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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 156.

MARCH 12, 1919.







CHARIVARIA.

The spread of influenza is said to be greatly assisted by
"germ-carriers." We can't think why germs should be carried. Let
'em walk.

       ***

According to _The Sunday Express_ a young American named Frisco states
that he invented the Jazz. There was also a murder confession in the
Press last week.

       ***

"Whitehall," says a Society organ, "has succumbed to the Jazz, the
Fox-trot and the Bunny-hug." It still shows a decided preference,
however, for the Barnacle-cling.

       ***

A man charged at the Guildhall with being drunk said he was suffering
from an attack of influenza and had taken some whisky. Yes, but where
from?

       ***

We understand that the heading, "Whisky for Influenza," which appeared
in a daily paper the other day, misled a great number of sufferers,
who at once wrote to say that they were prepared to make the exchange.

       ***

It is good to know that a perfectly noiseless motor car has been
produced. Even that nasty grating sound experienced by pedestrians
when being run over by a car is said to have been eliminated.

       ***

Shrove Tuesday passed almost unheeded. Even the pancake thrown to
the boys at Westminster School in the presence of the KING and QUEEN
appeared to fall flat.

       ***

We are glad to learn that the little Kensington boy who was tossed by
a huge pancake on Shrove Tuesday is stated to be going on nicely.

       ***

Five hundred and twenty-seven pounds of American bacon have been
declared unfit for food by the Marylebone magistrate. Why this
invidious distinction?

       ***

"A man," says Mr. Justice KUNKEL of Pennsylvania, "has full rights in
his own home against everyone but his wife." It is surmised that his
Honour never kept a cook.

       ***

We are informed that the dispute between the Ministry of Labour and
the Irish Clerical Workers' Union has been settled by the latter name
being changed to the "Irish Clerical Employees' Union."

       ***

Mr. LLOYD GEORGE is said to favour the creation of a new Order for
deserving Welshmen. The revival of the Order of the Golden Fleece
is suggested.

       ***

A writer in a ladies' journal refers to the present fashion of
"satin-walnut hair." We have felt for some time that mahogany had
had its day.

       ***

Charged at Hove with bigamy a soldier stated that he remembered
nothing about his second marriage and pleaded that he was
absent-minded. A very good plan is to tie a knot in your boot-lace
every time you get married.

       ***

A sorry blow has been dealt at those who maintain we are not a
commercial race. "You gave me prussic acid in mistake for quinine this
morning," a man told a chemist the other day. "Is that so?" said the
chemist; "then you owe me another twopence."

       ***

For the benefit of those about to emigrate we have pleasure in
furnishing the exclusive information that very shortly there will
be big openings in America for corkscrew-straighteners.

       ***

We are now able to state that the wedding of Princess PATRICIA and
Commander RAMSAY passed off without a hymeneal ode from the POET
LAUREATE.

       ***

We understand that a lady operator who was impudent to the District
Supervisor on the telephone the other day would have been severely
reprimanded but for her plea that she mistook him for a subscriber.

       ***

It is reported that the paper shortage is soon to be remedied. In
these days of expensive boots this should be good news to people who
travel to and from the City by Tube on foot.

       ***

We hear privately that one of our leading dailies has fixed April 14th
as the date on which its office "correspondent" will first hear the
note of the cuckoo in Epping Forest.

       ***

Several suspicious cases of sickness are reported among the aborigines
of New South Wales. It is not yet known whether they are due to
influenza or to the native custom of partaking heavily of snakepie on
the eve of Lent.

       ***

Nottingham will hold its six hundred and fifty-eighth annual Goose
Fair this year, and a local paper has made a distinct hit by stating
that it is "the oldest gathering of its kind except the House of
Commons."

       ***

President EBERT, according to the _Frankfort Gazette_, is to have a
Chief Master of Ceremonies. One of his first duties, in which he will
have the advice of prominent musicians, will be to fix an authorised
style of eating _Sauerkraut_ which shall be impressive yet devoid of
ostentation.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: [Taxi-drivers who consent to pick up fares at a
certain London restaurant at night have supper given to them by the
management.]

_First Taxi_. "WHATEVER 'AVE YER GOT THEM TOGS ON FOR, ALBERT?"

_Second ditto_. "ALWAYS DRESS FOR SUPPER DOWN TOWN NOWADAYS, OLD
BEAN."]

       *       *       *       *       *

    "A woman's sphere was her own home, that she should earn her own
    living was inimical to domestic happiness; it was almost contra
    bonus morus, which is a very serious thing indeed."--_Scots
    Paper_.

It certainly would be for Smith mi. if he said it in class.

       *       *       *       *       *

    "The speaker of the evening was Dr. Charles ----, a full-blooded
    Sioux Indian, and the only full-blooded literary man among the
    North American Indians."--_American Paper_.

We could spare some of our full-blooded, literary men if there is a
shortage in America.

       *       *       *       *       *

MONUMENTS OF THE WAR.

  Let those who fear lest Memory should mislay
    Our triumphs gathered all across the map;
  Lest other topics--like the weather, say,
    Or jazzing--should supplant the recent scrap;
  Or lest a future race whose careless lot
    Lies in a League of Nations, lapped amid
  Millennial balm, be unaware of what
    (Largely for their sakes) we endured and did;--

  Let such invite our architects to plan
    Great monumental works in steel and stone,
  Certain to catch the eye of any man
    And make our victories generally known;
  Let a new bridge at Charing Cross be built,
    In Regent Street a deathless quadrant set,
  And on them be inscribed in dazzling gilt:--
    "IN CASE BY INADVERTENCE WE FORGET."

  Or, eloquent in ruin unrestored,
    Leave the Cloth Hall to be the pilgrim's quest,
  Baring her ravaged beauty to record
    The Culture of the Bosch when at his best;
  At Albert, even where it bit the ground,
    Low let the Image lie and tell its fate,
  Poignant memento, like our own renowned
    ALBERT Memorial (close to Prince's Gate).

  For me, the tablets of my heart, I ween,
    Sufficiently recall these fateful years;
  I need no monument for keeping green
    All that I suffered in the Volunteers;
  Therefore I urge the Army Council, at
    Its earliest leisure, please--next week would do--
  To raze the hutments opposite my flat,
    That still impinge on my riparian view.

  O.S.

       *       *       *       *       *

A PAIR OF MILITARY GLOVES.

It was in Italy, on my way home from Egypt to be demobilised, that I
decided to buy a pair of warm gloves from Ordnance.

After being directed by helpful other ranks to the A.S.C. Depot, the
Camp Commandant's Office and the Y.M.C.A., I found myself, at the end
of a morning's strenuous walking, confronted by notices on a closed
door stating that this was the Officers' Payment Issue Department;
that this was the Officers' Entrance to the Officers' Payment Issue
Department; that smoking was strictly prohibited; and that the office
would re-open at 14.00.

I went away to lunch.

At 14.01 I knocked out my pipe conscientiously and entered. From
14.01 to 14.50 I watched a Captain of the R.A.F. smoking cigarettes
and choosing a pair of socks, and studied notices to the effect that
this was the Officers' Payment Issue Department; that only Officers
were permitted to enter the Officers' Payment Issue Department; that
smoking was strictly prohibited; and that the office would close at
16.00.

At last I heard the B.A.F. man explain that, by James, he had an
appointment at three, and would return, old bean--er, Corporal--in
the morning to see about those dashed socks. The Corporal behind
the counter blew away a pile of cigarette ash and regarded me
distrustfully.

"Only one pair of gloves left, Sir," he said. "Gloves, woollen,
knitted, pairs one, one-and-tenpence."

"Thank you very much," I said. "They'll do nicely. I'll take them
now."

But of course I didn't. At 15.00 was in another building, watching
another Corporal make out an indent in quadruplicate for gloves,
woollen, knitted, officers, for the use of, pairs one. At 15.05 I was
in another building, getting the indent stamped and countersigned.
At 15.12 I was in another building, exchanging it for a buff form in
duplicate. At 15.20 I re-entered the Issue Department and went through
the motions of taking up the gloves.

"Excuse me, Sir," said the Corporal, skilfully sliding them away; "you
must first produce your Field Advance Book as a proof of identity."

"I'm afraid I haven't a proper Field Advance Book," I explained. "You
see, in Egypt, where I come from--that is, I was attached, you know,
to the--well, in short, I haven't a proper Field Advance Book, as I
said before. But I have here an A.B. 64 issued in lieu thereof--they
do that in Egypt, you know--and I have my identity discs, my
demobilisation papers, my cheque-book--oh, and heaps of other things
which would prove to you that I am really me. Besides, my name is sewn
inside the back of my tunic. _And_ my shirt," I added hopefully.

"If you haven't a Field Advance Book, Sir," said the Corporal coldly,
"your only course is to obtain a certificate of identity from the Camp
Commandant."

"But, look here, Corporal," I protested, "it would take me a
quarter-of-an-hour to get to the Commandant's office and another
quarter to get back. I'm sure I couldn't get a certificate of identity
under an hour and a-half. It is now twenty-five past three. You close
at four. To-morrow morning at five ac emma I entrain for Cherbourg....
You see how impossible it all is, Corporal."

"Sorry, Sir," said the Corporal. "I'm not allowed to issue the gloves
without your Field Advance Book or a certificate of identity."

"But what am I to do?" I asked weakly. "Think, Corporal, how cold it
will be across Italy and France without gloves. I've been in the East
for over four years, and I might get pneumonia and die, you know."

"I should try the Camp Commandant, Sir," he said. "It may not take so
long as you think."

       *       *       *       *       *

At 15.41 I was outside the Camp Commandant's office with my A.B.64,
identity discs, demobilisation papers and cheque-book ready to hand,
and my tunic loosened at the neck.

At 15.42 I entered the office with some diffidence.

At 15.43 I was outside again, dazed and a little frightened, with a
certificate of identity in my hand. It was the fastest piece of work I
have ever known in the Army. And I might have been Mr. GEORGE ROBEY in
disguise for all they knew in the office--or cared.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Sorry, Sir," said the Corporal in the Officers' Payment Issue
Department at 15.59, "the gloves were sold to another officer while
you were away."

ONE OF THE _PUNCH_ BRIGADE.

       *       *       *       *       *

ON HALF RATIONS.

    "Two officers will be received as paying guests. Comfortable
    home. Treated as _one_ of the family."--_Daily Paper_.

The italics emphasize our own feeling with regard to this niggardly
arrangement.

       *       *       *       *       *

    "V.A.D.--Required for Shell-shock Hospital under B.R.C.S.,
    Piano, Billiard Table and Gramophone. Will any hospital
    closing down and having same for sale, kindly communicate
    with Secretary."--_Times_.

We do not know what sort of work the V.A.D. is expected to do under
the piano and billiard table, but we presume that her consent would be
required, and that she would not be sold, so to speak, over her own
head.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE TURN OF THE TIDE.

JOHN BULL. "I DON'T SAY I'M QUITE COMFORTABLE YET, BUT I CERTAINLY DO
SEEM TO BE GETTING IT A LITTLE LESS IN THE NECK."]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: SCENE.--_AMATEUR THEATRICAL REHEARSAL_.

_Author_. "NOT SO MUCH 'GAGGING,' MY LAD. JUST SPEAK _MY_ LINES, AND
THEN WAIT FOR THE LAUGH."

_Tommy (on short leave)_. "WHAT! AND RISK C.B. FOR OVERSTAYING MY
LEAVE?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

ON THE RHINE.

I.

"Fee-Fi-Fo-Fum, I am a bold and infamous Hun, I am, I am."

We are obliged to repeat this continually to ourselves in order to
present the stern and forbidding air which is supposed to mark our
dealings with the inhabitants. For, look you, we have usurped the
place of the Royal Jocks on the "right flank of the British Army," and
are on outpost duty, with our right resting on the bank of the Rhine,
while in front the notice-boards, "Limit of Cologne Bridgehead," stare
at us.

No longer are we the pleasant, easy-going, pay-through-the-nose people
that we were. No longer does our daily routine include the smile for
Mademoiselle, the chipping of Madame, or the half-penny for the little
ones. No, we steel ourselves steadily to the grim task entrusted to
us, and struggle to offer a perfect picture of stolid indifference to
anybody's welfare but our own. "Fee-fi-fo-fum."

What does Thomas think of it all? Well, to tell the truth, I haven't
caught him thinking very much about it. Gloating seems foreign to his
nature somehow, and I don't think he will ever make a really good
Hun. He is rather like a child who for four years has been crying
incessantly for the moon. Having got it, he says, "Well, I'm glad
I've got it; now let's get on with something else," and takes not the
slightest interest in the silly old moon he has acquired with so much
trouble.

There are two things to which he cannot quite accustom himself: not
being allowed to fraternize with the inhabitants and the realisation
that his laboriously acquired knowledge of the French language is no
longer of any avail. He will never quite get over the former of these
two disabilities, but he is coping courageously with the latter.
For instance, in place of the "No bon" of yesterday, "Nix goot" now
explains that "Your saucepan I borrowed has a hole in it; please, I
didn't do it." For the rest, change of environment makes very little
difference to him. Given a cooker, a water-cart and the necessary
rations, a British oasis will appear and be prepared to flourish in
any old desert you like.

No, I am wrong. There is another difficulty which as yet he has not
been able entirely to overcome. I cannot describe the consternation
which came over the Company when I informed them that there was no
longer any need to scrounge; in fact, I forbade it. At first they
thought it was just a Company Commander's humour and paid it the usual
compliments of the parade; but when they found I was serious they were
simply appalled. It was as if I had taken the very spice out of their
existence. Not to be able to go out and "win" a handful of fuel for
the evening's fug and for the brewing of those unwholesome messes in
the tin canteen? Bolshevism itself could not have propounded a more
revolutionary principle. Heartbroken some of the old soldiers came
to me afterwards. "What are we to do, Sir?" they said. "We only go
on guard four hours in sixteen; we must do something the rest of the
time." Sternly I bade them think of scrounging as a thing of the
past--a thing of glorious memory only to be spoken of round the fires
at home. If they wanted anything in the meantime to add to their
material comfort they were to come to me for it.

For let me tell you, all you demobilised wallahs who know only those
countries where the necessities of life were matters of private
enterprise--let me tell you that in this village, if I say that I
require coal, _coal is here_, and with it the Bürgermeister inquiring
politely if my needs are satisfied. We must have beds? The spare beds
of the village are forthcoming. If we want baths for the men, our
Mr. Carfax, who speaks a language which the inhabitants pretend to
understand, goes round to the householders and explains the necessity.
Should there be any difficulty he explains further that it would be
_much_ better, don't they think, and _much_ more convenient if the
men visited the houses, rather than that baths should be carried to
some central place? It is invariably found to be preferable for all
concerned.

Bathing has now become a pleasure to all, except, perhaps, to
Nijinsky, our Pole from Commercial Road, East. On being presented
(for the first time, I gather) to a first-class bathroom with geyser
complete, he evinced signs of great uneasiness. In fact he seemed to
think that this was making a parade of a purely private matter. The
Sergeant-Major, being called in, exhorted him to "get in and give the
thing a trial," at which Nijinsky flung up his hands in characteristic
fashion and said, "Vell, it's somethink fur nothink, anyhow," and
they left him to it. The rest of the story is concerned with his
turning off the water in the geyser and leaving the gas on, of a loud
explosion and the figure of Nijinsky, fat and frightened, fleeing
through the main street dressed in an Army towel. Subsequently I heard
him expressing forcibly a fixed determination never, _never_ to be
persuaded against his will again.

Oh, yes, it is a wonderful thing to be a Hun. Every day we go about
telling one another what Huns we are and how we love our hunnishness.
And yet, you know, as a matter of fact, I don't believe all our
efforts amount to anything really; they wouldn't deceive a child--and
in fact they don't. For ever since we came here one can't help
noticing that the little tiny natives have acquired an extraordinarily
good imitation of Tommy's salute, and, though Subalterns and
Sergeant-Majors may go about gnashing their teeth and wearing
expressions of frightful ferocity, still the youngsters grin
fearlessly as they raise their tiny fingers. They know it isn't real.
They know a Hun when they see him all right; what child doesn't?

And I caught our Mr. Carfax picking one of them up from the gutter the
other day and soothing its tears with the baby-talk of all nations. I
told him he was fraternising abominably and was not being a true Hun.

"Well," he said, "you can't leave a child yelling in a puddle, can
you?"

And, damn it, you can't, so what's the use of trying to be hunnish?

L.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Restaurant Commissionaire (to departing client, who is
searching for a tip)_. "NOW THEN, SIR, HURRY UP; DON'T KEEP ME WAITING
HERE ALL NIGHT."]

       *       *       *       *       *

RAPID PROMOTION.

From a Parliamentary report:--

    "Colonel Seely mentioned ... Major-General Seely said ... General
    Seely, replying ..."--_Daily Chronicle_.

       *       *       *       *       *

    "The canonical proceedings for the beatification of Pope Pius IX.
    and Christopher Columbus have been definitely abandoned. As the
    result of a very close investigation, it was decided that these
    two candidates lacked certain necessary qualifications; Pius IX.
    had signed death sentences and Christopher Columbus was held
    responsible for massacres."--_Sunday Paper_.

This news, we understand, has caused a painful impression at
Amerongen.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Cook (allowing herself to be engaged)_. "ONE MORE
QUESTION, M'LADY. CAN _YOU_ COOK?"

_Her Ladyship_. "REALLY, I DON'T THINK THAT NEED MATTER."

_Cook_. "OH--DON'T IT? I WANT TO KNOW WHO'S GOING TO BE THE REAL
MISTRESS."]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE GREAT COLD-CURE DEBATE.

In view of the prevalence of colds and the varying counsels given to
their patients by our leading so-called healers, a mass meeting of
doctors and public men was recently convened, with the hope that some
useful results might follow.

None did.

The Chairman in his opening remarks said that colds were at once
the commonest complaints to which human beings were subject and the
least understood by the faculty. It was scandalous that so little
serious attention should be paid to them by physicians. A scientific
investigator should be as proud of discovering a preventive for colds
as a scheme of wireless telegraphy. But it was not so. Researchers
were applauded for compounding new and more deadly explosives and
poisonous gas, while the whole mystery of colds remained unplumbed.
The situation was scandalous. (Loud sneezes.)

Letters were read, among others, from Lord NORTHCLIFFE, Mr. SNOWDEN
and Sir JOHN SIMON, all saying that from recent experience they could
affirm that an equable cold temperature was conducive to the avoidance
of catarrh. In short, an excellent means of escaping cold was to be
out in the cold.

A representative of the Board of Trade said that all that was
necessary to avoid colds was to keep fit and not approach infection.
Having offered this very practical advice the speaker gathered up his
papers and left the room.

Sir Septicus Jermyn, the famous physician, urged that the best
preventive for colds was to keep warm. One should wear plenty of thick
clothing and especially cover the neck and throat. A respirator was an
excellent thing. He even went so far as to recommend earflaps to his
patients, with beneficial results. A night-cap was also a great help.

Sir Eufus Hardy, the famous physician, protested that colds were for
the most part negligible. People took them much too seriously. The
best treatment was to be Spartan--wear the lightest clothes, abjure
mufflers, and, whenever you could find a draught, sit in it.

Mr. BERNARD SHAW said that all this cold-catching was nonsense. He
personally had never had a cold in his life. And why? Because he lived
healthily; he wore natural wool, retained his beard, ate no meat and
drank no wine. Lunatics who wore fancy tweeds, shaved, devoured their
fellow-creatures and imbibed poisonous acids were bound to catch cold.
Resuming his Jaeger halo, Mr. SHAW then left.

Sir Bluffon Gay, the famous physician, stated that in his experience
colds were necessary evils which often served useful ends in clearing
the system. For that reason he was against any treatment that served
to stop them. The "instantaneous cold cures" which were advertised so
freely filled him with suspicion. Colds should be unfettered.

Mr. Le Hay Fevre, K.C., representing the Ancient Order of
Haberdashers, said that he was in entire agreement with the last
speaker. Colds should be allowed to take their course. Nothing was
so bad as to check them.

Sir Romeo Path, the famous physician, asserted that colds were far
more serious things than people thought. As a matter of fact there
was no such thing as a cold pure and simple; colds were invariably
manifestations of other and deeper trouble. His own specific was a
long period of complete rest and careful but not meagre dieting,
followed by change of air, if necessary travel to the South of France.
(Loud coughs and cheers.)

Mr. Bolus, K.C., representing the Chemists and Druggists' Union, said
that it was felt very strongly that the seriousness of colds should
not be minimised, but that foreign travel was an error. No malady was
so much helped by the timely and constant employment of remedies at
home. He trusted that the remarks of the last speaker would speedily
be contradicted by a competent authority.

Sir Consul Tait, the famous physician, held that alcohol was the
greatest provocative of colds; aspirin was their greatest enemy.

Sir Tablloyd George, the famous physician, observed that a glass
of hot whisky and lemon-juice on going to bed was a sovran remedy.
Aspirin was to be avoided, but quinine had its uses.

Mr. ARNOLD BENNETT said that probably no one knew more about the way
that other people should behave than he did. He had written twelve
manuals on the subject and intended to write twenty-six more, by which
time he would have covered the whole field of human endeavour. Any one
who had read his book, _The Plain Man and his Wife and their Plainer
Children_, would remember that one chapter was devoted to the cause,
evasion and cure of colds. He would not at the moment say more than
that the work was procurable at all bookshops. He should like to
address the meeting at fuller length, but as he was suffering from a
very stubborn cold he must hurry back to bed.

Mr. H.G. WELLS remarked that he always found that the best corrective
for a cold was to write another novel of modern domestic life. He had
even heard of the perusal of some of his novels as a substitute for
coal.

Mr. BONAR LAW said that there was no prophylactic against colds so
efficacious as fresh air and plenty of it. Since he had formed the
habit of flying backwards and forwards from Paris he had been free
from any trouble of that kind. He recommended a seat at the Peace
Conference and constant aviation to all sufferers.

Sir Blandon Swaive, the famous physician, contended that there was no
sense in the fresh-air theory. Rooms should be hermetically sealed.

Mr. SMILLIE said that he had given the matter the closest attention,
and he had come to the conclusion that there was no preventive of a
cold in the head so complete and drastic as decapitation.

The meeting was considering Mr. SMILLIE'S suggestion when our
reporter, who had contracted a chill during Mr. BERNARD SHAW'S
remarks, took his departure.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Officer (to N.C.O. in charge of Chinese labour
party)_. "I SUPPOSE THESE CHINKS BLOW THEMSELVES UP SOMETIMES, DON'T
THEY?"

_Corporal_. "OH, NOTHING TO SPEAK OF, SIR--NOT NEAR AS MUCH AS THEY
USED TO."]

       *       *       *       *       *

JOURNALISTIC ENTERPRISE.

    "NEWS BY TELEGRAPH AND TELEPHONE.

    "To-day is Pancake Day."--_Daily Mail_, March 4.

       *       *       *       *       *

    "HIGH-CLASS FISH DURING THE LENTEN SEASON.

    "All kinds arrive daily direct from the coast, and prices the
    maximum when possible."--_Advt. in Provincial Paper._

To judge by our own fishmonger, they always _are_ possible.

       *       *       *       *       *

From the report of a prosecution for selling eggs above the controlled
price:

    "Mr. ----, for the defence, contended that the lay mind could
    assume that new-laid eggs laid by the vendor's fowls were not
    within the scope of the Order."--_Birmingham Daily Post_.

In a poultry case the opinion of the "lay mind" should have been
conclusive, but the Bench decided otherwise.

       *       *       *       *       *

    "When is the State going to help mothers with large families? If
    the cost of living has increased 100 per cent., then for eight
    persons the increase is 800 per cent.

    "How many mothers with eight in family have received an increase of
    800 per cent. in their income since 1914?--W.W., London."--_Daily
    Sketch_.

"W.W., London," should not be allowed to squander his gifts on the
daily Press. We want a statistician like this to tot up the German
indemnity.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE WATCH DOGS.

LXXX.

My Dear Charles,--You are a lawyer and you ought to know. Yet to
myself, when I compare my profits with those of the Government in this
deal, I seem a model of innocence.

Let me refresh your memory of the facts.

In the Spring of 1918 I was dispensing passports to deserving cases in
the name of His Majesty's Government. In the neutral country where I
was doing this there was a very wicked and a very plausible man, whom
we will call Mr. Abrahams (he has had so many surnames at one time and
another that a new one cannot do him any harm). Rate of exchange stood
at the figure of twenty local francs to the pound sterling, and, as
you would put it, other things were equal.

Mr. Abrahams was obsessed with a desire to see England, entirely for
its own sake. England, also thinking entirely of itself, was obsessed
with a desire not to see Mr. Abrahams. Mr. Abrahams came to my office,
said nice things about me to my face and begged me to let him go.
I said nice things to him, and told him I would if I could, but I
couldn't. He took this to mean I could if I would, but I wouldn't. He
offered me cash down; a cheque for five pounds sterling, or a note for
a hundred francs; I could have it which way I liked. We should call it
for appearance' sake a gift to His Majesty's Government for the better
prosecution of the War.

I thanked him cordially on behalf of His Majesty's Government, but
regretted that I was the victim of circumstances over which I had no
control. Refusing to believe there could be any circumstances which
could stand up against an officer of my power, position and force, he
produced a note for a hundred francs and put it on my table. He then
withdrew, meaning (I gathered) to return to the attack as soon as the
money had sunk in. From this point on, Mr. Abrahams disappears from
the story. It is not the first or only story, as the police will tell
you, from which Mr. Abrahams has disappeared.

My report to His Majesty's Government did not omit a full mention of
the matter of the five pounds or hundred francs offered. It begged for
instructions as to the disposal of the booty which, it stated, lay in
my "Suspense" basket. No instructions could be got, though frequent
messages, saying, "May we now have an answer, please?" were sent.
Weeks passed, and every morning I was tempted by the sight of that
note for a hundred francs lying in the basket. My _moral_ gradually
declined. So did the rate of exchange. So did the barometer.

There came a day, the weather being such that any man who could sin
would sin, when I had in my pocket a cheque made out for five pounds
which I was about to cash for lack of ready francs, and when the
rate of exchange had got as low as nineteen francs to the pound,
which would mean (I rely entirely on the evidence of the bank man)
ninety-five francs for my five pounds. Charles, I fell. Explaining to
myself that Mr. Abrahams had clearly intimated that his gift to the
Government was alternatively a cheque for five pounds or a note for
a hundred francs, I put my cheque into the "Suspense" basket and
pocketed the note, _thus making five francs profit_.

More weeks passed; no instructions came, and every day I was tempted
by the sight of that cheque. One bright summer morning, when any man
who had any goodness in him could not help being good, and when the
rate of exchange had risen to twenty-one, I came to my office full
of noble intentions and hundred franc notes of my own. I may mention
in passing that it takes very little money to fill me up. I had just
cashed a cheque of my own at the rate of a hundred-and-five francs to
the five pounds, and I felt robust and self-confident and ready to
do it again. There, on the top of my "Suspense" basket, lay just the
very cheque for the purpose. Charles, I fell again. Explaining to
myself that Mr. Abrahams had clearly intimated that his gift to the
Government was alternatively a note for a hundred francs or a cheque
for five pounds, I put a note for a hundred francs into the "Suspense"
basket, and pocketed the cheque, _thus making another five francs
profit_.

That, my Lord, is the case for the prosecution; but you may as well
have the rest of the story. Instructions or no instructions, I
thought it was now time to send the note for a hundred francs to the
Government. The Government said it had no use for francs in England,
sent back the note to me and told me to buy, locally, an English
cheque, which I was to hold, pending further instructions. It took
some time to arrive at this point, and meanwhile rate of exchange had
had a serious relapse. The hundred franc note bought a cheque for five
guineas. Not feeling strong enough to pend further instructions, I
at once sent this home. More haste, less speed: I forgot to endorse
it. After another period the cheque came back, with a memo. The memo
said: (1) His Majesty's Government had no love or use for unendorsed
cheques drawn in favour of other people. (2) His Majesty's Government
requested me to endorse the cheque, cash it locally and put the
proceeds to the credit side of my expenses account. (3) His Majesty's
Government trusted that Mr. Abrahams would not cause this sort of
trouble again.

Whether it was the stimulus given by this memo, or whether it
was merely a case of giving up the drink and becoming a reformed
character, rate of exchange had, I found when I went to carry out
orders, risen to and stuck at the dizzy height of twenty-three francs
and twenty centimes to the pound. His Majesty's Government has drawn
in the long run (the very long run) the sum of one hundred and
twenty-one francs and eighty centimes, thus making more than twice
as heavy a profit as I had. And yet you have the impudence to tell
me that I am guilty of embezzlement, with corruption.

I can only say I should be ashamed to be a lawyer.

I can only add that I should be happy to be His Majesty's Government.

With all best wishes and enclosing stamps for eighty centimes as
representing your share of the proceeds (including fee for opinion),

I remain,

Yours sincerely, HENRY.

       *       *       *       *       *

PIVOTS.

  "Bermondsey Bill," who used to be
  The idol of the N.S.C.,
  Began to fight in 17--
  P.T. instructor, very keen,
  Teaching recruits to jab the faces
  Of dummy Germans at the bases.
  But Bill, I see, is booked to box
  Tomkins, the Terror of the Docks,
  And nobody should feel surprised
  That Bill has been demobilised.

  Although the War upset, I fear,
  John Jones's pacifist career,
  He did not murmur or repine,
  But hurried to the nearest mine,
  And stuck it till the "refugees"
  Were all transplanted overseas.
  In France he saw some dreadful scenes
  As salesman in E.F. canteens;
  But when the Bosch had been chastised
  _He_ was at once demobilised.

  A most diverting person, Brown--
  The "star" comedian in Town,
  And, since he donned a posh Sam B.,
  O.C. Amusements, L. of C.
  He steadfastly refused to whine
  Because he never saw the Line,
  But carried on, stout fellow, and
  Is now at home, I understand.
  A pivot so well-paid and prized
  Just _had_ to be demobilised.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Officer (on leave)_. "YOU'LL BE GLAD TO HAVE THE
BISLEY MEETING REVIVED?"

_Veteran Volunteer Marksman_. "YES; BUT THERE'LL BE SOME POOR SCORING.
YOU SEE THERE'S BEEN NO SERIOUS SHOOTING FOR THE LAST FOUR YEARS."]

       *       *       *       *       *

OCCUPIED OPERA.

It was a chilly morning early in January. The Opera at Cologne had
just become recognised as the principal attraction of the place, and
as yet there was no suave interpreter in attendance to mediate between
the queue of representatives of Britain's military power and the
German clerk in the box-office.

I suppose that in some handsome suite of apartments in one of the best
hotels in Cologne an exalted personage with red trimmings spends his
whole time--office hours, of course--in devising fresh schemes for
the sale and distribution of opera tickets to the British troops. The
demand for them is always far in excess of the number reserved for the
military, and fresh schemes for their distribution are inaugurated
every week.

We were still in the days when officers and men of every rank and
every branch of the Army of Occupation used to wait in a democratic
queue for the box-office to open at 10 A.M. It was 9.15 when I took up
my position, beaten a short neck by a very young and haughty officer,
a Second-Lieutenant of the Blankshires. There is always a cold wind
round that corner of the Rudolfplatz, but every officer and every O.R.
turned up his coat-collar, stamped his feet and determined to stick
it. After all, from the time when he waits his turn to receive his
first suit of khaki, every soldier is inured to standing in queues,
and when he has so often stood half-an-hour in a queue for the chance
of a penny bowl of Y.M.C.A. tea he will think nothing of standing
for an hour for a seat at the Opera. For the officers no doubt the
situation had the attraction of novelty.

By the time the office opened the queue reached from the Opera House
steps nearly to the tramway _Haltestelle_, and much speculation was
going on as to how many would be sent empty away. Inch by inch we
moved forward, mounted the steps one by one, and came within the
relative warmth of the vestibule. At last the weary waiting-time was
over; the young subaltern stepped before the _guichet_ and, pointing
to a handbill, demanded in a loud and dignified voice a ticket for
next Monday's performance of "_KEINE VORSTELLUNG_!"

How shall I describe the painful scene that followed--a scene in
which, as a mere Tommy, I had too much discipline to intervene? In
vain the obsequious purveyor of tickets offered a selection of the
world's most popular and celebrated operas for any other day but
Monday. Nothing would do for my officer but _Keine Vorstellung_.
Indeed, as he explained in his best and loudest English, Monday was
his only free evening. _Keine Vorstellung_ he wanted and _Keine
Vorstellung_ he must have. Followed reiteration, expostulation,
vituperation in yet louder English than before, and when at last
he turned away without his ticket he was still convinced that the
authority of the _Britische Besatzung_ had been outraged and defied
by the man behind the window.

I often wonder what he said when the precise meaning of those two
mystic words was revealed, to him. I like to think that it may have
happened at the Requisition Office, whither he had gone to procure an
order to compel that recalcitrant square-head to supply him with the
ticket so unwarrantably withheld.

       *       *       *       *       *

    "Wanted a good Cook; kitchen-maid kept; small fairy."--_Provincial
    Paper_.

It is pleasant to come upon a really appreciative mistress.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Little Girl (to Bride at wedding reception)._ "YOU
DON'T LOOK NEARLY AS TIRED AS I SHOULD HAVE THOUGHT."

_Bride._ "DON'T I, DEAR? BUT WHY DID YOU THINK I SHOULD LOOK TIRED?"

_Little Girl._ "WELL, I HEARD MUMMY SAY TO DAD THAT YOU'D BEEN RUNNING
AFTER MR. GOLDMORE FOR MONTHS AND MONTHS."]

       *       *       *       *       *

PTERO-DACTYLS.

(_OF THE PIONEERS OF THE AIR._)

  Dædalus, once in the island of Crete,
    Finding his host tried to limit his scenery,
  Foiled in his efforts to flee on his feet,
    Went and invented some flying machinery;
  Then, when he thought it was time to make tracks
    Free from pursuit, for he felt he could dodge any,
  Brought out his wings, which he fastened with wax,
    Fitting another pair on to his progeny;
  So, if the legend to credence can wheedle us,
  First of air-pilots was old Father Dædalus.

  Just a few kicks and they're off in full sail
    (Science of old wasn't hard on her votary,
  So little mention you find in the tale
    Made of propeller or joy-stick or rotary);
  Silently skimming along in the air
    Spoke the paternal and prototype pioneer,
  "Mind that your altitude's low, and beware
    Fiery Phoebus you don't go and fly a-near!"
  Cautious the counsel, but Icarus flouted it,
  Flew in the face of his father and scouted it.

  Lifting his nose in the eye of the sun,
    Waved he his hand to his wary progenitor;
  Higher and higher he banked and he spun,
    Mounting aloft as away from his ken he tore.
  "Who's this," said Phoebus, "my kingdom affronts?
    Doubtless, young fellow, your conduct you think witty;
  I'll find a method of stopping your stunts;
    Dear shall you pay for precocious propinquity."
  Forth shot his beams ere the flier detected 'em,
  Melting the wax on his wings (that connected 'em).

  Down to the depths of the bottomless sea
    Icarus crashed with a lightning celerity,
  Leaving a name for the ages to be.
    "Ha!" chortled Phoebus, "that comes of temerity."
  See from the sequel the fitness of things:
    Nearly forgotten this early adventure is;
  Phoebus is beaten; Time's whirligig brings
    Still its revenge in the course of the centuries.
  Over the sky, from the east to the west of it,
  Man has decidedly now got the best of it.

  R.A.F.

       *       *       *       *       *

TO PSYCHICAL MEDIUMS.

Extract from a tradesman's circular:--

    "Mr. ----, who has just been disembodied, hopes to call quite
    shortly and will, we trust, be allowed to book forward your
    Spring term requirements."

       *       *       *       *       *

    "A letter sent by a Government Department to the Hornsey Borough
    Council was so long that it was not read at all."--_Daily Paper_.

But if you think that will discourage them you don't know our
bureaucrats.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE FOCH-TERRIER. "I KNOW ALL ABOUT THAT SILLY DOG IN
ÆSOP. I'M NOT TAKING ANY CHANCES."]

       *       *       *       *       *

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

_Monday, March 3rd_.--The terrors of the Statute of Anne having been
temporarily removed, Mr. AUSTEN CHAMBERLAIN headed a little _queue_ of
Ministers coming up to take the Oath. How the already crowded Treasury
Bench is to accommodate the new-comers it is difficult to see, but
presumably a system of reliefs will be arranged.

The present epidemic was discussed by Captain NEWMAN and Sir JOHN
REES who were not agreed as to whether port is a "preventative" or a
"preventive" of influenza, but were unanimous in thinking that far too
little of it was available.

[Illustration: MR. MCCALLUM SCOTT. "SH-H! DON'T YOU KNOW THERE'S A
DEMOBILISATION ON?"]

On bearing that the liability of agricultural shows to the
Entertainment Tax depended on whether instruction was combined with
amusement, Colonel WEIGALL pertinently asked who was to decide where
amusement ends and education begins. Talking of education, I shall in
future, following Mr. H.A.L. FISHER, try to pronounce Thibetan with a
long "e," but, I hesitate, even on the authority of the MINISTER OF
EDUCATION, to speak of "Febuary."

Since Mr. CHURCHILL became War Minister he has developed a remarkable
likeness to Lord HALDANE. Happily the resemblance extends only to the
_rondeurs_, and not to the occasional _longueurs_, of his predecessor.
How long his Lordship would have taken to elucidate the present
position and future composition of the British Army I cannot estimate,
but it would have been several hours. Mr. CHURCHILL'S survey of the
World, from Siberia to the Rhine, occupied a brief sixty minutes and
included some attractive speculations on the kind of Army we should
need in the future. He hopes, among other things, for an improved
General Staff, composed of officers acquainted with war in all its
phases--land, sea and air--who could give the Cabinet expert advice on
war as a whole, and save it (we inferred) from such hesitations as led
to the glorious tragedy of Gallipoli.

"I thought we had given up war," interjected Mr. HOGGE; and other
Members twitted the Minister with having left out of his account the
League of Nations. But Mr. CHURCHILL, in reply, while expressing the
utmost respect for the League, pointed out that it was not yet in
being, and that meanwhile Britain must continue to be a strong armed
Power.

A number of maiden speeches were delivered during the evening.
The SPEAKER was not in the Chair, but I hope he was somewhere
in the precincts to hear the cheers which greeted the initial
effort--commendably brief and to the point--of his son, Major
LOWTHER, on the subject of courts-martial.

[Illustration: A NEW FORCE IN POLITICS. THE DE VALERA GIRL.]

_Tuesday, March 4th_.--Lord SINHA OF RAIPUR delivered his maiden
speech in a style which promises well for his Parliamentary career.
Accepting the _dictum_ of Lord SYDENHAM that frankness is essential
in Indian affairs, he proceeded to act upon it by administering a
dignified rebuke to his lordship for having suggested that one of the
periodical affrays between Mahomedans and Hindoos was occasioned by
the MONTAGU-CHELMSFORD report.

No fewer than forty-six questions were addressed to the War Office.
But obviously this sort of thing cannot go on. The SECRETARY OF STATE
cannot devote so much of his valuable time to satisfying Parliamentary
curiosity. Accordingly he has appointed a "Members' friend" to hear
complaints and answer questions. Mr. McCALLUM SCOTT has been rewarded
for his consistent admiration--did he not publish a eulogy of "Winston
Churchill in Peace and War" when his hero's fortunes were temporarily
clouded?--and on two days a week will have the privilege of acting as
lightning-conductor.

The most intriguing detail in the story of DE VALERA'S escape
from Lincoln Gaol was the beguilement of the guards by two sweet
girl-graduates from Dublin. But this afternoon Mr. SHORTT curtly
stated--with a twinkle in his eye--that the sentries disclaimed all
knowledge of the ladies. Still, is this conclusive?

_Wednesday, March 5th_.--The friends of the new LORD CHANCELLOR
were becoming anxious lest his natural gaiety should be permanently
suppressed by the necessity of keeping up the dignity of the Woolsack.
They need be under no further apprehensions. A motion in favour of
Home Rule All Round, introduced by Lord BRASSEY and supported by Lord
SELBORNE, furnished him with his chance. Metaphorically flinging his
full-bottomed wig on to the floor he skipped into the arena, executed
a war-dance around his amazed victims, and, before they knew where
they were, got their heads into Chancery and knocked them together
until they were compelled to give in. Talk of the congestion of
Parliament! Why, now that party spirit was in abeyance, Bills went
through with incredible rapidity. As for the supposed ambitions of the
"little nations," what, he asked, did Scotsmen and Welshmen care about
subordinate Parliaments when they were governing the whole Empire? If
the advocates of the proposal really believed in it let them go out as
missionaries into the wilderness, and, if they escaped the proverbial
fate of missionaries, convert the heathen voters to their creed.
Thereupon Lord BRASSEY, his brow bloody but unbowed, intimated that
"a time would come," and meanwhile withdrew his motion.

At Question-time Mr. BONAR LAW indignantly denied a newspaper rumour
from Paris that the British delegates had decided not to demand any
money-indemnity from Germany, but took occasion later on to discount
somewhat freely the election-promises made on this subject by himself
and other Ministers. It would be better, he implied, to accept a
composition than to put the debtor into the Bankruptcy Court. This
is common sense, no doubt, always provided that the Hun does not
misinterpret his reprieve, and, instead of laying golden eggs for
our benefit, resume the practice of the goose-step.

On the Civil Service Estimates, swollen to five times their pre-war
magnitude, Mr. BALDWIN made an earnest appeal for economy. If every
man would ask himself, "What can I do for the State?" instead of "What
can I get out of it?" we might yet emerge safely from our financial
straits. The House, as usual, cheered this fine sentiment to the echo,
and, to show how thoroughly it had gone home, Mr. ADAMSON, the Labour
leader, immediately pressed for an increase in the salaries of Members
of Parliament.

_Thursday, March 6th_.--The CHIEF SECRETARY FOR IRELAND announced that
the Government had decided to release such of the Sinn Fein prisoners
as had not already saved them the trouble.

History does not always repeat itself. The first JOSIAH WEDGWOOD
enhanced his fame by a faithful reproduction of the Portland Vase.
JOSIAH the Second, essaying a fancy portrait of the present Duke of
PORTLAND (in his capacity of a coal-owner), was less fortunate in the
likeness, and this afternoon handsomely withdrew it from circulation.

The Second Reading of the new Military Service Bill brought a
storm of accusations against the Government for having broken its
election-pledges. Had not the PRIME MINISTER and his colleagues gone
to the country on a cry of "No Conscription"? The Member for Derby
was particularly emphatic in his denunciation; but Mr. CHURCHILL
effectively countered him by quoting Mr. THOMAS'S own translation of
the pledges in question as meaning "Militarism and Conscription."

A little rift within the Coalition lute was revealed when Mr. SHAW
remarked that some people seemed to want "to make this country a fit
place for casuists to live in;" but the House as a whole took the view
that without an assured peace it would be no place for any one, and
passed the Second Reading by an overwhelming majority.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Conductor_. "OUTSIDE ONLY!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE SENTINELS.

  Up and down the nurs'ry stair
    All through the night
  There are Fairy Sentinels
    Watching till it's light;
  If they ever went to sleep
    The Big Clock would tell;
  But, Left-Right! Left-Right!
    They know their duty well;
  I needn't mind a Bogey or a Giant or a Bear,
  The Sentinels are watching on the nurs'ry stair!

  Up and down the nurs'ry stair
    All through the day
  There the Fairy Sentinels
    Sleep the time away;
  If you were to wake them up,
    Think how tired they'd be,
  So Tip-toe! Tip-toe!
    Go upstairs quietly.
  Yes, that's the very reason we have carpets on the stair--
  The Sentinels are sleeping, and we must take care.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _She_. "THEY SAY THE VICAR TALKS IN HIS SLEEP."

_He_. "VERY LIKELY. HE TALKS IN MINE."]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE SPACE PROBLEM.

  The sad queues shiver in the drains
    And do not get upon the bus;
  Men battle round successive trains,
    And each is yet more populous;
  Twelve times a week I pay the fare,
    But know not when I last sat down;
  It almost looks as if there were
    Too many people in the town.

  I know not where they all may dwell;
    I know my lease is up in May;
  I know I said, "Oh, very well,
    I'll take a house down Dorking way;"
  I scoured the spacious countryside,
    I found no residence to spare,
  And it is not to be denied
    There are too many people there.

  They say the birth-rate's sadly low;
    They say the death-rate tends to soar;
  So how we manage I don't know
    To go on growing more and more;
  Let statistology prefer
    To think the race is nice and small,
  But how do all these crowds occur,
    And who the dickens are they all?

  Where do they come from? Where on earth
    In olden days did they reside,
  When there was really lots of birth
    And hardly anybody died?
  Where had this multitude its lair?
    Some pleasant spot, I make no doubt;
  I only wish they'd go back there
    And leave me room to move about;

  And leave some little house for me
    In any shire, in any town,
  Or, otherwise, myself must flee
    And build a dug-out in a down;
  If none may settle on the land,
    Yet might one settle underground
  (Provided people understand
    They must not come and dig all round).

  There will I dwell (alone) till death
    And soothe my crowd-corroded soul;
  And, when I breathe my latest breath,
    Let no man move me from my hole;
  Let but a little earth be cast,
    And someone write above the tomb:
  "_Here had the poet peace at last;
    Here only had he elbow-room._"

  A.P.H.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE SWEET-SHOP.

It was a mean street somewhere in the wilderness of Fulham. How I
got there I don't exactly know; all that I am clear about is that I
was trying, on insufficient data, to make a short cut. Twilight was
falling, there was a slight drizzle of rain and I told myself that I
had stumbled on the drabbest bit of all London.

Here and there, breaking the monotony of dark house-fronts, were
little isolated shops, which gave a touch of colour to the drabness. I
paused before one of them, through whose small and dim window a light
shed a melancholy beam upon the pavement. Nothing seemed to be sold
there, for the window was occupied by empty glass jars, bearing
such labels as "peppermint rock," "pear drops" and "bull's-eyes."
Apparently the shop had sold out.

I was on the point of turning away when I noticed that someone was
moving about inside, and presently an ancient dame began to take
certain jars from the window and fill them with sweets from boxes on
the counter. Evidently a new stock had just arrived. Then I remembered
that sweets had been "freed."

A little girl stopped beside me, stared through the window and
then ran off at top speed. Within a couple of minutes half-a-dozen
youngsters were peering into the shop, and a pair of them marched in,
consulting earnestly as they went. The news spread; more children
arrived. I distributed a largesse of pennies which gave me a
popularity I have never achieved before. The street seemed to take on
a different aspect. I almost liked it.

       *       *       *       *       *

AN OLD DOG.

There can be no doubt about it. Not merely is Soo-ti getting to be an
old dog, but he has already got there. He _is_ an old dog. Yet the
change in the case of this beloved little Pekinese has been so gradual
that until it was accomplished few of us noticed it. Yesterday, as
it seemed, Soo-ti was a young dog, capable of holding his own for
frolics and spirits with any Pekinese that ever owned the crown of
the road and refused to stir from it though all the hooters of Europe
endeavoured to blast him off it. To-day he is still a challenger of
motor-cars; but he hurls his defiance with less assurance and has been
seen to retire before the advance of a motor-bicycle.

Moreover, there are other signs of what his master calls, let us hope
with accuracy, a _cruda viridisque senectus_. Quite a short time ago
his muzzle, like the rest of him, was as black as ebony. Now he wears
a pair of thick white moustachios, which are comparable only with
those worn by that great chieftain, Monsieur le Maréchal JOFFRE.

In another way too our little dog gives proof that his years are
advancing. He used to welcome ecstatically the moment of the
_promenade_; not that he intended thus to show any deference to the
humans who were inviting him to take a walk, but that he thought it
was a fine manly thing to do, and one that might bring about that
fight of his against a neighbouring and detested deer-hound to which
he looked forward as to one of his unachieved pleasures. He therefore
fell not more than one hundred yards behind his accompanists, and when
this was pointed out to him made a very creditable effort to hurry up
and rejoin. Now, however, when taken for a duty-walk, he still barks
a little at the outset, but thereafter begins at once to lag, and is
found in an armchair when the party returns. It is vain to remind
him that in the old days he was called the little black feather for
the lightness of his gait when puffed along by the gusts of a fierce
nor'-easter. Here is one of the complimentary stanzas that were
lavished upon him by his young mistress:--

    "Attend to your duty,
    My brave little Soo-ti,
  There isn't much sun in the sky:
    But we've sported together
    In all kinds of weather,
  My little black feather and I."

It would be quite useless to lure him out with verse, and plain prose
is equally ineffective when once he has made up his mind that he
doesn't mean to move.

One more sign of old age there is, which I may briefly describe. He is
always much agitated when his mistress packs her boxes to depart to an
institution for higher education of which she is a member. While this
is going forward, Soo-ti will not stir from her room except it be to
couch in the passage outside. Thence he re-transfers himself to her
room, and has been known, when the chief box is full of garments, to
leap into it, to pad round in a circle three times, and to sink down
with a sigh of satisfaction on what was once a very artistic bit of
packing. I do not say that this trick is entirely due to old age.
Nearly all dogs do it. Only there was on the last occasion a special
anxiety, and a more than usual persistence and querulousness which
seemed to say, "Don't go too far away, and come back soon, so that
we may meet again before my eyes grow dim and my ears lose their
keenness."

       *       *       *       *       *

    "In future all unmarried men and women having an income of $1,000
    will be taxed by the city. Married men will not be taxed unless
    their income is over $1,500,000."--_Canadian Gazette_.

The poor fellows must have some compensation.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE TEST OF FRIENDSHIP.

    ["C.K.S.," in _The Sphere_, describing his numerous visits to
    GEORGE MEREDITH at Box Hill, tells us that in no real sense can
    he claim to have been an intimate friend; "but then," he adds, "I
    always make the test of intimate friendship when people call one
    another by their Christian names."]

  The use of Christian names, says "C.K.S."
    Is intimacy's truest test; but "George,"
  When he was down at Dorking, (as you guess)
    Stuck quite inextricably in his gorge;
  And to the end he never got beyond
  The Mister, though a faithful friend and fond.

  How sad to think this barrier was never
    Demolished, broken down and swept away,
  But still remained to sunder and to sever
    Two of the choicest spirits of our day!
  For MEREDITH, though radiant, genial, kind,
  On this one point showed an inclement mind.

  The case was simplified in days of eld;
    HOMER, for instance, had no Christian name,
  And an Athenian bookman, if impelled
    To visit him at Chios, when he came
  Across the blind old poet and beach-comber,
  Addressed him probably _tout court_ as HOMER.

  PYTHAGORAS was never Jack or Jim--
    Names all unknown in ages pre-Socratic;
  And SHORTER could not have accosted him
    By _sobriquets_ endearing or ecstatic;
  It would have certainly provoked a scene,
  For instance, to have hailed him as "Old bean."

  Then at the "Mermaid," had he been invited
    As an illustrious brother of the quill,
  Would "C.K.S.," I wonder, have delighted
    To honour WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE as "Old Bill,"
  And in the small uproarious hours A.M.
  Have been in turn acclaimed as "Bully CLEM"?

  Perchance; who knows? The mystery is sealed;
    Hypothesis, though plausible, is vain;
  What might have been can never be revealed,
    But one momentous fact at least is plain:
  We know from an authoritative quarter
  That MEREDITH was never "George" to SHORTER.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE TWOPENNY EGG.

The daily press informs us that we are "in sight of the twopenny egg."
On making inquiries we learn that this phenomenon will be invisible
at Greenwich, but may be viewed from the North of Scotland, a region
happily less inaccessible than many to which scientific expeditions
have in the past been made. At the time of writing opinions differ as
to the best point for observation, but it is probable that the island
of Foula, in the Shetland group, will be chosen.

       *       *       *       *       *

    "Masters and men are visibly strained by the crisis. They all
    know that they are sitting on a volcano. The prelude is all
    icy suspicion."--_Mr. JAMES DOUGLAS in "The Star"._

It won't be the volcano's fault if the ice doesn't get melted.

       *       *       *       *       *

    "The complainant was ascending the staircase of the club when he
    met the defendant, who, speaking of Lemberg, said Lemberg belonged
    to Russia. Complainant replied: 'No, it is in Poland; it cannot
    belong to Russia,' when the defendant struck him with some sharp
    instrument on the top of the head, and the stars had not yet
    completely healed."--_Evening Paper_.

The constellation referred to must, we think, have been the Great
Bear.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE DOPED LION. A STORY OF ANCIENT ROME.]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE GAME OF THE TELEPHONE.

True sportsmen will regret Mr. ILLINGWORTH'S statement, made recently
in the House, when he said, "I have every expectation that the
[telephone] service will improve."

By "improve" he no doubt meant that when we ring up a number in future
we shall simply get it; that people who want us will be able to get
us, and so on. It is a dismal prospect.

I only hope the improvement will be delayed until I get my own back. I
have been playing rather a bad line lately, and only this morning lost
a set by one game to two.

       *       *       *       *       *

The operator won the first game before I could get into my stride.
She rang me up three times in five minutes, and each time put me on
to nobody. This was a very bad start, and I determined that I must
at least give her a game. So the third time I held on, mechanically
knocking the semi-circular ring arrangement up and down. There is
always a chance that your signal may be working, and it annoys the
operator. But she beat me by a swift stroke.

"What number do you want?" she asked cynically. I said, "Well played,
Sir--Madam!" Then she rubbed it in with a parting shot: "Sorry you
have been terroubled," she said, and cut me off. Love--one.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Hullo!" I said, when my bell rang the next time.

"Put me through to Extension 8, please."

The only thing to do with this sort of shot is to return it safely.

"Sorry, old chap," I said, "I haven't got one."

"Haven't _what_?" he said.

"Got one."

"One what?"

"Extension."

Then he became annoyed and shouted, "Aren't you the War Office?"

"No," I answered, "I am not the War Office."

"Aren't you the War Off--"

But I clapped on my receiver. In fact I clapped it on so violently
that I thought I had silenced the thing for good and all.

A series of tugging ineffective clicks on the part of my bell decided
me to investigate. This move on my part was to win me the game.

I took off my receiver and listened. No answer. I banged the rigging.
No answer. I banged and thumped.

"Yes, yes," she said rather peevishly, "I am attending to you as
quickly as I can. What number do you want?"

"Well," I explained, "as a matter of fact I don't want a number.
I only wondered if my line was all right. Sorry you have been
terroubled," and I cut her off. One--all.

       *       *       *       *       *

The third and last game started briskly. In the course of the first
ten minutes I was rung up and asked if I was--

1. The Timber Control.

2. Mr. Awl or All.

3. The Timber Control (again).

4. The London Diocesan Church Schools. (At this point I rather lost my
head and answered, "D---- the London Diocesan Church Schools.")

My impiety offended the Bishop (I assume it was a Bishop), and he,
rather unfairly, must have incited the gods to take sides against me.
In a lucid interval, while I was doing a call of my own, the operator,
without giving me any warning, switched me on to the supervisor. This
must have been an inspiration from Olympus. However I was equal to the
emergency; nay, took advantage of it. Experience has taught me that it
is always best to talk to the person you get, whether you want that
person or not. So I explained to the supervisor that I was a busy man,
although the rumour which ascribed to my shoulders the War Office, the
Timber Control and the L.D.C.S. was, at the moment, unfounded.

She played up magnificently; took my number, my name, my address, the
date, the time of the day, how many times I had been rung up, whom by
and when, and was going to ask me the date of my birth and whether I
was married or single, when I protested. Then she calmed down and said
she would have my line seen to.

The game seemed to be going well; but again I was beaten by a swift
stroke. My bell rang.

"Telephone Engineering Department speaking," it said. "We have
received a report that your line is out of order. We are sending a
man and hope he will finish the job before luncheon."

This was the end, as anyone knows who has ever got into the clutches:
of the Telephone Engineering Department.

"Please," I said (my spirit was quite broken)--"please, for God's
sake, don't send a man. Not this morning at any rate. Put it off,
there's a good fellow."

"But I thought there was something wrong--"

"Oh, no, not at all. It's a hideous mistake. My line never behaved
better in its life. It's a positive joy to me."

I have it on Mr. BALFOUR'S authority that all truth cannot be told at
all times. But I had lost the set.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE THIRST FOR EDUCATION.

_Mother_. "Wot's all this 'ubbub goin' on indoors?"

_Daughter_. "Baby's bin and licked 'Erbert's 'ome lessons orf 'is
slate."]

       *       *       *       *       *

    "On Friday, March 7th, Messrs. ----, on the instructions of
    the executors of the late Mr. ----, are selling by auction in
    pneumonia and acute influenzal pneu-built cottages situate in
    Chapel Street."--_Provincial Paper_.

Personally we were not bidding.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Staff Officer (accustomed to staff-car pace)._ "HERE,
CABBY--LET ME OUT. I'D RATHER WALK."

_Antique Jehu (who thinks he has to do with a "shell-shock" case)._
"IT'S ALL RIGHT, SIR. I'M GOING VERY CAREFUL."

_S.O._ "I KNOW. BUT I'M SO AFRAID OF SOMETHING RUNNING INTO US FROM
BEHIND."]

       *       *       *       *       *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

(_BY MR. PUNCH'S STAFF OF LEARNED CLERKS._)

When a story bears the attractive title of _The House of Courage_
(DUCKWORTH); when it begins in the Spring of 1914 with a number of
pleasantly prosperous people whose faith in the continuance of this
prosperity is frequently emphasised ("as if they had a contract with
God Almighty" is how an observant character phrases it); and when,
in the first chapter, the hero has an encounter with two Germans in
a Soho restaurant--well, it requires no great guessing to tell what
will happen before we are through with it. And, in fact, Mrs. VICTOR
RICKARD'S latest is yet another war-story; though with this novelty,
that the hero's experiences of service are almost entirely gained in a
German prison-camp. As perhaps I need not say, both divisions of the
tale are admirably written. It is hardly the author's fault that the
earlier half, with its pictures of a genial hunting society in County
Cork, is distinctly more entertaining than the scenes of boredom
and brutality at Crefeld, well-conveyed as these are and almost
over-realistic and convincing. Inevitably too the scheme is one of
incident rather than character. One has never any very serious doubt
that in the long run the hero, _Kennedy_, will marry the girl of his
choice, despite the fact of her engagement to the clearly unworthy
_Harrington_. But as part of the long run was from Crefeld to the
Dutch frontier, over every obstacle that you can imagine (and a few
more, including an admirable thrill almost on the post), one is left
with the comfortable feeling that the prize was well earned. You will
rightly judge that most of _The House of Courage_ is rather more
frankly sensational than Mrs. RICKARD'S previous war-work; but it
remains an excellent yarn.

       *       *       *       *       *

When _Esmé Hillier_, possessed by _The Imp_ (HODDER AND STOUGHTON),
was only ten, in a fit of annoyance she pushed the hero (to whom she
had had no previous introduction) into the sea. I have some sympathy
with her energetic protest, for a Highland Chieftain even at the
age of sixteen should know better than to row about in an open boat
kissing a young lady. _Esmé_, a pained spectator, showed her public
spirit by punishing his bad form, but in the act she sealed her own
fate, for after this it was inevitable that they should ultimately
marry each other, the girl of the kissing episode notwithstanding. The
immediate incentive to their union, which was by the Scotch method,
was that _Esmé_ had applied mustard-plasters to a Cabinet Minister's
person by affixing them to his dress-suit, and _Tourntourq_, the
Chieftain, had nobly attempted to bear the blame. Though married
in haste they did not wait for leisure before they repented, but
commenced quarrelling at once, until _Esmé_, in order to test his love
and that of an admirer who was helping to complicate matters, "bobbed"
her hair and threw the severed tresses at her husband. After this they
separated. Presently the War came, and the admirer, who was really
quite a nice person, was killed, and _Tourntourq_, who was apparently
a lunatic, though that is not stated in so many words, was blinded.
It seems quite superfluous to add that _Tourntourq_ wins the V.C. and
recovers both sight and wife in the last chapter; but there are such
good patches in the book that I cannot help hoping that some day
WILSON MACNAIR will try her hand (I feel it is _her_ hand) at another,
which I shall really believe in all through.

       *       *       *       *       *

Of late our costume-romancers have become strangely unprolific. So I
was the more pleased to find Mrs. ALICE WILSON FOX bravely keeping the
old flag flying with a story bearing the gallant title, _Too Near the
Throne_ (S.P.C.K.). I daresay its name may enable you to give a fairly
shrewd guess at its plot. This is an agreeable affair of a maid,
reputed Catholic heir to the English Crown, and used as pretext for an
abortive rising against KING JAMES I. You can see that in practised
hands (as here) and decorated with a pretty trimming of sentiment,
abductions, witch-finding and other appropriate accessories,
this furnishes a theme rich in romance. Perhaps I was a thought
disappointed that more was not made of the actual conspiracy, and
that, having started "too near the throne," the tale subsequently gave
it so wide a berth. But this is no great fault. I can witness that
Mrs. WILSON FOX has at least one essential quality of the historical
novelist in her appreciation of picturesque raiment. Almost indeed she
emulates those jewelled paragraphs in which the creator of _Windsor
Castle_ would fill half a chapter with a riot of sartorial
coruscations. As a birthday present, say for an appreciative niece, I
can think of few volumes whose welcome would be better assured.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. JOHN MASEFIELD has brought together in _St. George and the Dragon_
(HEINEMANN) a speech "given" by him in New York on last St. George's
Day, and a lecture on The War and the Future which he delivered up
and down America from January to August of last year. Since then
many things have happened. But nothing has happened that can make Mr.
MASEFIELD other than proud of the part he has played in explaining and
glorifying his country's cause and commending it to the hearts and
minds of all good Americans. I confess that when I took up the book
and read the first few lines I was afraid that Mr. MASEFIELD had
yielded to the temptation of delivering his speech in poetical prose
of a faintly Biblical character, as thus: "Friends, for a long time
I did not know what to say to you in this my second speaking here. I
could fill a speech with thanks and praise--thanks for the kindness
and welcome which have met me up and down this land wherever I have
gone, and praise for the great national effort which I have seen in so
many places and felt everywhere." Mr. MASEFIELD however soon abandoned
this manner and made the rest of his way in a good solid pedestrian
style. But he did not disdain to go so far in flattery of the
Americans, his audience, as to use the word "gotten" for the past
tense of the verb "to get."

       *       *       *       *       *

There can be few Irishmen who look at their England with such
affectionate eyes as Lord DUNSANY. _Tales of War_ (FISHER UNWIN) is
full of this sweet theme. The first of the tales is a fine story of
the Daleswood men who, cut off from their supports and worried because
there would be none left in their native village to carry on the
Daleswood breed, were for sending out their youngest boy to surrender.
But, deciding that that wasn't good Daleswood form, they (for their
last hours, as they thought) fell to recalling the familiar beauties
of their old home and to cutting in the Picardy chalk the roll of
their names for remembrance. You get it again, that calling-up of
the home memories, when, in another marooned party, the Sargeant that
was keeper begins with a vision of sausages and mashed and goes on
to the birds and beasts and flowers and soft noises of English woods
at night. And in a half-dozen other sketches. And it is good to find
an Irishman and a poet to say things which stick on our embarrassed
tongues. Lord DUNSANY has a happy trick of compressing a great deal
into a little space, and his vignettes, sketched in with a conscious
art, should find a place on our shelves among the war records which
our children are to read.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT.

_War Profiteer_. "Stow that row, 'Orace. 'Ow did _I_ know yer wanted
a toy?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

    "When the wife of President Wilson was in London she spent
    hours shopping in Regent Street and other quaint sections of
    London."--_Daily Gleaner_.

Regent Street _will_ be pleased.

       *       *       *       *       *

    "Captain Hayes, of the Olympic, in receiving a loving cut from
    Halifax citizens, described how the Olympic sank the U-boat 103, a
    few months ago. The liner cut through the submarine without losing
    a single revolution of the propellers."--_Australian Paper_.

One good cut deserves another.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE INFLUENZA-MASK.

  "Shall I," he cried, "who made the Hun skedaddle
    And caused the _Wacht an Rhein_ to lose its job,
  Taught Johnny Turk the use of boot and saddle
    And fetched out FERDINANDO for a blob--
  Shall I allow each little grinning urchin
    To move me from my purpose? Shall I shrink
  For fear of idle Rumour wagging her chin?
      No, no! I do _not_ think.

  "My high emprise may set the suburbs hooting
    And lay me under Balham's local curse;
  There be--I know it--those in Upper Tooting
    Would lynch the prophet and insult his hearse;
  But when my feet have kicked this mortal bucket
    Millions will bless me!--more I cannot ask;
  So, John, distract me not! Jemima, chuck it!
      And, Jane, bring forth the mask!"