was seen one day last week at Westgate-on-Sea. A Prussian bird, no doubt, in mourning for lost Calais.


The German Government has declared timber contraband of war owing to its alleged scarcity in Germany. Surely, as Douglas Jerrold suggested on another occasion, the German authorities could find plenty of wood in their own country if they only put their heads together?


The news that "Bantam" battalions are now being formed all over England is said to have greatly interested General Kluck.


The report that the Prime Minister spent last week-end in the country is said to have caused intense annoyance to the Kaiser, who considered that it showed a lack of respect for His War.


A map of the United Kingdom published in the Berlin Lokalanzeiger depicts the Mersey as being located in the West of Ireland. Frankly, we are surprised at the Germans showing any Mersey anywhere.


Mr. John Ward has been accused of perpetrating a mixed metaphor when he warned the Government, the other day, that "they would wake up and find the horse had bolted with the money." Is it not, however, a fact that when a horse bolts he sometimes takes a bit between the teeth?


The financial expert of The Observer, in referring to the War Loan, said:—"From all over the country the small investor rallied in his thousands." But he had just said that "the applicants were enormous." Possibly the truth is somewhere between the two—say about 11½ stone.


A football pavilion in Bromley Road, Catford, was entirely destroyed by fire last week. We are trying to bear the blow bravely.


There would seem to be no limit to the influence of the Censor. Here is the latest example of his activities:—

"MEXICO
General Blanco Evacuates
The Capital
."

We must confess that we fail to see what British interest is served by withholding the General's name.


The German Imperial Chancellor has now repeated, in the presence of a full-dress meeting of the Reichstag, the old falsehood about Great Britain being responsible for the War. This, we believe, is what is known as Lying in State.


And the statement that Germany need have no fears of a food famine may be described, we take it, as a Cereal Story.


Sven Hedin has received the honorary degree of Doctor from Breslau University—as a reward, presumably, for doctoring the truth.


"German Preparations In Belgium.

6-Mile Guns in Position."—Star.

It sounds like a 30,000 foot cinema film.


IN A GOOD CAUSE.

The least that we others can do is to see that those who have joined the colours don't have too dull a time in camp during the long evenings. Messrs. John Broadwood and Sons are organizing concerts which will serve the further good purpose of helping many professional musicians whose incomes have been reduced by the war. It is hoped to give 200 of these entertainments during the winter. Each is estimated to cost about £10. The Directors of Messrs. Broadwood have privately subscribed £500 towards the carrying out of this scheme, and they would be glad to receive generous help from the public. Subscriptions should be addressed to them at Conduit Street, Bond Street, W.


OUR WAR ENQUIRY BUREAU.

Answers to Correspondents.

Mother of the Gracchi.—If your son is under age, below the standard height, is obliged to wear coloured glasses, suffers much from face-ache, and frequently has carbuncles, we fear his chances of obtaining a commission in the Household Cavalry are nil.

Anxious to help.—The pistols used by your grandfather during the Peninsular War would not, we are afraid, be of any use to your nephew in the present campaign.

All-British Matron.—We regret that we do not quite understand from your letter whether it is your new Vicar that you suspect of pro-German proclivities, or the pew-opener. We advise you to communicate with the nearest Rural Dean or Archdeacon.

Troubled Parent.—We fear that your boy will be obliged to dispense with his hot-water bottle now that he has joined the Army, and it would be no use your writing to his commanding officer about the matter.

Aunt Alice.—Lord Kitchener hardly ever accepts invitations to tea-parties, but it was nice of you to think of asking him.


"Dans l'Est, nous avons dû refuser une suspension d'armes, probablement destinée à l'inhumation des blessés."

To judge from this extract from Le Nord Maritime the French still lack a true appreciation of German culture.


Owing to the outcry

Owing to the outcry against high-placed aliens a wealthy German tries to look as little high-placed as possible.


[Pg 470]

TRUTHFUL WILLIE.

[Suggested by an American's interview with the Crown Prince and also by Wordsworth's "We are Seven".]

A simple earnest-minded youth,

Who wore in both his eyes

A calm pellucid lake of Truth—

What should he know of lies?

I met a gentle German Prince,

His name was Truthful Will,

An honest type—and, ever since,

His candour haunts me still.

"About this War—come tell me, Sir,

If you would be so kind,

Just any notions which occur

To your exalted mind."

"Frankly, I cannot bear," said he,

"The very thought of strife;

It seems so sad; it seems to me

A wicked waste of life.

"Thank Father's God that I can say

My constant aim was Peace;

I simply lived to see the Day

(Den Tag) when wars would cease.

"But, just as I was well in train

To realise my dream,

Came England, all for lust of gain,

And spoilt my beauteous scheme.

"But tell me how the rumours run;

Be frank and tell the worst

Touching myself; you speak to one

With whom the Truth comes first."

"Prince," I replied, "the vulgar view

Pictured you on your toes

Eager for gore; they say that you

Were ever bellicose.

"'Twas you, the critics say, who led

The loud War Party's cry

For blood and iron." "Oh!" he said,

"Oh what a dreadful lie!

"'War Party'? Well, I'm Father's pet,

And, if such things had been,

He must have let me know, and yet

I can't think what you mean."

"But your Bernhardi," I replied,

"He preached the Great War Game."

"'Bernhardi'! who was he?" he cried,

"I never heard his name!

"Dear Father must be told of him;

Father, who loathes all war,

Is looking rather grey and grim,

But that should make him roar!"

So, with a smile that knew no art,

He left me well content

Thus to have communed, heart to heart,

With one so innocent.

And still I marvelled, having scanned

Those eyes so full of Truth,

"Oh why do men misunderstand

This bright and blameless youth?"

O. S.


NEWS FROM THE BACK OF THE FRONT.

Northern France.

As you will see from our address, here we are among the War Correspondents. But there is a mistake somewhere; either there are not enough Germans to go round, or else they—Headquarters, you know—simply hate the idea of throwing the flower of the British Army into the full glare of the shrapnel. Anyhow, we haven't actually been engaged yet, though our Private Smithson has collected three bits of shrapnel and a German rifle; and we have all heard artillery fire (off). Which makes us think that these rumours of war aren't just a scare got up to help recruiting.

Some doubt exists among us as to our precise function out here. Here we are (as I may have mentioned) a magnificent battalion of young giants, complete with rifles—every man has at least one and Private Smithson has two—webbing equipment, cummerbunds, mufflers, cameras, sleeping caps (average, six per man) and even boots; and yet they can't decide exactly what to do with us. Mind you, we are absolute devils for a fight; we have already been reserve troops to five different divisions and thought nothing of it. We are not quite sure whether we get five medals for this or one medal with five bars. Not that we really care; such considerations do not affect us. As Edward—the mascot of the section—observed to me the other day, "I don't care two beans about medals; I want to go home."

But you ask what do we actually do? Let no man believe that we are out here on a holiday. On the contrary we give ourselves over entirely to warlike pursuits. Some days we slope arms by numbers; and other days we clean dixies and indent for new boots. Night by night we guard our approaches and prod the tyres of oncoming motors with fixed bayonets. Every morning the man who held up General French tells us about it with bated breath over our bated breakfasts. It is one of the finest traditions of the corps that General French is held up by us every night. We have our own sentries' word for it. This is especially interesting in view of the persistent reports that he is in a totally different part of France. As he gives a different name every night and varies considerably in appearance we feel that there must be something behind it all.

Thompson, who is no end of a fire-eater and wants to be invalided home with a bullet in his left shoulder—he is engaged—has invented a scheme for getting to the front by sheer initiative. Our officers have quite a pedantic veneration for orders, field-marshals and other obsolete pink apron-strings. We are thus thrown back on our sergeants, a fine body of men whose one weakness is an enthusiasm for chocolate. Acting on this knowledge certain tactful and public-spirited privates in our midst will present the sergeants with two sticks of chocolate per sergeant on the understanding that they thereafter form the battalion into fours and march them circumstantially to the trenches. There are, by all accounts, such supplies of these that a few here and there are bound to be empty. Having occupied these we will all expose our left shoulders, and, having gleaned a whole shrubbery of laurels, return to Divisional H.-Q. The sergeants, such as survive, will then be court-martialled and shot at dawn, while the rest of the regiment will be honourably exiled to England in glorious disgrace. All that remains is for Thompson to approach the sergeants with chocolate.


We notice a stray poster which advertises the thrilling romance, I Hid my Love. Is the idea that he should elude conscription? or simply Zeppelins?


[Pg 471]
THE INNOCENT

THE INNOCENT.

Crown Prince. "THIS OUGHT TO MAKE FATHER LAUGH!"


[In an alleged interview the Crown Prince is reported to have said, "As to being a war agitator, I am truly sorry that people don't know me better. There is no 'War Party' in Germany now—nor has there ever been."]

[Pg 472]
[Pg 473]
and please God make me a good girl

"—— and please God make me a good girl Amen. How would it be, mother, to give the Germans cigarettes filled with gunpowder?"


A RASH ASSUMPTION.

On the morning of November 27th I awoke to find my chest covered with a pretty pink pattern. It blended so well with the colour of my pyjama-jacket that for some minutes I was lost in admiration of the pleasing effect. Then it occurred to me that coming diseases cast their rashes before them, and I sprang from the bed in an agony of apprehension. I rushed to the mirror and opened my mouth to look at my tongue. There it was. I took some of it out. It looked quite healthy, so I put it back again. Then I gazed long and earnestly down my throat. It was quite hollow as usual. Next I got the clinical thermometer and sucked it for quite a long time. When I removed it I saw my temperature was about 86. Then I found I was reading it upside down and that I was only normal. I felt disappointed. After that I tried my pulse. It took me some time to locate it, but it hadn't run down; it was still going quite regularly—andante ma non troppo, two beats in the bar. I whistled "Tipperary" to it, and it kept perfect time.

But still the rash remained. It would neither get out nor get under. I felt perfectly well, and yet I knew I must be ill. I could not understand the complete absence of other symptoms.

At last a bright idea struck me. It was just possible that I might refuse food. I knew that would be a symptom. At any rate I would go down to breakfast and see. I dressed rapidly; I simply tore my clothes on to me. I shaved hastily; I literally tore the whiskers out of me. Then I tore down-stairs.

On the table was an egg. I removed the lid and looked inside. It was full of evil odours. I refused it. Then I knew for certain I was ill. I tore back to my bedroom and tore off my clothes. I unshaved. I tumbled into bed and tried hard to shiver. I tried so hard that I perspired. As I was really ill I knew that I had to get hot and cold alternately ever so many times. I did my best to live up to all the symptoms I had ever heard of. I tried to get delirious and talk nonsense, but I failed ignominiously. How I cursed my public school education!

In my extremity I even endeavoured to imagine that I saw things which were not there....

And then I saw something which really was there. It was my pin-cushion. It looked unusually crowded even for a pin-cushion, and I got out of bed to investigate the matter closer. I counted forty-five—yes, forty-five—little flags, and then memory came back to me. The previous day I had bought forty-five miniature Belgian flags at one time and another during the day. Each charming but inexperienced vendor had insisted on pinning my purchase wherever there happened to be an unoccupied space on my manly (thanks to my tailor) bosom. I remembered being conscious of a prickly sensation on each occasion, but I attributed it to rapturous thrills running about the region of my heart.

To make sure that my explanation was correct I went once again to the mirror and hastily counted my rash. There were forty-five of it!


"HUGE GERMAN SURRENDERS."

"Evening Standard" Poster.

Probably he had eaten too many sausages.


[Pg 474]
Flag-bearer

Flag-bearer. "Feel Cold, An' Want Yer Shirt, Do Yer? Garn! Where's Yer Patriotism?"


LOVE'S LABOUR NOT LOST.

I wish you knew my sister-in-law; she is probably one of the sweetest girls that ever breathed. Yet we are none of us perfect, and Grace has a drawback. She cannot forget that I am a poet. A fortnight ago she wrote to me:—

"Dear Edwin,—I am in such a fix. You remember Mary Smith? She has persuaded a young doctor friend of hers to start an album for original poems. He is such a nice fellow, though perhaps not very fond of poetry, if left to himself. But he has bought the album and has asked her to write on the first page. So she has come to me about it; and I am writing to ask if you would be a great brick and help us, because we get mixed up so with the feet, and I know it is nothing to you to write poetry. Could you possibly let me have it by return?

Yours affectionately,

Grace.

P.S.—Entre nous, she is rather keen on him, I think."

Somehow, when Grace's note reached me at the Local Government Board (she has a habit of addressing her communications to me there, in faintly perfumed envelopes much appreciated by the messengers), I was not in a poetical mood. For the past three weeks my branch had been engaged on the subject of Drains in the Eastern Counties, and that very morning I was completing an exhaustive minute dealing with the probable effects of an improved system of sanitation on the public health of the Borough of Ipswich. Still, I felt that something must be done. So I consulted Jones. Jones is, like myself, a poet; he is also the official whom Ministers of the Crown are accustomed, when hard pressed, to consult on the subject of Infantile Mortality amongst Suburban Undertakers; why, I cannot say, though many think it is on the strength of his having been a Philpott's Theological Prizeman at Oxford. I scribbled him a line in pencil: "Come over into number thirteen and help us; and bring your cigarettes." He came, and before leaving the office at 4.30 I was enabled to comply with my sister-in-law's request. I wrote as follows:—

"Dear Grace,—I do not remember Mary Smith. On the other hand, since in poetry, as in boxing and batting, the proper management of the feet is everything, and requires more practice than either you or your friend have apparently been able to devote to it, I have much pleasure in coming to the rescue. In dealing with members of the medical profession it is never wise to beat about the bush; superfluous subtlety merely irritates them. I have therefore endeavoured to make the poem just the artless outpouring of the innocent passion of such a girl as I imagine your friend Mary Smith to be. Here it is.


To George.

How I love you, how I love you,

Oh, you therapeutic dove, you!

How I long to snuggle coyly on your chest;

And reposing there to woo you,

Till, with soft responsive coo, you

Bid me share your warm but hygienic nest!

Though I might have oft been married,

I have tarried, I have tarried,

Hoping still that I should catch you on the hop;

For to pining, lonely Mary

To be George's own canary

Would be sweeter than the sweetest ginger pop.


"'George'—in the title and body of the poem—can of course be altered, if necessary; but something, I know not what, tells me that that is his name, and that it is probably followed by Harris. I may be mistaken, but George Harris, as I feel I know him, is a simple, muscular young man, addicted to tennis and his bicycle, fairly good at diagnosing whooping cough or a broken leg. He likes his pipe and reads the Referee on Sunday mornings. Mary, however, will change all that. She will furnish in fumed oak, art flower-pots, and the poems of Ella Wheeler Wilcox, and so will lead him gradually to higher and better things. I wish her all success.

Yours,

Edwin.

P.S.—It is true that doves seldom marry canaries, nor do the latter drink ginger beer to any considerable extent. But George will not notice these discrepancies. He is not hypercritical."

Two days later I heard from Grace again.

Dear Edwin,—Thank you so much for the verses, though perhaps they are a little—well, a little outspoken, aren't they? Unfortunately, Mary's friend is not named George or Harris. He is not even English, but a very nice dark brown man from Asia, a Hindu, I think, and only trying to be a doctor at present. As soon as he is one he is going back again. I ought to have told you this before, as I feel it might have helped you. But thanks very much all the same.

Yours affectionately,

Grace."

When I showed this to Jones he expressed his chagrin with a freedom and resource surprising even in a Civil Servant; but, having put our hands to the plough, we felt we could hardly leave Mary Smith in the cart. So we set to again, and I posted the following poem to Grace:—


Farewell.

Though, O budding Inter-M.B.,

You may now perchance pro tem. be

Not indifferent to a simple English maid,

Soon the daughters dark and dingy

Of the land of Ranjitsinhji,

Will be throwing her completely in the shade.

And shall Mary thus be stranded,

When she had you almost landed

(Yes, the metaphors are mixed, but never mind)?

Oh, imagine her emotion

When the cruel Indian Ocean

Separates you from the girl you left behind.

It was nearly a week before I heard from Grace. Then she wrote:—

"Dear Edwin,—It was really too sweet of you to send the second set. We have discovered, however, that Mary's friend is a Parsee, and therefore a worshipper of the sun, and she thinks the last line in the first verse would offend his family's religious scruples. She fears, too, that he might not endorse the epithet 'dingy' as applied by you to his female compatriots. So we have decided not to write in his album. I think however that the first poem (with modifications) would do for the album of a friend of my own, whose name, as it happens, is George. So I have asked the vicar to tone it down for me. He is a Durham man. Do you mind?

Yours affectionately,

Grace."

I read her letter, and breathed a deep sigh. Then seizing a telegraph form, I wired: "Have no objection to Durham vicars. Am ordering salt-cellars. Do not write again. Edwin."


[Pg 475]

ANOTHER WAR SCARE.

Peter goes to a dame's school in Armadale Gardens, round the corner.

On Tuesdays and Fridays he comes home at twelve, changes into his football things, and goes off to play soccer till one.

Yesterday, Friday, he came in as usual and, after changing, he put his head round the door of my study and shouted excitedly,

"Daddy!"

"Well, old chap," I said, "out with it. I'm busy."

"Have you heard? Italy joins Austria. Official."

"Heavens above!" I said. "Official, did you say?"

"Yes," he said. "Can't stop now."

"Hi! Peter," I shouted, "do get me a paper; it won't take you——" But the banging of the front door cut my appeal short.

I couldn't get a paper myself. I had a cold, and had been ordered to stay indoors, and I had an article to finish by three o'clock.

"Italy with Austria and Germany," I groaned. "It's monstrous."

I got up, kicked the waste-paper basket over and walked up and down the room. I knew Peter wouldn't tell a lie. Even for fun he wouldn't say anything like that if it weren't true.

I called Honor. She was in the drawing-room arranging the flowers. She came hurriedly with a bunch of them in her hand. I don't know one flower from one another, but they were big floppy red things.

"What's the matter?" she said.

"Matter? Italy's declared for the enemy," I said. "It's official."

"Is that all?" she said. "I thought at least you couldn't find some of your writing things."

"What!" I said, "you can stand there with those ridiculous red blobs in one hand and—and nothing in the other and talk like that."

"They're not blobs," said Honor, "they're peonies. And if that's all that's the matter I'm busy. I must get my flowers done before lunch."

"Bah!" I said, turning to my table again. "Hang lunch; I can't eat any. Italy, our staunch friend for years, throws in her lot with Austria, her hereditary foe, and you talk of lunch."

"It's macaroni cheese," said Honor calmly, "and you know you love it."

"Shade of Garibaldi! Macaroni! You dare," I said "to mix that miserable Italian trash with good honest English cheese on such a day, when Italy is mobilising her millions of soldiers and sailors against us and our Allies. It's rank sacrilege."

"Don't get excited," said Honor; "besides the cheese is American Cheddar."

"You trifle with me," I said. "If you send any of the wretched stuff in here I shall trample on it."

"Aren't you coming in to lunch, then?" she said.

"No, I'm not," I said. "I can't eat anything, and I doubt if I can write a word after this."

"What earthly difference would having lunch make?" said Honor.

"None to you," I said. "You can gorge yourself on macaroni cheese while the Empire totters."

I kicked the fallen waste-paper basket across the room. I don't suppose I added more than fifty or sixty words to my article in the next hour-and-three-quarters.

Then I heard Peter whistling in the hall. He had finished lunch and was just off to school again.

I called him. "Look here, old man," I said, "you might get me a paper at the station before going to school. I want to see about Italy joining Austria. It's awful."

"You don't need a paper," said Peter; "look on the map and you'll see that Italy joins Austria," and he fled. It was well for him that he fled.

"Any more of that macaroni cheese left?" I said, rushing into the dining room. "I've just swallowed the oldest joke in the world and I want to take away the taste of it."


Village Worthy

Village Worthy (discussing possibilities of invasion). "Wull, there can't be no battle in these parts, Jarge, for there bain't no field suitable, as you may say; an' Squire 'e won't lend 'em the use of 'is park."


"During 1912 we imported 2,290,206,240 foreign eggs. It is estimated that over 60% of these are no longer available."—Advt.

Heaven preserve us from the other 40%.


[Pg 476]

THE LAST LINE.

V.

At last! We are "recognised" by the War Office! Our months of toil are not to go unrewarded. Two hours every evening at the end of an ordinary civilian day's work, all Saturday afternoon and the whole of Sunday, we have given these up cheerfully, supported by the hope of ultimate recognition. And now it is come!

The terms of the War Office are generous. They are these. Provided that we buy our own rifles and equipment and continue to pay our own training expenses; provided that we use no military terms and make no attempt to wear any clothing which may look to the Germans at all like a soldier's uniform; provided that the War Office is at perfect liberty to employ upon those of us within the age limits a conscription for whole-time service which it has no intention of employing upon the more patriotic man who spends his week-ends playing golf; these provisions complied with, we—are allowed to go on living!

That startles you? I thought it would. You looked down upon us. Recognition, you told yourself, would only mean that we were immediately to be employed as waterproof sheeting for the new huts or concrete foundations for the new guns. Aha! Now you wish you had joined us. We are allowed to go on living!

But I was forgetting. The War Office is being even more generous than that. In return for our not bothering them any more, it will allow us to wear (and pay for) a small red armlet with "G.R." on it; the red colour, I suppose, informing the Germans that we have just been vaccinated, and the "G.R." ("got rash") warning them that the left arm is irritable.

James is annoyed about it. This is silly of him. As I point out, our soldiers have already earned a reputation abroad for gaiety and high spirits, and it is all to the good that the War Office should show that it has a sense of humour equally keen. When the invasion comes, and music-halls, cinemas and football matches are closed down, the amusement of the country (as the War Office has foreseen) will depend entirely upon us. Let us, then, obey rigidly the seven commandments of "recognition" and see how funny we can be.

For instance:—

At Headquarters.

[The Brigadier and the Adjutant—I beg pardon (don't shoot)—Father and Father's Help are discovered in conversation.]

Father (explaining orders). The Battalion will advance to-morrow towards Harwich, where the enemy——

Father's Help. Excuse me, Sir, but isn't that rather too military? How would this do?—"The brethren will walk out towards Harwich to-morrow, where the Band of Hope from another parish has already assembled."

In the Field.

Churchwarden Jones. Advance in half-pew rushes from the right!

Sidesman Tomkins. No. 1 half-pew, advance.... At the congregation in front at a thousand yards.

Parishioner Brown (to his neighbour). I say, how many bullets have you brought with you?

Parishioner Smith. Fifteen. Fact is, I'm jolly hard up just now. Emily's been ill again, and one thing and another.... I did have twenty, but the baby swallowed two.... You might lend me some, old man. I promise to pay you back at the end of the month.

Parishioner Brown. I'll lend you a couple, but that's really all I can spare.... Look at Boko swanking away like a bally millionaire. That's his tenth shot this afternoon. Fairly chucking his money about.

Parishioner Robinson. I'll give you a hundred cartridges in exchange for your bayonet if you like. Sickening the Germans coming just now; it's my birthday next week and I'd been practically promised one by Aunt Sarah.

In Another Part of the Field.

Elder Perks, C.B. (that is to say, "completely bald"). What the blank blanket do those blanks think they're doing?

Lay-Helper Snooks. I beg your pardon, Sir, for reminding you, but military terms are not allowed to be used.

Elder Perks. Quite right, Snooks; I forgot myself. Kindly request the organist to sound the Assemble. Those naughty lads are running in the wrong direction.

At the German Headquarters.

German Officer (to prisoner). You are a civilian and you are caught bearing arms. Have you anything to offer in your defence?

Prisoner. Civilian be blowed! I'm recognised by the War Office. Look at my—— Oh lor, it's come off again!

German Officer. Well?

Prisoner. I know appearances are against me, but——

German Officer. What is your rank?

Prisoner. Er—Chairman of the Committee.

German Officer. I thought so. (To Sergeant) Take him away and shoot him. (To Prisoner) Any last message you wish to leave will be delivered.

Prisoner (drawing himself up nobly). Tell my wife not to mourn me. Tell her that I die happy (his voice breaks for a moment) knowing that my death (with deep emotion) is—technically—(a happy smile illuminates his face) an illegal one.


And so I tell James not to worry. If the worst befalls him—and all the time when I was writing "prisoner" above I seemed to see James in that position—if the worst befalls him, his partner will at least be able to bring an action against somebody. For we are not "civilians." We are—well, I don't quite know what we are.

A. A. M.


OUR MIGHTY PENMEN.

(In acknowledgment of the services of some of the gifted representatives of "The Daily Mail" and "The Daily Chronicle.")

Correspondents, though banned at the Front,

Are so manfully doing their "stunt"

In searching for news

That the Limerick Muse

Thus honours their skill in the hunt.

The despatches of Mr. Elias

Are so laudably free from all bias

That their moderate strain

Has given much pain

To the shade of the late Ananias.

K. of K., who by birth is a Kerry man,

Much approves of the work of Z. Ferriman,

For it holds the just mean

That's betwixt and between

The extremes of Cassandra and Merryman.

For news that is fresh from the spot

Commend me to great Alan Bott;

The stuff that he wires

Stokes our patriot fires

Without being ever too hot.

The despatches of good Mr. Perris

Have the flavour of syrupy "sherris;"

They enrapture the mind

Of the sane and refined—

Especially Ellaline Terriss.

In Rotterdam city James Dunn

Keeps his vigilant eye on the Hun,

And fires off despatches

In generous batches,

Like a humanized 15-inch gun.

It is futile to cavil or carp

At Sir Alfred, whose surname is Sharpe;

For he soothes us or stings

As the nightingale sings,

Or as angels perform on the harp.


[Pg 477]
THE MASTER WORD.

THE MASTER WORD.


[Pg 478]
THE ZEPPELIN MENACE

THE ZEPPELIN MENACE.

A smart London cellar in war-time. Pictured by a Berlin artist.


THE FOUR SEA LORDS.

(For the information of an ever-thirsty public.)
First Sea Lord.

This is the man whose work is War;

He plans it out in a room on shore—

He and his Staff (all brainy chaps)

With miniature flags and monster maps,

And a crew whose tackle is Hydro-graphic,

With charts for steering our ocean traffic.

But the task that most engrosses him

Is to keep his Fleet in fighting trim;

To see that his airmen learn the knack

Of plomping bombs on a Zeppelin's back;

To make his sailors good at gunnery,

And so to sink each floating hunnery.

Second Sea Lord.

Here is the man who mans the Fleet

With jolly young tars that can't be beat;

He has them trained and taught the rules;

He looks to their hospitals, barracks, schools;

He notes what rumorous Osborne's doing,

And if it has mumps or measles brewing.

He fills each officer's vacant billet

(Provided the First Lord doesn't fill it);

And he casts a fatherly eye, betweens,

On that fine old corps, the Royal Marines.

This is the job that once was Jellicoe's,

But now he has one a bit more bellicose.

Third Sea Lord.

Ships are the care of the Third Sea Lord,

And all Material kept on board.

'Tis he must see that the big guns boom

And the wheels go round in the engine-room;

'Tis he must find, for cloudy forays,

Aeroplanes and Astra Torres;

And, long ere anything's sent to sea,

Tot up a bill for you and me.

Fourth Sea Lord.

The Fourth Sea Lord has a deal to plan,

For he's, chief of all, the Transport man.

He finds the Fleet in coal and victuals

(Supplying the beer—if not the skittles);

He sees to the bad'uns that get imprisoned,

And settles what uniform's worn (or isn't)....

Even the stubbornest own the sway

Of the Lord of Food and the Lord of Pay!


SEARCHLIGHTS ON THE MERSEY.

A long lean bar of silver spans

The ebon-rippled water-way,

And like a lost moon's errant ray

Strikes on the passing caravans—

Ghost-ships that from the desert seas

Loom silent through the steady beams,

Pale phantoms of elusive dreams

Cargoed with ancient memories.

Through the long night across the cool

Black waters to their shrouded berth,

Bearing the treasures of the earth,

Glide the fair ships to Liverpool.


"Londoner" in The Evening News:—

"Long live King Leopold, a faithful prince if ever there was one, as loyal to his brave Belgians as they, gallant souls that they are, are loyal to him. Does he, I wonder, ever take a look at his family pedigree?"

Because, if so, he would discover that his name was really Albert.


[Pg 479]
THE KING AT THE FRONT

THE KING AT THE FRONT.

"Tommy", (having learned the language). "VIVE LE ROI!"

[Pg 480]
[Pg 481]
Mummy, I do hope

Michael (gloomily). "Mummy, I do hope I shan't die soon."

Mummy. "Darling! So do I—but why?"

Michael. "It would be too awful to die a civilian."


THE ENTENTE IN BEING.

We were sitting in a little restaurant in the gay city—which is not a gay city any more, but a city of dejection, a city that knows there is a war going on and not so long since could hear the guns. There are, however, corners where, for the moment, contentment or, at any rate, visitations of mirth are possible, and this little restaurant is one of them. Well, we were sitting there waiting for coffee, the room (for it was late) now empty save for the table behind me, where two elderly French bourgeois and a middle-aged woman were seated, when suddenly the occupant of the chair which backed into mine and had been backing into it so often during the evening that I had punctuated my eating with comments on other people's clumsy bulkiness; suddenly, as I say, this occupant, turning completely round, forced his face against mine and, cigarette in hand, asked me for a light. I could see nothing but face—a waste of plump ruddy face set deep between vast shoulders, a face garnished with grey beard and moustache, and sparkling moist eyes behind highly magnifying spectacles. Very few teeth and no hair. But the countenance as a whole radiated benignance and enthusiasm; and one thing, at any rate, was clear, and that was that none of my resentment as to the restlessness of the chair had been telepathed.

Would I do him the honour of giving him a light? he asked, the face so close to mine that we were practically touching. I reached out for a match. Oh, no, he said, not at all; he desired the privilege of taking the light from my cigarette, because I was an Englishman and it was an honour to meet me, and—and——"Vive l'Angleterre!" This was all very strange and disturbing to me; but we live in stirring times, and nothing ever will be the same again. So I gave him the light quite calmly and with great presence of mind said, "Vive la France!" Then he grasped my hand and thanked me for the presence of the English army in his country, the credit for which I endeavoured fruitlessly to disclaim, and we all stood up and bowed to each other severally and collectively, and resumed our own lives again.

But the incident had been so unexpected that I, at any rate, could not be quite normal just yet, for I could not understand why, out of four of us, all English, and one a member of the other sex, so magnetic to Frenchmen, I should have been selected either as the most typical or the most likely to be cordial—I who only a week or so ago was told reflectively by a student of men, gazing steadfastly upon me, that my destiny must be to be more amused by other people than to amuse them. Especially, too, as earlier in the evening there had been two of our men —real men—in khaki in the room. Yet there it was: I, a dreary civilian, had been carefully selected as the truest representative of Angleterre and all its bravery and chivalry, even to the risk of dislocation of the perilously short neck of the speaker.

It was therefore my turn to behave, and I whispered to the waiter to fill[Pg 482] three more glasses with his excellent Fine de la maison (not the least remarkable in Paris) and place them on the next table, with our compliments. This he did, and the explosion of courtesy and felicitations that followed was terrific. It flung us all to our feet, bowing and smiling. We clinked glasses, each of us clinking six others; we said "Vive la France!" and "Vive l'Angleterre." We tried to assume expressions consonant with the finest types of our respective nations. I felt everything that was noblest in the English character rushing to my cheeks; everything that was most gallant and spirited in the French temperament suffused the face of my friend until I saw nothing for him but instant apoplexy. Meanwhile he grasped my hand in his, which was very puffy and warm, and again thanked me for all that ces braves Anglais had done to save Paris and la belle France.

Down we all sat again, and I whispered to our party that perhaps this was enough and we had better creep away. But there was more in store. Before the bill could be made out—never a very swift matter at this house—I caught sight of a portent and knew the worst. I saw a waiter entering the room with a tray on which was a bottle of champagne and seven glasses. My heart sank, for if there is one thing I cannot do, it is to drink the sweet champagne so dear to the bourgeois palate. And after the old fine, not before it! To the French mind these irregularities are nothing; but to me, to us....

There however it was, and, in a moment, the genial enthusiast was again on his feet. Would we not join them, he asked, in drinking to the good health and success of the Allies in a glass of champagne? Of course we would. We were all on our feet again, all clinking glasses again, all crying "Vive la France!" "Vive l'Angleterre!" to which we added, "À bas les Allemands!" all shaking hands and looking our best, exactly as before. But this time there was no following national segregation, but we sat down in three animated groups and talked as though a ban against social intercourse in operation for years had suddenly been lifted. The room buzzed. We were introduced one by one to Madame, who not only was my friend's wife, but, he told us proudly, helped in his business, whatever that might be; and Madame, on closer inspection, turned out to be one of the capable but somewhat hard French women of her class, with a suggestion somewhere about the mouth that she had doubts as to whether the champagne had been quite a necessary expense—whether things had not gone well enough without it, and my contribution of fine the fitting conclusion. Still she made a brave show at cordiality. Then we were introduced to the other gentleman, who was Madame's cousin and had a son at the Front, and, on hearing this, we shook hands with him again, and so gradually we disentangled and at last got into our coats and made our adieux.

When I had shaken his feather-bed hand for the last time my new friend gave me his card. It lies before me now as I write and I do not mean to part with it:—


BAPTISTE GRIMAUD,

Délégué Cantonal,
9a Place Gambetta.
Pompes Funèbres.

Well, if ever I come to die in Paris I know who shall bury me. I would not let any one else do it for the world. Warm hearts are not so common as all that!


FAITH

FAITH.


A FOOTNOTE TO HERODOTUS.

It has been discovered by a Berlin research student that "Germany" is a mere corruption of "Cyrmania," and that the Kaiser is descended from Cyrus, King of Persia.

We are inclined to agree as to the "mania" part, and we think the "corruption" must be that of the modern representatives of the ancient Orientals, whose education consisted in riding, shooting—and telling the truth.

The Almanach de Bouverie Street, however, informs us that the ever-frowning War Lord derives from the monarch of the rocky brow, who counted his men by nations at break of day, and when the sun set where were they? If the Hohenxerxes family are still on the look-out for places in the sun, they will find their ancestral homes for the most part unoccupied in the sufficiently arid regions around Ecbatana and Persepolis, now crying aloud for Kultur and Kraut.

We are still waiting to hear that von Hafiz and Omar zu Khayyam, as well as Shakspeare, have been proved to be Germans, and that the Herr Wolff of the Berlin Lie Bureau traces back to the foster-mother of Romulus—and Romance.


Ultimatum.

Mr. Punch begs to remind the 1,793 correspondents who have lately sent him delightful plays upon the word "wet" [De Wet the man and "de wet" the rain (ha-ha)] that the same idea had already occurred to 15,825 correspondents during the Boer War. Time is a great healer, but twelve years is not long enough.


Mr. C. G. Grey writes in The Daily Express on the Freidrichshafen air-raid:—

"The raid itself was one of those simple affairs which might have been done by any aviator possessing skill and pluck, only fortunately for these three officers nobody else did it."

And the disparaging comment was one of those simple affairs which might have been done by any journalist possessing —— and ——, only fortunately nobody else did it.


[Pg 483]

THE FREEDOM OF THE PRESS.

Waking at six, I lie and wait

Until the papers come at eight.

I skim them with an anxious eye

Ere duly to my bath I hie,

Postponing till I'm fully dressed

My study of the daily pest.

Then, seated at my frugal board,

My rasher served, my tea outpoured,

I disentangle news official

From reams of comment unjudicial,

Until at half-past nine I rise

Bemused by all this "wild surmise,"

And for my daily treadmill bound

Fare eastward on the underground.

But, whether in the train or when

I reach my dim official den,

Placards designed to thrill and scare

Affront my vision everywhere,

And double windows can't keep out

The newsboy's penetrating shout.

For when the morning papers fail

The evening press takes up the tale,

And, fired by furious competition,

Edition following on edition,

The headline demons strain and strive

Without a check from ten till five,

Extracting from stale news some phrase

To shock, to startle or amaze,

Or found a daring innuendo—

All swelling in one long crescendo,

Till, shortly after five o'clock,

When business people homeward flock,

From all superfluous verbiage freed

Comes Joffre's calm laconic screed,

And all the bellowings of the town

Quelled by the voice of Truth die down,

Enabling you and me to win

Twelve hours' release from Rumour's din.


Run avay, you leedle poys

"Run avay, you leedle poys; don't gome here shpying about!"


A CHRISTMAS PRESENT FOR THE QUEEN.

A few days ago, when sitting in Committee on ways and means in the matter of Christmas presents, Joan and I made out that the extra taxes which we should be called upon to disgorge this year would amount to £3 16s. 1d.

"That's curious!" Joan remarked, comparing our calculation with some figures on another slip of paper before her. "Isn't three pounds sixteen and a penny half of seven pounds twelve and twopence?"

"It is," I admitted. "But why?"

"Because last year," said Joan, "our Christmas presents cost us exactly seven pounds twelve and twopence. In other words it means that we can only afford—owing to the extra taxes—to spend half that sum on presents this year."

I nodded.

"Well," continued Joan, "I have a splendid idea. Our folk, I know, won't expect proper presents this year. How would it be if we——"

"I know what you mean," I chimed in. "Give them half-presents! Half a lace scarf to your mother, one fur glove only to your father, afternoon-tea saucers to Aunt Emma, a Keats Calendar for 182½ days to Uncle Peter, kilt-lengths instead of dress-lengths to Cook and Phœbe, and so on, all with promissory notes for the balance attached."

"I don't mean anything of the sort," said Joan. "We shall give no half-presents. We shall give one whole present where it will be needed far more than by our relations. It will have a face-value of three pounds sixteen and a penny, but virtually it will represent a sum of seven pounds twelve and twopence."

I coughed a sceptic's cough.

"You don't believe me," said Joan. "Now, will you be content to give me, here and now, a cheque for three pounds sixteen and a penny, and credit your conscience with double that sum? Will you be willing to leave its disposal to me if I guarantee that that shall be the full extent of your liability?"

"Absolutely!" I replied with enthusiasm. "Can't you arrange to settle the rates, the electric-light bill and the coal bill on the same terms?"

"No," said Joan gravely, "my principle only applies to presents. Here's your cheque-book and here's my fountain-pen."

"What is your principle?" I asked as I meekly complied with her demand.

"What did Mr. Asquith say in 1912?" was all the answer Joan vouchsafed, so I decided to follow that eminent statesman's advice and wait and see.


When I came down to breakfast two days later Joan passed me The Times. "Read that," she said, indicating a paragraph in the "Personal" column marked in pencil.

"The Chancellor of the Exchequer," I read out, "acknowledges the receipt[Pg 484] of two pounds and three shillings conscience-money from——"

"Oh! I've marked the wrong paragraph," exclaimed Joan. "It's the one underneath." Then I saw—

"The Hon. Treasurer of the Queen's 'Work for Women' Fund, 33, Portland Place, W., gratefully acknowledges the receipt of Treasury notes and postal orders to the value of £3 16s. 1d. forwarded by an anonymous donor."

When I looked up Joan was smiling significantly.

"Very nice," I commented, "but I see they've only acknowledged the original amount I gave you. I thought you were going to double it."

"And so I have," said Joan. "He (or she) gives twice who gives quickly."


THE TERRORS OF WAR.

[Being privileged extracts from two of next season's War Romances.]

From Pot-bank and Potsdam:—

Edwin Clayhanger strolled dully down the Square. A squat dirty boy shrieked: "Sentinel. Result of Bursley Match. War News—Official." Edwin snatched a pink paper and under an anti-Zeppelin gas-lamp read that Knipe had defeated Bursley Rovers by four goals to none. He crumpled the paper in his hand and threw it disgustedly into the gutter, outside Bates the cheesemonger's. Sam Bates emerged, picked up the paper and confided to his assistant that "Young Edwin's brain is going, like old Mr. Clayhanger's."

Chill mists enveloped the pot-banks. The glare of the Hanbridge furnaces was subdued to a faint glimmer. The shout of a laughing crowd outside the Blood Tub drew Edwin closer. He perceived in the midst of the throng an elephant covered with Union Jacks. On its back stood Denry Machin, the famous Card of the Five Towns, thrice Mayor of Bursley.

"Boys," cried the Card, "you can see the circus elephant free. You can listen to me free. Hanbridge is going to raise a Pot-bank Company for Kitchener's Army. They want us to raise one to match it. We're going one better. Bursley will raise a Pot-bank Regiment. I just want a thousand men to be going along with. Don't all speak at once."

The crowd shrieked with laughter at Bursley's only humorist.

Edwin Clayhanger thought deeply. For three years he had been waiting to marry Hilda Lessways. Now the thought of 528 pages of married life with her overwhelmed him. Up went his hand.

"We're doing fine," cried the Card. "Nine hundred and ninety-nine more and off we march to Potsdam in the morning."

From The Military Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes:—

I shrank down into a corner of the reserve trench. The fifteen inches of half-frozen mud caused my old wound from an Afghan bullet to ache viciously. I longed for some wounded to arrive—anything to end this chilly inactivity. A tall officer in staff uniform jumped into the trench beside me.

"You are wishing yourself back in Baker Street," he remarked.

"How did you know?" I exclaimed. "Why, Holmes, what are you doing here?"

"Business, my dear Watson, business. Moriarty is becoming troublesome again."

"But he was drowned."

"Far too clever to be drowned in that pool. Merely stranded on the edge like myself. But I had made England too hot for him. You can guess his name."

"Not the K——!"

"Watson, Watson, Moriarty was my mental equal. Now he calls himself von Kluck."

I was overwhelmed.

Just then a little group of the staff arrived. I recognised amongst them the figures of General J—— and Field-Marshal F——, and saluted.

"The spy in staff uniform is the third on your left, Sir," said Holmes casually.

The Field-Marshal beckoned a firing party.

As the shots rang out I whispered, "How did you know he wasn't English?"

"Watson, Watson, did you not see that he had no handkerchief in his sleeve?"


"It is all-important, Captain Holmes," said the British Commander, "that we should ascertain what army is opposing our right wing. Our airmen are useless in this fog. I detail you for this duty."

Holmes saluted. "Come, Watson," he said, and led me through the fog towards the enemy's lines. We had not walked a mile when we reached a fine chateau.

"You are cold, Watson," said Holmes. "Light a fire in the front room whilst I scout for Uhlans."

In a moment he returned to me after having looked round the house. It was, I think, the first time the Chateau had known the scent of shag tobacco. A glow of heat rushed through me. I felt another man.

"Better than the trenches," said Holmes, penetrating to my inmost thought. We sat for an hour and then I said, "Holmes, your mission."

"Ah, I forgot. Come on."

He led me into the thickening fog, and in a few minutes I was surprised to find myself in the British lines. The General emerged as we approached. Holmes saluted. "The Crown Prince's army is on the enemy's left, Sir. It is now in rapid retreat."

The General shook him warmly by the hand.

"But, Holmes," I said, as we went away, "we have done nothing. The lives of thousands of our men may depend on this."

"My dear Watson," said Holmes, tapping the dottel of his pipe into his hand. "I used my eyes. In the house we visited the silver had almost all vanished. Inference—Crown Prince. But two solid silver spoons had been left on the table. Inference—Crown Prince in a hurry. Really, I am ashamed to explain a deduction which an intelligent child could have made."


KARL.

Karl has emerged from the obscurity in which for years he has been wrapped and has become a topic of conversation, a link with the past, a popular alien enemy and a common nuisance.

Once upon a time, when we were first told about Karl, those of us who didn't say that it was an extraordinary coincidence observed that the world is a small place after all; but now, when the narrator reaches that part of the story where he tells us that we "can imagine his surprise when"—I usually interrupt him to say that he must forgive me, but really I cannot.

Karl was a German waiter at all the restaurants where my friends and my friends' friends were in the habit of dining. In time of peace not one of our mutual friends ever mentioned Karl to me, nobody ever wrote excitedly to tell me that they had seen him getting into a bus in the Strand; but now——

My sister-in-law's brother has the distinction of being the first among us to meet Karl since the outbreak of war. He was at Waterloo Station one morning when some German prisoners were being brought through from——, and as he passed them someone, speaking with a familiar voice and a strong German accent, addressed him by name. You can imagine his surprise when——

Karl, my sister-in-law said her brother told her, had spoken of being pleased to be among us once more, but this was apparently only another[Pg 485] German lie, for when next I heard of him he was back in the trenches again. A friend of my brother's fiancée, who was superintending the removal of some German wounded to Paris, was surprised to find himself addressed by name by a young German whose face seemed vaguely familiar. You can imagine his astonishment when, etc. Karl, my brother said the friend of his fiancée told her, was only too glad to have fallen into English hands.

It was in a hospital ship in the North Sea that my cousin met him. The situation remained unchanged. He addressed my cousin by name and said he was longing to be back in England again.

Two days afterwards I heard that a friend of mine had seen him in Holland, where the unlucky fellow was interned, having deserted with the intention of returning to us.

I made it my business to let my friends know—those friends of mine who had not already heard from someone who had met him—that he was securely interned in Holland, and we should know no more of him until the war was over, and after that I had for some time the pleasure of forgetting his existence. Unfortunately, however, I had overlooked Stephen.

Stephen and I were talking of the war (and incidentally having dinner together) when he told me that a man he knew had told him of a strange coincidence of which his nephew had told him. A friend of his who was at the Front had been in the habit of dining at a certain restaurant where a German waiter——

"Karl," I said.

"You've heard about it?" he asked.

"Only yesterday," I said, "I met a friend who knew someone who was present at the inquest."

"The inquest!"

"Yes," I said. "He shot himself through the heart with one of the seven hundred and twenty-five rifles which were found in her dress-basket."

I didn't allow him to interrupt me.

"He had only recently become engaged to her, I believe. She had been a trusted nurse and governess in many English families for many years, etc., etc. Some day I will tell you all about her. It's a long, long story and rather depressing. But about Karl. His mind had undoubtedly become unhinged and, after escaping from Holland, he found his way to the house where she was employed, learnt that she had been arrested (you see, the red stitches on her handkerchief, which everyone had supposed were laundry marks, turned out to be plans of Hampton Court Maze and the most direct route to Swan and Selfinsons), and, seizing the rifle, he rushed from the house (it was the night the Russians passed through Aberdeen and Upper Norwood) and——"

Stephen apologised to me.

"Karl shall be no more," he said. "Karl the ubiquitous is dead."

"Evening papers please copy," I added.


CARRYING ON

CARRYING ON.

Old Sportsman. "Well, Tom, back into harness again?"

Tom (retired Huntsman). "Yes, Sir; only second whip now. Didn't think to see you huntin' again, Sir."

Old Sportsman. "Just trying to keep things going till the lads come back again."


[Pg 486]

THE SEARCH FOR PADDINGTON.

I do not say that the expedition I propose to describe was accompanied by any very great risk. The streets, of course, were dark and the taxis and motor-buses were quite up to the usual average in number and well above it in speed. Still, when your mind is full of stories of shrapnel and Black Marias, you feel able to affront motor vehicles, even in darkened streets, with a feeling of comparative security. It is not so much danger as mystery that makes this story remarkable.

There were two of us, and we found ourselves taking tea in the N.W. district, that is to say in one of those parts (there are millions of them) which lie about the Abbey Road. One of us had knitted belts for soldiers; another knew a hero who had received the D.S.O., and all of us had been brought into close connection with Belgian refugees whose cheerful courage under terrible suffering formed the burden of our talk. Not to know a Belgian in these days is a mark of social outlawry, and you cannot know them without admiring them. The fire was warm, the room was comfortable, and the minutes ticked themselves away in the usual place on the mantelpiece.

"How long," said one of us, "will it take us to walk from here to Paddington?"

"To walk?" said our hostess in a tone of mild surprise.

"Yes," I said, "to walk. We are the ones for adventure. We are country folk, and we don't get a chance of a walk in St. John's Wood every day."

"I don't want to hurry you," said our hostess, "but if you really want to walk you must start at once."

We did. We went out, turned to the right, and plunged head-first towards the brooding darkness of Maida Vale.

"Are you sure," said my companion, "that you know the way?"

"No," I said, "I am not sure. Is one sure of anything in this life? But Paddington is a big place. We can't miss it. Think of its immense glass roof and take courage. We are bound to get there sooner or later."

"Yes," she said, "but we want to get there for the 5.50."

"True," I said. "We must limit our wanderings. I will ask this gentleman. He is standing at a corner. He has leisure and must know the way to Paddington."

I approached the gentleman and addressed him. "Sir," I said, "can you tell me the best way to get to Paddington?"

He looked at me suspiciously. "The station?" he said.

"Yes," I said, "Paddington station."

"Are you going to walk?"

I said we were.

"Ah," he said, "that makes a difference. If you wanted a bus now I might help you; but I'm lame, you see—only got one real leg. Run over by a van a matter of ten years ago, and I don't do much hard walking myself. Still you can't go far wrong if you take the first on the left."

We tore ourselves away, took the first on the left and walked on, ever on, through a wilderness of silent and unfamiliar houses. At last we came upon a baker's cart. "Ask him," said my fellow-traveller, pointing to the baker's man. I asked him.

"Are we right," I said, "for Paddington?"

"Oh yes," he said, "you're right enough. You'll get there in time, but you'll have to walk round the world first. My advice is to go in the opposite direction and take the second on the right, close to the dairy; you can't miss it."

Again we fled into the blackness. Paddington had shrunk to the size of a needle and we were in a huge bottle of hay, an oriental bottle full of weird surprises in the shape of sultans, genie, princesses, mosques, one-eyed porters, but never a hint of a railway station. How, indeed, could there be a railway station in Bagdad five hundred years ago?

"Ask again," said the other one.

I addressed a gentleman who was hurrying over a bridge. "Can you," I said, "direct me to Paddington station?"

He murmured something unintelligible and pointed to his ears.

I repeated my question loudly and again he murmured. At last I made out his words: "Stone deaf, stone deaf."

"Great heavens," I said, "all the infirmities of the world are come out against us. The man with one leg—the stone-deaf man. What next, what next?"

The second wayfarer seized my arm. "Look," she said, pointing to the sky. There, before our eyes, merging into the foggy infinity of the heavens, was the glass roof of our dreams. We ran like hares. We collided with everybody. Both of us had our feet trodden on by soldiers. We shouted at porters and they shouted back at us, and at last we flung ourselves into a train.

"You don't often come by this train," said a friendly fellow-passenger.

"No," I said, "I generally come by the 6.50."

"This is the 6.50," he said.


THE FORLORN HOPE.

(Sympathetically addressed to the Hamburg Colonial Institute, which "has undertaken the task of showing that Germany has conducted her operations in the spirit of the most enlightened humanity.")

In this war of the civilised nations

That extends from the East to the West,

Have arisen full many occasions

For a man to put forth of his best;

When the battle was raging its roughest,

Men have spared themselves never a jot,

But, gentlemen, yours is the toughest

Affair of the lot.

Your countrymen's road through the trenches

Has not proved too easy a course,

For they seem to be hindered by French's

No longer contemptible force,

But their work with the gun and the sabre,

Their frenzied attempts to break through,

Are child's play compared with the labour

Allotted to you.

One fears that your gallant intentions

Will meet with a general scorn,

For I doubt if all history mentions

A hope so extremely forlorn;

But, should you succeed in acquitting

The Huns and their bellicose boss,

All the world will unite in admitting

You merit your Cross.


War Stringency.

From the catalogue of a G. W. R. salvage sale:—

"696. 2 bags tares and 1 grass seed."

We have bought the grass seed and are planting it in our garden. If anybody hears of another for sale we shall be glad to know.



"Zouaves carry Wood at Point of Bayonet."

Daily Paper.

We always keep a cork tip on ours in case of accidents.


[Pg 487]
See 'im? Well

"See 'im? Well, when 'e sez ''Oo goes there?' if you're a Englishman you 'as to say 'Friend!' and if you're a German you 'as to say 'Foe!'"


OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

One aspect of the present problem (as this sounds a little too like a leading article, I should explain that I mean the Christmas present problem) has this year been very satisfactorily settled. Everybody buys some books at this time; and when you know that for two shillings and sixpence you can now purchase the best and most characteristic work of two-score famous writers and artists, and, moreover, that the said half-crown will go to one of the most sensible and practical of all the Funds, naturally Princess Mary's Gift Book (Hodder and Stoughton) is going to figure large in this year's list of things-not-to-forget. Honestly and without hyperbole, I question if a better collection has ever been brought together. From the first page (on which you will find a charming portrait by Mr. J. J. Shannon of the gracious young lady to whose timely inspiration the volume is due) to the last, everyone seems to have given his or her best. Not only this, but the precise kind of best that we most like to have from them. To take a few examples at random, here is a song of Big Steamers by Mr. Rudyard Kipling, with the jolliest ship-pictures by Mr. Norman Wilkinson; a Zulu tale by Sir Rider Haggard; a Pimpernel story by the Baroness Orczy; and a comic upside-down dream of a little London child by Mr. Pett Ridge. This last has drawings by Mr. Lewis Baumer that are fully worthy of it; indeed it cannot but be a proud sensation for the peculiarly gallant heart of Mr. Punch to find that he is represented by so many of his knights of the pencil in this worthy cause. It is satisfactory to learn that the originals of the drawings in the book will shortly be on sale at the Leicester Galleries in aid of the Queen's Work for Women Fund. Upon the assured success of a delightful book the reviewer begs to offer to its only begetter his most respectful congratulations.


The Life of Benjamin Disraeli, Earl of Beaconsfield, published by Murray, is the third volume of the work, the two earlier ones having been edited by the late Mr. Moneypenny. Mr. George Buckle now "takes up the wondrous tale," and maintains at a high level its historic interest and literary charm. He finds Disraeli, after the fantastic flights of early manhood, in an assured position. He was within measurable distance of assuming the Leadership of a Party which, long dallying with the harsh appellation Protectionist, now decided to be known as Conservative, a compromise hotly resented by good Tories. A flash of the old vanity flickers over a letter written from the Carlton Club to his wife: "The Ministry have resigned. All Coningsby and Young England the general exclamation here." Alone he did it, partly by writing a novel, incidentally by forming a Party of which Lord John Manners was a representative member. On the opening of the Session, January 19th, 1847, Disraeli took his seat on the Front Opposition Bench in embarrassing contiguity to Peel, acutely suffering, it may be supposed, from the combined influence of Coningsby and Young England. One of those Parliamentary descriptive writers held in light esteem in their day, but to whom historians turn for light and colour, notes a significant change in Disraeli's attire. "The motley coloured garments he wore at the close of the previous Session were exchanged for a suit of black unapproachably perfect." Also "he appeared to have[Pg 488] doffed the vanity of the coxcomb with the plumage of the peacock." Evidently he felt that his carefully-designed sartorial extravagances had played their appointed part in attracting notice. In manner of speech as in fashion of clothing he assumed ways more compatible with the position of a responsible statesman.

At last, after long struggle, he stood on safe ground. But the fight was not over yet. The personal antipathy and distrust with which he was regarded in Tory circles were unabated. He had proved an invaluable auxiliary in the battle against Free Trade; but having defeated Peel the Protectionists did not want any more of Disraeli. His old friend, Sir George Bentinck, whose patronage had been invaluable as investing him with an air of respectability, stood by him to the last. Resigning the post of Leader of the Protectionists, he nominated Disraeli as his successor. The Tory rank and file would have none of him. Lord Stanley, acknowledged leader of the Party in the House of Lords and the country, hesitated and chaffered, in the end reluctantly giving in. Something of the same thing happened when, six years later, Stanley, now succeeded to the earldom of Derby, formed an Administration and proposed to make Dizzy Chancellor of the Exchequer and Leader of the House of Commons. Among the most strenuous objectors to the proposal was Queen Victoria. But Disraeli was invincible because he was indispensable. How courageously and with what matchless skill he fought against overwhelming odds, and won the day, is a fascinating story that in the skilled hands of Mr. Buckle loses no point of interest.


Captain Harry Graham is one of the authors whose work I never argue about. If, as has happened occasionally, I meet those who do not find him amusing, I conceal my own personal opinion that, with the possible exception of Mr. Stephen Leacock, he is the most rollickingly funny person at present writing the King's English; but now, being in a position to air my private views without fear of contradiction, I make the statement boldly, and put, in as Exhibit A of my evidence, The Complete Sportsman (Arnold). Like other earlier volumes from the same source it is compiled from the occasional papers of Reginald Drake Biffin, and the sportsman who tries to get on without it is positively courting disaster. The first thing he knows, he will be talking to well-informed people about a flock of sparrows or a covey of weasels, and their quiet smiles will show him that he has been guilty of a ludicrous blunder. If he had read his Biffin he would have known that the correct terms are a "susurration of sparrows" and a "pop of weasels." These are small matters, perhaps, but your sportsman cannot be too accurate. Mr. Biffin treats of practically every branch of sport, from elephant-snaring to Sunday bridge, in the easy chatty style which made The Perfect Gentleman the inseparable companion of all who desire to comport themselves correctly in Society. Nor is the usual complement of anecdotes lacking. The practical value of these cannot be over-estimated. A careful perusal of the tragic story of the late Lord Bloxham, to take but one instance, will certainly save the lives of many deep-sea fishermen who have fallen into the foolish habit of angling for sharks with a line fastened to one of their waistcoat buttons to save the trouble of holding it.


Mr. William Caine has a very nice and persistent sense of humour, and his last book, But She Meant Well (Lane), shows him in his most natural and therefore best vein. His lady of the good intentions was one Hannah Neighbour, an incorrigible infant whose eminently virtuous resolves produced the most vicious results without the adventitious aid of any extraordinary circumstances. There is generally about people who mean well something pathetic and something else which is worse, and these characteristics are apt to become so exaggerated in fiction as to be almost offensive. Mr. Caine's young person is not of that sort; she is no prig, and her fault is not weakness but irrepressible activity. To whatever extent she annoyed me, I was always possessed with the morbid desire to see some even worse result attending her efforts; and all the while I had to give her credit for infecting the other characters of the story with a remarkable vitality. I congratulate the author upon his presentation of the problem, how can you deal with such a misguided child so that you may at the same time check dangerous proclivities and yet do justice to her excellent motives? Still more was I pleased with his frank, if abominable, admission that in order properly to inculcate discipline it is necessary for the most part to ignore motives and let justice be blowed.


The reappearance of Dorothea as a volume in the new collected edition (Constable) of the works of Mr. Maarten Maartens has at this moment a strange aptness. For you may remember that Dorothea, herself of Dutch-English extraction, married into a Prussian family. Nay, more, into the family of a Prussian general. A very obvious interest attaches to the impression made by these people upon the mind of the author. Of the old General we find him writing that "his lofty soul had accepted the theory of the unity on earth of the good, the true and the beautiful." Who, I ask you, would have supposed it? But throughout the book these Von Rodens stand as the perfect family, gently chivalrous, cultured and altogether charming. Then one remembers in explanation that Dorothea was written some time ago, and that this was the old-fashioned Kultur. There you have the German tragedy in a nutshell. Of Dorothea herself I will say little. Probably you already know her, and may agree with me in considering her an unattractive prig, whose place in the list of Mr. Maartens' heroines is decidedly at the wrong end. But those amazing pathetic Prussians! and the conflicting emotions they stir in your heart as you read!


I'm just about fed-up

He. "I'm just about fed-up with all this talk about recruitin'. Who's goin' to carry on the work of the country if all the people of brains go to the front?"







End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch or the London Charivari, Vol.
147, December 9, 1914, by Various

*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH ***

***** This file should be named 29491-h.htm or 29491-h.zip *****
This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:
        http://www.gutenberg.org/2/9/4/9/29491/

Produced by Neville Allen, Malcolm Farmer and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net


Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions
will be renamed.

Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no
one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation
(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without
permission and without paying copyright royalties.  Special rules,
set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to
copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to
protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark.  Project
Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you
charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission.  If you
do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the
rules is very easy.  You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose
such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and
research.  They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do
practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks.  Redistribution is
subject to the trademark license, especially commercial
redistribution.



*** START: FULL LICENSE ***

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project
Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project
Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at
http://gutenberg.org/license).


Section 1.  General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic works

1.A.  By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement.  If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy
all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession.
If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the
terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or
entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B.  "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark.  It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement.  There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement.  See
paragraph 1.C below.  There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement
and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works.  See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C.  The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation"
or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic works.  Nearly all the individual works in the
collection are in the public domain in the United States.  If an
individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are
located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from
copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative
works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg
are removed.  Of course, we hope that you will support the Project
Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by
freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of
this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with
the work.  You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by
keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project
Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others.

1.D.  The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work.  Copyright laws in most countries are in
a constant state of change.  If you are outside the United States, check
the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement
before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or
creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project
Gutenberg-tm work.  The Foundation makes no representations concerning
the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United
States.

1.E.  Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1.  The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate
access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently
whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the
phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project
Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed,
copied or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

1.E.2.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived
from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is
posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied
and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees
or charges.  If you are redistributing or providing access to a work
with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the
work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1
through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the
Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or
1.E.9.

1.E.3.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional
terms imposed by the copyright holder.  Additional terms will be linked
to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the
permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.

1.E.4.  Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.

1.E.5.  Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg-tm License.

1.E.6.  You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any
word processing or hypertext form.  However, if you provide access to or
distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than
"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version
posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org),
you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a
copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon
request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other
form.  Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm
License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7.  Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8.  You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided
that

- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
     the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method
     you already use to calculate your applicable taxes.  The fee is
     owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he
     has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the
     Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.  Royalty payments
     must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you
     prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax
     returns.  Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and
     sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the
     address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to
     the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation."

- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
     you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
     does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm
     License.  You must require such a user to return or
     destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium
     and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of
     Project Gutenberg-tm works.

- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any
     money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
     electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days
     of receipt of the work.

- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
     distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.

1.E.9.  If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm
electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set
forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from
both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael
Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark.  Contact the
Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1.  Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm
collection.  Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain
"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or
corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual
property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a
computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by
your equipment.

1.F.2.  LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right
of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees.  YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3.  YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.

1.F.3.  LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from.  If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with
your written explanation.  The person or entity that provided you with
the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a
refund.  If you received the work electronically, the person or entity
providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to
receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund.  If the second copy
is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further
opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4.  Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER
WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO
WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5.  Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages.
If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the
law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be
interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by
the applicable state law.  The invalidity or unenforceability of any
provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.

1.F.6.  INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance
with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production,
promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works,
harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees,
that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do
or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm
work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any
Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause.


Section  2.  Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm

Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers
including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers.  It exists
because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from
people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need, are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will
remain freely available for generations to come.  In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations.
To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4
and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org.


Section 3.  Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service.  The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541.  Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at
http://pglaf.org/fundraising.  Contributions to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent
permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws.

The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S.
Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered
throughout numerous locations.  Its business office is located at
809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email
business@pglaf.org.  Email contact links and up to date contact
information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official
page at http://pglaf.org

For additional contact information:
     Dr. Gregory B. Newby
     Chief Executive and Director
     gbnewby@pglaf.org


Section 4.  Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide
spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment.  Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States.  Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements.  We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance.  To
SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any
particular state visit http://pglaf.org

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States.  U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation
methods and addresses.  Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations.
To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate


Section 5.  General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
works.

Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm
concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared
with anyone.  For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project
Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.


Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S.
unless a copyright notice is included.  Thus, we do not necessarily
keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.


Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:

     http://www.gutenberg.org

This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.