# Punch/Volume 148/Issue 3842

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CHARIVARIA.
Dr. Richard Strauss has composed a new March for the KAISER. It is presumably one with the Ides left out.
It is not only to their enemies that the Germans are cruel. The War Lord is said to have forbidden the stout gentlemen who form the Landwehr to wear body-belts, on the ground that these would make them appear stouter still.
The Kaiser, a Berlin message in forms us, took a stroll in the Zoo the other day. We doubt however whether the wild beasts can teach him anything.
"If I had my way," writes a correspondent, "I would shoot every spy on the spot." Yes, but supposing he hasn't got a spot?
"Why," asks a silly fellow, "should not our ships fly the flag of the Swiss Navy? To this no possible exception could be taken."
We have heard a good deal about a wonderful long-distance gun which the Germans are said to have in reserve, but an official communiqué issued from Berlin shows that this has been easily outclassed by guns in the possession of the despised Yankees. "On the Western front," we are told, "shells have been found which undoubtedly came from American factories."
It is semi-officially announced at Athens that the report which has appeared in the Italian Press of the intended marriage of the Crown Prince of Greece and Princess Elizabeth of Roumania is an invention. It is possible, however, that it may be considered in the light of a suggestion, and we understand that the parties concerned are much obliged to the newspapers for the idea.
Yet another change of name is announced. We learn from a German source that Joan of Arc has now become Joanna von Aachen.
We note that a corps of "Optimists" has been formed. Why not a battalion of Pessimists as well? We have plenty of material to hand, and, if these came into contact with the enemy, they could do incalculable harm with their powers of depression.
"What," asks Ignoramus, "is the meaning of the little pieces of black ribbon which the Welsh Regiment wears at the back of its tunic collars? Has it anything to do with what the Germans call 'Der Tag'?"
The inmates of a certain London pension were interested to hear, the other day, that their late cook is in the German Navy, and they are now picturing him in the foremost rank when the order is given, "Prepare to repel boarders."
In Germany, cat-skins are being converted into garments for the troops, and it is said to be a heartrending sight to see the poor pussies shivering without their fur. However, at the instigation of an animal-lovers' society, kind-hearted women are now reported to be knitting costumes for the poor derelicts.
"Mr. John Gibson, a schoolmaster of Rotherham, Yorkshire, has, The Mail informs us, "caught a white cabbage butterfly." We are left to presume that this aviator was a German.
Answer to a Correspondent:—We quite agree with you that among the worst peculiarities of the Kaiser are his marked pro-German tendencies.
Hairdressers all over the country, says The Express, are complaining that, with so many men at the Front or in the various training camps, they are finding it difficult to earn a living. Even those persons who have not enlisted are keeping their hair on.
Owing to the fact that nearly 250 elementary schools have been utilised for military purposes about 13,000 children have been compelled to take a holiday. Thanks, no doubt, to the splendid patriotic spirit which is sweeping the country, in no single instance was it necessary to use force.
A gentleman writes from Half Moon Street to The Times to complain of the "high-handed methods" of our Passports Department. On the form provided for the purpose he described his face as "intelligent," but the passport called it "oval." This, we suppose, is one of the drawbacks of a photograph having to be provided. Possibly it might still be practicable to compromise by getting the description altered to "Half Moon face"?
Father (on leave from the front). "I think we'd better be going home now, Margery."
Margery. "Oh, no, Dad—not yet. There are a lot more people I want to show you to."
Another Scotch Raid on Ireland.
The retiring Irish Viceroy's attempt to annex Tara to Aberdeen appears to have infected his countrymen. There is an evident conspiracy among the Scottish Press to alter the date of Ireland's patron saint, doubtless with some ulterior motive. "Tomorrow is St. Patrick's Day," boldly asserts The Stirling Sentinel of February 16th, while The Strathearn Herald of the 13th declares with equal assurance that "Wednesday first is St. Patrick's Day." Until they can agree among themselves, Mr. Punch will continue to celebrate March 17th.
From The Times, "On Giving Advice":—
   "... If a man comes and tells you that he disapproves of you, you can reply that you disapprove of him; and there is an end of it."
We should have thought that it had only just begun.
Recording King Albert's flight in a Belgian bi-plane, the Exchange Telegraph Company says:—
   "This is the first aerial reconnaissance, at all events in recent times, undertaken by a crowned King."
We like the Company's caution, and have gone so far as to italicize it. In these days of sweeping statements we cannot be too guarded in our language.
A FLAW IN THE ENEMY'S ARMOUR.
[German Admiralty. "We propose to attack all British merchantmen at sight."
Great Britain. "In that case our merchantmen will defend themselves."
German Admiralty. "O well, if they go and do a dastardly thing like that, of course we shall be justified in attacking them."
See paraphrase, issued to the Press by the German Embassy at Washington, of a Note handed to the State Department by Count Bernstorff.]
UNWRITTEN LETTERS TO THE KAISER.
No. XV.
(From Samuel Porter, generally known as Shining Sammy, aboard H.M.S. ——— in the North Sea.)
Your High Mightiness,—They tell me, and by what I can read about it it's right, that you 're very angry with us sailormen. Well, you can go on being angry for all we care. Your being annoyed don't do us any manner of injury, although I daresay it frightens some of the chaps that hang round you and go on licking your boots till your head swells. But we're not built that way. We've got our duty to do and we're going to do it, even if we do manage to hurt your Imperial German feelings—yours and old Turps's and all your other Admirals' into the bargain. If we hear of you setting to work to smash all your own crockery and kick the stuffing out of the Sunday chairs in the parlour, and tear up the carpets, and put your fist through the window-panes, d'you think that's going to make any difference to us?
I had an uncle once, my mother's half-brother, but much older than her, their father having married a second time when he was well on in years. He was just one of your sort was my uncle, a big man and proud, and couldn't bear to be contradicted by his family. Consequence was his wife and all my cousins used to tremble before him, and it was "Get your father's boots and be quick about it," or "Sally, you're sitting in your father's favourite chair; get a move on you, do;" and all that kind of thing, till he got to think he couldn't do wrong. Well, one night he come home in a temper through slipping up on a piece of banana skin and the pavement being a bit too hard for him. First thing he did when he got home, after kicking the door in, was to fall out with my aunt about there being no sausages for supper, and then they had it up and down through the whole house with him carrying on like a madman, until at last the policeman come in very quiet and sudden though the open door and asked to know what all the noise and scatteration meant. You never saw a man change so quick as that half-uncle of mine. All the wind went out of him pop, and he turned as quiet as a lamb, and said there'd been a slight misunderstanding; and ever afterwards, when he began to look ugly, my aunt could tone him down by whispering the word "misunderstanding."
It strikes me you're just such another as uncle, and you'll have to knuckle down same as he did. You're not going to take command of the sea by shouting out loud that you've got it. We're there to see to that, and don't you forget it. All this talk of yours about sinking innocent merchant ships and sending their crews to Kingdom Come is what a real sailorman can't swallow. It only shows what you and Admiral Turps and the rest of you are made of. Mind, I don't say you're not capable of it if you think you won't get your own skins hurt. You've shown yourselves great chaps for the sneaking game, but you can't keep the old rule of the sea, which orders a man to save life as well as destroy it. You're a great hand at blowing poor women and children to bits at fortified towns like Scarborough and Whitby, but when your Admiral got his chance of picking a few fellows out of the sea at Coronel, what did he do? Sailed away and left them to drown, and then said the sea was too rough. No real sailor could have said that, or even thought it, for a sailor thinks of the waves as his brothers and the winds as his sisters, and when the big guns have done speaking he's out to rescue them as can't help themselves no more. When our men picked up yours they didn't stop to think about it or reason it out to themselves. They did it prompt because it was the old rule and they had to keep it or look on themselves as curs. I'm sorry to have to say all this because I'm not one for boasting; but the long and the short of it is that you don't understand the sea and your men don't understand the ways of sailors. And that's why I think you're not going to out us just yet. I don't respect you, not a bit, and when you're angry and go racketing about the world, you mustn't take it unkind of me if you hear me laugh. There, I feel better now.
Yours, Shining Sammy.
The War in the Air.
In view of the alarming rumours as to the German preparations for invading us it is really comforting to learn, from a headline in The Vancouver Daily Province (B.C.), that there is—
   "No foundation for Report of German Warships over Dover."
B.C. is evidently not so far behind the times as it sounds.
RIDERS OF THE WIND.
John Prospero Bull. "ARIEL, THY CHARGE EXACTLY IS PERFORM'D; BUT THERE'S MORE WORK"
The Tempest, Act I., Sc. 2.
Tirpitz's Dream: A Submarine in Kensington Gardens.
ENGLISH CONVERSATIONS FOR GERMAN RAIDERS.
The German Expeditionary Force especially designed to land on our shores have been supplied with a little book entitled, Tornister Wörterbuch Englisch, or An English Dictionary for the Knapsack, supposed to have been published in 1912. From a cursory examination of this dictionary we notice that, with characteristic thoroughness, most things have been thought of, but no provision has been made for certain highly probable contingencies which might arise when the Kaiser's troops occupy London. We attempt to supply a few omissions on the lines of the phrases set down in the book.
In the 'Bus.
"Conductor, stop at the wine-cellars."
"Kindly get up, Madam; I desire to sit down."
"What is the time? Truly your watch is a handsome one! I will mind it for you. Pray take this receipt."
"Conductor, remove these passengers; I desire to doze. Call me when we reach the Bank."
"Your waterproof looks somewhat superior than mine, does it not? Let us exchange."
"Take me to the beer-gardens."
"I have eaten and drunk too much. Bring me an apothecary."
At the Office of the Censor of Plays.
"Withdraw forthwith all plays excepting those written by Bernard Shaw, and also The Flag-Lieutenant."
"Re-write The Flag-Lieutenant so that ten British battleships, three cruisers and twelve destroyers are sunk by the German Navy twice nightly and thrice at each matinée performance."
"Churchill, Fisher and Beresford, who will be present in the stage box at each performance, will lead the applause. During each entr'acte they will shout twice in chorus, 'Hoch! der Kaiser.'"
In the Press Bureau Office.
"Produce three German victories for each edition of the evening newspapers."
AT the Zoo.
"Take me to the British lion house."
"Keeper, attention! If within two days the tails of these lions are not trained to droop you will spend the night in the den. Do not argue!"
In the Restaurant.
"I desire to pay my bill, and also that of my four friends. Five dinners, five magnums, ten cigars, fifteen liqueurs. Here are two shillings and fourpence."
"Silence, waiter! Do not fidget. Do not blink."
"It is forbidden to talk or argue with a Prussian officer."
"Remove that lady with the astrachan collar; it offends me."
Mr. Punch regrets that some little time ago he appears to have been misled by another paper into a wrong estimate of the attitude of the Mayor of Sunderland in regard to the local formation of an Artillery Brigade. He now understands that, though as a member of the Society of Friends the Mayor of Sunderland objects to engage personally in the work of recruiting, he gave his loyal co-operation to the Recruiting Committee in their efforts, already well advanced, to raise the Brigade.
1st Knut. "Waining again! Beastly wotten weathah!"
2nd Knut. "Yaas, old man. These weathah conditions give one a vewy vivid ideah of life in the twenches!"
THE GIRL HE LEFT BEHIND HIM.
My brother's wife and her husband had decided before the event that, if it was a boy, Smith and I were to be its godfathers; if it was a girl, I was to drop out. Smith, I should mention, was our rich friend, with the fur overcoat and no ties (family ties, that is), a man who could be safely depended on for a really solid silver mug. As matters fell out, it proved to be a girl. This, from my point of view, was just as well, since in any case I could not have risen above electro-plate, and quite possibly invidious comparisons between Smith and myself might have suggested themselves to the mind of my nephew. I am a sensitive man, one who does not care to be sniffed at, even by a godchild.
On a certain afternoon, when my niece was a little more than a month old, I dropped in on the family. I found my brother's wife sitting by the fire with her daughter on her lap.
"You are not looking well, Horace," she said.
I laughed a little thinly. "A slight cold," I replied.
As a matter of fact it was not a cold; it was the result of mental anxiety. I had seen the baby several times since its arrival, and the more I had studied it the more persistently had there grown in my mind a doubt as to how Smith, a man of æsthetic temperament, would be affected by it. If he jibbed, I knew I was pretty certain to be roped in to fill the gap.
"Baby is to be christened on Saturday," announced my brother's wife.
So it was all right after all. A wave of relief swept over me. I was so excited that I came close to my niece and smiled upon her. Her mother hastily lowered the child's flannel visor.
"Don't, Horace," she said.
"I suppose Smith was quite pleased to officiate?" I remarked.
"We haven't asked him yet," she answered; "but of course he will be delighted."
I sat down weakly. Saturday seemed very near.
"Has he seen her?" I asked in a low voice.
Something in my tone must have aroused her suspicions. "You don't mean to say, Horace, that you don't think she is perfectly beautiful? Look at her legs."
"The legs," I agreed, "are extremely chic, but the face———" I hesitated.
"Yes?" she said coldly.
"It has improved wonderfully, wonderfully; but don't you think it is still a little—er—lacking in finish, so to speak?"
"Several people have said," she observed icily, "that baby is very like you."
"Not in my hearing," I protested. "Besides, people always say kind things about babies."
"Except their uncles," she retorted.
"Believe me," I said earnestly, "I love this child. In all probability she will blossom into the apple of my eye. On the other hand, I happen to know that Smith, who has always led a strictly shielded life, has never yet been introduced to so young a baby; and speaking for the moment not as an uncle, but merely as a man, I am inclined to think that just at present she would, to put it plainly, frighten him. Now consider. You wish Smith to become your daughter's godfather. Is it wise, in the child's own interests, to run the risk of a refusal by precipitating matters? No, no; wait a few weeks longer; the delay will involve no extra charge. Baby is changing for the better every day, and I am confident that in a little while her countenance will have developed most of the customary details."
My brother's wife rose with her infant and walked across the room. "I think you are perfectly inhuman," she said. "I am writing to Mr. Smith myself to-night, and I shall ask him to call and see baby at once." She went out, banging the door, by a clever sleight of foot, behind her.
On the next day but one I received a note from my brother asking me to come round at once. With a heavy heart I complied with his request. He took me into his study and shut the door. "I'm afraid Smith is a nonstarter," he said. "Yesterday morning, when I mentioned the matter to him, he seemed quite enthusiastic. In afternoon he called to see the child. Unfortunately we were both out, and baby was in charge of her nurse. I cannot gather from the woman exactly what occurred at the interview; she is most evasive about it. But it appears that Smith was very much upset by something or other, and that he only stayed a minute or two. The housemaid, who let him out, declares that he was trembling violently. This morning I got a wire from him."
He handed me a telegram: "Very sorry cannot fulfil engagement have volunteered for motor section anti-aircraft service leaving for London immediately Smith."
"I can hardly believe it," my brother wont on; "it's one of the most dangerous branches of the service, and Smith never struck me as being a man of much physical courage."
"He is not," I replied, "but in this case he evidently fears the Front less than the font."
My brother looked at me thoughtfully. "I suppose we can rely on you for Saturday, Horace?"
"Yes," I answered sadly. On my way home I went into the jeweller's and chose a very large and handsome silver mug, which I directed to be despatched to my godchild.
"Will you pay for it now, Sir?" the jeweller asked.
"No," I said; "put it down to Mr. Ebenezer Smith of the motor section of the anti-aircraft service."
Small boy (much interested in Shopman's reason for high price of eggs). "But, mummy, how do the hens know we're at war with Germany?
ANOTHER DOG OF WAR.
Dear Mr. Punch,―When my master got the mail a month old, he opened Punch first (as he always does), and when he saw the letter from the "Very Sad Dog," he sat me on the ward-room table and read it out to me. I wept till the tears rolled down my face, because of course every dog should be with his master at the Front. I am a very proud dog, and my Airedale father and Irish Terrier mother would yelp for joy if they know, because of course I insisted on going to the Front with Master. When we mobilised, Master took me off on a ridey-walk to the stables, and he stayed a long time stroking his polo ponies, until I heard him say, "Good-bye, my darlings." Then I began to suspect something.
Concealing the jealous pangs I always feel when he is near these beasts, I hurried back to the depot-ship and found his servant packing! I have been had that way once before. Never again. That evening I went on board our (master calls it his) torpedo boat destroyer and got into a locker in the ward-room pantry. The locker is two feet square and I weigh forty-five pounds, but I managed it. A ham was in the next locker, and I never budged an inch, although I have a passion for ham. At midnight I heard Master come on board, reading out from a signal pad about hostilities and shouting Hoorah! He hailed the quartermaster and said something about having lost his d———d dog (that's me) and wanting the mess to look after me. I quivered with anxiety.
Presently we cast off, and when I know by the fact of the ham bumping against my partition that we were going at full speed I climbed on deck. I always rather funk the ordeal of meeting Master on these occasions, but the result is always the same: I stay. I did the usual performance of wagging my tail, then squirming on the deck and trying to look as if I'd got there by accident, etc., until I was forgiven, after having been called a stowaway and a possible German spy. Master's naval vocabulary is so extensive that if I were to repeat what he said when we met it would resemble one of those despatches that the ——— Censor has to handle.
Living in a T.B.D. I don't get much exercise except when Master takes me over to see his friends in the other boats. A cat lives in one and a rabbit in the other. I come back feeling pleasantly tired.
I have to put up with a good deal of neglect nowadays. In the old days Master was always talking to me in a special language of our own, such as "Yarafattog" (which means you are a fat dog), but now he spends most of his time poring over charts and muttering to himself strange German names. I am sick of being at sea all day (and, between ourselves, have been several times) and am anxiously waiting for another splendid hunt like the one we had off Heligoland or some such place, though Master refers to it as the Helofafight. When the guns went off I growled all the time and the hair on my back stuck out so stiff that it took Master's servant a good week's combing and brushing to get it smooth again.
I am very useful on board. To mention only one instance, at lunch-time we were rolling about 50° each way & and the corned beef came off the table. I actually succeeded in catching it before it fell on to the deck, and saved it from being rendered uneatable by the salt water on the deck. Master came down at that moment and called me a Hun (which is German for hound); but when he saw that the empty plates (which aren't eatable) had also fallen off the table, he apologised and said I was a British dog all right.
I sleep in the bunk with Master (we sometimes got a good four hours' sleep every third or fourth day) and then I dream I am back again in the old park at home chasing the rabbits. I had to apologise to Master the other night, as after a very fine run and just as I was about to catch a succulent rabbit I woke up to find I had nearly ​kicked him out of the bunk. He looked at me and said, "You old ruffian, know where you've been hunting, but it's weak to think of such things nowadays;" so I try not to dream any more.
When I am on watch with Master I wear a thing called a Balaclava helmet." She sent it to Master, who spent half-an-hour trying to find out where and how to put it on. Then he offered it to the coxswain, who said he "didn't 'old with them new-fangled ideas." The crew looked at it and said the weather was too cold for bathing yet, and so Master decided it was just the thing for me. Where and how I wear it I cannot describe in case she sees my letter, but it keeps me nice and warm.
When I come back after the War Master has promised me a medal. If I don't come back, and I heard Master say once that "our graves are under our keel," you'll know I'm still with Master. With two licks and a wag-tail,
I remain, Yours faithfully,
A Very Glad Dog.
[Will the author of the above letter kindly communicate to the Editor his full name and as much of his address as the Censor will pass?]
OVERCROWDING IN THE PARKS.
We are faced with the overcrowding problem again—this time in the Parks. Last Sunday we were manoeuvring against a convoy represented by our Motor Section. I was in the General Reserve—I always am. The principal business of the General Reserve is to catch cold. On this occasion the General Reserve consisted of two platoons, inclusive of Bailey and myself.
The trouble started with Dawkins. Dawkins was sent scouting. He had only just entered a convenient coppice, sat down and lit his pipe, when he was violently prodded in the back. It was then intimated to him that he was a prisoner. Dawkins, who has a good general knowledge of life, naturally demanded the nature of the charge and production of the warrant. Not receiving anything like the proper stereotyped reply, Dawkins correctly diagnosed that his captor was not a constable, common or special, and prepared to debate the matter. The allegation against Dawkins was that he was loitering within the lines of the Bermondsey Billposters in possession of arms and no satisfactory password. Dawkins asserts that he used every endeavour to preserve peace. He pointed out that the Billposters' pitch possessed no visible lines of demarcation; that the Park was not vested in the Billposters, and that "arms" was an exaggerated term to apply to his ancient but trusty musket. He even tried several guesses at the password, but, after drawing a blank with the word "paste," gave it up.
In the course of the ensuing argument they reached the edge of the coppice and our Company Commander mistook Dawkins' gesticulations with his rifle for the signal "Enemy in sight in large numbers." He at once dispatched No. 1 Platoon to hold the coppice.
The next incident was the discovery of a signaller on the rising ground east by north-east. Hammersley, our Semaphore expert, without hesitation declared that the message was being sent in Morse, while Holloway, our Morse expert, was equally emphatic that it was Semaphore. On my suggestion that it might be a code message, Jenkins, who once won an acrostic competition, was co-opted on to the committee. To everyone's astonishment the committee came to a decision. They announced that it was a code message sent partly in Morse and partly in Semaphore and that the true interpretation of it was that we were to make a flank attack on the right. It subsequently transpired that the signaller was an unattached individual practising what he believed to be Semaphore for his own edification.
Meanwhile our Commander marched off No. 2 Platoon with the exception of Bailey and myself. We were left to hold the position and "keep in touch." Having no precise instructions as to what we were to keep in touch with, we decided to start on Bailey's sandwiches. I was lodging a complaint at the parcity of mustard when an excited officer of cyclists appeared. He wanted the General Reserve, and we offered our services. He seemed dissatisfied with us, more, I presume, on the ground of quantity than quality. We assured him that there had been more of us, but that the others had gone off on some errand the nature of which we had forgotten, though Bailey thought that it had to do with mushrooms. When he wanted to know which of us was in command we were not in accord on the subject and offered to submit the matter to him for arbitration. Having ascertained that there was nothing between us in the matter of seniority, as we had both joined on the same day and both our subscriptions were in arrear ab initio, he curtly ordered us to reinforce the firing line and departed.
I won the toss and took command. After showing Bailey the proper way to salute his Superior Officer I put him through such parts of the manual and physical exercises as I could remember and ordered him to form fours. As Bailey isn't very well up in his drill and seemed at a loss how to carry out this somewhat intricate movement, I waived the point and decided to advance in file.
If we had thought of enquiring as to the position of the firing line the reinforcing business would have presented less difficulty. We started out in what I thought was a likely direction and were lucky to catch sight of them quite early on. I at once extended Bailey ten paces and directed him to advance by rushes. For some reason Bailey seemed to object to lying down in puddles and I had to threaten to report him for insubordination. I didn't intentionally choose swampy patches when I gave him the signal to lie down, but it is obvious that low-lying places afford the best cover. Bailey didn't understand that as an officer I didn't have to lie down, though everybody but Bailey knows that it is an officer's duty to expose himself as much as possible. This prevents panic among the men and encourages the junior officers by affording them an early prospect of promotion.
When we reached the firing line we found that they were doing practically nothing. As this appeared to be due to the inefficiency of their officers I at once gave the command for "five rounds rapid" and then "charge." Though I led it, I feel justified in saying that it was a good charge. If I had had time to ascertain that we had inadvertently reinforced the Tooting Borough Council, who were lying in ambush for the Limehouse Borough Council, I should probably have hesitated before taking over command. Our charge seems to have been premature, and the Limehouseites claimed to have gained some kind of advantage.
There didn't seem much use in staying to discuss the matter with a number of comparative strangers, so we did a route march to the nearest buses and so home. I gather that our Commandant was disappointed at not being reinforced and was inclined to be harsh with all with whom he came in contact. There was no real occasion for him to have been put out, as the convoy never got through. Their motor cyclist was run in for exceeding the speed limit; the cycle-car broke down before reaching the Park, and the Ford ambushed by the Wapping Pawnbrokers, who had made that road impracticable by placing a few logs just round the bend.
I think that there is no doubt that the Park was overcrowded that day and that the authorities ought to do something about it.
OUR VOLUNTEER RESERVE.
"I don't believe in putting us into uniform. It'll make the drilling much harder."
"Why?"
"Well, for instance, suppose the command is 'On the left—form platoon.' I know as long as I get in between your hat and this chap's cap I'm all right. But if we all looked alike where should I be?"
THE PRICE.
Among the working classes they do speak rather seriously sometimes of the high prices of food.
On the 7.21 the other morning, from somewhere in the East, the subject engaged the attention of the railway compartment.
"Bread at eightpence—and Britain mistress of the seas! Scand'lous! The Gover'ment ought to be ashamed of 'emselves."
"'Ark at old Charlie! What's the matter wi' you this mornin', Charlie my boy? Didn't the missis give you any breakfast afore you come out?"
"Never mind what the missis give me. What gets over me is that there's blokes like you as'll submit to it like bloomin' sheep, afraid to open your mouths. If the Gover'ment can find ships to take its soldiers across the Channel, and all the luxuries they get———"
"'Ere, none of that! You stop that, young Charlie, 'r else you get outed at the next station, if not before. Ain't that right, gen'lemen? Speakin' for meself, I'd a dam sight sooner pay eightpence for bread for my kids now than ave to find fivepence for 'em like I did last February, and nothin' comin' in".
"Yes, and when was you workin' overtime in February before, Charlie? Besides, it's worth payin' a bit extra to know that the Kayser's gettin' it in the neck.'
"Kayser? What's the workin' classes got to do with your Kaysers and Kings?"
"That puts the lid on, my son; next station, and out you go. You can give your Keir 'Ardie chat to somebody else."
"Oh, leave 'im alone. 'E ain't 'appy unless 'e's sufferin'. Wait till 'e's earnin' four quid a week, with all this overtime 'e's gettin'—won't 'e 'ave somethin' to say about the income tax!"
The man in the corner had been listening, but had said nothing. He was older than any of the others. Now he spoke.
"You don't know what you're talkin' about," he said almost contemptuously.
"Who don't?"
"None of you don't. You don't know 'ow much bread costs. Eightpence!"
"Well, that's right, ain't it?"
"No, and I'll tell you the price of it. I've got my three boys out there—at least, I had. One's in hospital with his leg off—he'll be home next week. One's in the trenches—or was, when I heard last. And my Bill, he was on the Monmouth."
The train stopped. Nobody moved to put Charlie out, and nothing was said. Then the train went on; and presently the elderly man spoke again: "Eightpence! And what price my boys? You don't know anythin' about it. It ain't you that's payin'."
   "By pouring boiling water down the barrels of their rifles our soldiers keep the rifles clear of dust."—Daily Mirror.
We were half afraid that our troops at the Front were having weather like ours. But it seems that, in addition to the usual corrosive acid deposit, there is dust in their barrels. They should collect this after blowing it out through the breech, as a peck of dust is known to be extremely valuable about this time of year.
Study of a Prussian household having its morning hate.
THE RIGOURS OF WAR-TIME.
Dear Mr. Punch,—I should like your advice with regard to a most difficult situation which has arisen in my family.
I am the mother of two boys. Philip, the elder, has enlisted in a most correct Territorial Battalion—there is a son of a Knight in his platoon. My other son, Clarence, applied for a commission, and obtained one in the 27th Battalion of the ——— Regiment. True, the mess is exclusively composed of Colonels and Second Lieutenants, but, as Clarence points out, this is an advantage, for when he is promoted he assures me that he will automatically become Lieutenant-Colonel, as there are no officers between him and this rank.
That, however, is not the point on which I wish to be advised. My troubles began over a week ago, when I was walking on the promenade at Brighton with Clarence. We were chatting gaily about the war when suddenly I saw Philip coming towards us. Ι went forward eagerly to embrace him, but when he saw Clarence he seemed to freeze and, assuming a very rigid attitude, saluted. Clarence returned the salute a trifle haughtily, I thought, considering that Philip is nearly two years older and much taller.
Well, will you believe it, Mr. Punch? they refused to walk together with me. Clarence maintained that it was not discipline, and Philip said that if he accompanied an officer he would be obliged to walk at attention, with constant "eyes right," which might permanently affect his sight.
So there was nothing for it but to separate.
I have just this morning heard, independently from each of them, that they have obtained leave for next weekend and propose to spend it with me. What am I to do? If I put one of them off, that one will be deeply offended. If they both come I foresee endless complications. Normally, for our house is small, they share one bedroom. That, of course, is now impossible, as even in pyjamas I understand the King's Regulations are binding, and for Philip to sleep at attention might have serious results.
Again, what about meals? They cannot eat together at table, yet I should hesitate to ask Philip to take his meals in the kitchen; still worse I could not bear to see him standing bolt upright at the sideboard, debarred by Clarence's presence from taking part in the conversation.
Do please get me out of this difficulty.
Yours, etc., British Matron.
P.S. Possibly Philip's Colonel would grant him commissioned rank just for the week-end if he knew how matters stood.
Always Merry and Bright.
"The Lighter Side of War: Le Côté Plaisant de la Guerre" is the heading of The Continental Daily Mail to a page of illustrations, one of which represents French soldiers burying German dead.
Metropolitan Water, February 16th.
Algy had his bath.
The bath was bilgy.
The bilge was algæ.
"FOR CHEAPER FOOD. County Council Action.
   The price of coal was also raised at the Council meeting."—Daily Chronicle.
Surely this was unnecessary; the producers, carriers and distributors do not appear to require any help in this direction.
RUNNING AMOK.
German Bull. "I KNOW I'M MAKING A ROTTEN EXHIBITION OF MYSELF; BUT I SHALL TELL EVERYBODY I WAS GOADED INTO IT."}}
ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.
(Extracted from the Diary of Toby, M.P.)
House of Commons, Monday, 15th February.—Since Commons reassembled a fortnight ago attendance has been dismally slack, proceedings dolefully dull. Seemed as if House were on verge of dissolution by process of inanition. This afternoon startling change suddenly wrought. Every seat on floor occupied. Strangers' Gallery, including that reserved for the Diplomatic body, Westminster schoolboys and other eminent personages, crowded. A number of Peers awaiting opening of business in their own house flocked to their Gallery over the clock.
Explanation found in order of proceedings. Two stars billed to appear—Chancellor of Exchequer and First Lord of Admiraldy. Lloyd George scintillated first. Explained object of financial conference in Paris, where he met Finance Ministers of France and Russia. At present moment, as he pointed out, the Allies are fighting the full mobilised strength of Germany with one-third of their own. The problem faced by them is to bring at earliest possible moment remaining two-thirds of their resources into fighting line.
"That," added the Chancellor emphatically, "is largely a question of finance."
Object of Conference was to arrive at basis of common action for raising and distributing necessary funds.
Pope once confessed
The three Ministers colloguing at Paris babbled in billions with serene confidence that, when called for, the billions would come. A couple must needs be spent on the aggregate War outlay of the Allies up to the 31st of December next. With pardonable pride the Chancellor mentioned that Great Britain is spending from 100 to 150 millions more than the highest figure touched by either of its Allies. What matter? If necessary, we will spend the last sovereign in Britannia's stocking in finding the necessary means.
The note of quiet assurance, free from boast or blatancy, that marked this memorable statement was echoed in the Winsome Winston's more lengthy explanation of the condition, achievements and prospects of Navy. At outset won goodwill of House—easy victory —by adroitly placing to its credit the remarkable, unprecedented state of efficiency and readiness in which outbreak of War found the Fleet. Forgetful, or strategically unmindful, of pitiless criticism levelled Session after Session at the Admiralty, lamenting its blind inertia, denouncing its unpatriotic disregard of efforts made by Germany to wrest from feeble hands supremacy of the sea, he insisted that credit was exclusively due to hon. gentlemen who hung attentive on his words.
"The House of Commons," he said with increasing winsomeness, "has a right to claim the Navy as its child, the unchanging object of its care and solicitude."
House thus put in good humour with itself punctuated glowing speech with frequent bursts of cheering, loudest volley rattling forth when, describing Germany as a State which, as a matter of deliberate policy, had placed herself outside all international obligations, he presaged a declaration on part of Allied Governments, promptly to be made, which will have effect of applying for the first time the full force of Naval pressure to the enemy.
"A PROVIDENCE SITTING UP ALOFT." (Lord Fisher.)
Amongst most interested listeners to lucid address, occasionally lapsing into eloquence, was the First Sea Lord, a Providence sitting up aloft, watching over interests of the Navy which in large measure owes its supremacy to him.
Business done,—Navy Estimates in Committee.
House of Lords, Tuesday.—Diverting conversation on the distribution of administrative posts between Lords and Commons. Initiated by Curzon, jealous of full privileges of the Chamber he adorns and enlightens. Seems that out of Cabinet of twenty Members only six are seated in the Lords, whilst greedy House of Commons claims and enjoys attendance of thirty effective Ministers. Of principal departments of State ten have no direct representation in Lords. This state of things Curzon, amid murmur of assent, described as "not merely invidious but almost disrespectful to your Lordships' House."
True that at present crisis War Office and Admiralty are represented by two Peers of highest standing. No one knows more about War Office than Kitchener, nor is any one more intimately acquainted with matters relating to the Navy than Lord Fisher of Kilverstone, affectionately known on quarter-deck and lower decks as "Jacky."
That all very well on face of it. Unfortunately these high authorities take common view of their duty. Each believes that his business is not to talk but to work. Theirs not to reason why, whether in affirmative, negative or judicious non-committal style. What between them they have to do is to keep Army and Navy in highest state of efficiency.
A big job. Does not leave them much time to spend in what one irreverently describes as the "talking-shop." Are seldom seen within its precincts. When on rare occasions attendance appears compulsory their conduct not entirely satisfactory. Since he was made a Peer, First Sea Lord has never opened his mouth in senatorial chamber except to yawn. When, in bleak December, House was summoned to special session, ostensibly in order to provide opportunity for important statement from our War Lord, Kitchener read a paper conveying not a single item of information beyond what had been made familiar by the newspapers during preceding fortnight. Having made an end of reading he bolted back to War Office and diligently endeavoured to make up for what he regarded as sad waste of half an hour's time.
Selborne gave notice to raise on following day important debate on Army matters. In course of evening received short but polite note from K. or K. expressing regret that owing to pressure of business he would not be able to be present.
This is magnificent; but it is not in accordance with custom observed by Peers ​representing important Departments of the State. Meanwhile it is satisfactory to know, upon Sir John French's testimony published to-day, that the Army is doing splendidly. As for the Navy it is incomparable. Still, as Lord Curzon says—
Business done.—Lords having no work to do adjourn for a week. Commons vote officers and men for Navy, with a trifle of ten thousand pounds on account of wages. Tirpitz will rub his eyes when he sees this grotesquely inadequate sum. Between you and me―hope the secret will not go further—it is again what is known as "a token vote," ingenious device evolved at War Office with intent to throw dust in eyes of simple-minded Germans.
House of Commons, Thursday.—Members always keenly interested in personal matters. Heard with pleasure statement which R. M'Neill was anthorised to make about a slice of luck befallen Sir Herbert Raphael. Recently, in burst of patriotism, he took the King's shilling and was enrolled a full private in the Army. Within a week his wife found herself in receipt of the statutory Separation Allowance. Does not amount to much, even in conjunction with the £400 a year (less income tax) received by Private Raphael, M.P. It will not compare with the takings of the agent employed by the War Office for purchasing timber. These, it was made known in useful conversation on motion for adjournment, are at the rate of £60,000 a year. But we can't all have dealings with the War Office. With coal at current price a separation allowance is not to be sneezed at.
Business done.—Report of Army Vote and Civil Service Supplementary Estimates agreed to. The work of several sittings in ordinary times, they passed like winking. At a quarter past six House adjourned till Monday.
MORE LANGUAGE OF THE HOUR.
Hawker (after receiving a caution from a somewhat talkative Policeman). "You ain't 'arf got a muzzle velocity!"
Another Chesterton Paradox.
{{blockquote| "Mr. E. S. Mantagu (sic), Liberal, was on Saturday re-elected for Chesterton Division of Cambridgeshire, without opposition.
Mr. Cecil Beck (Liberal) was on Saturday re-elected for Chesterton division of Cambridgeshire without opposition.
Mr. Cecil Beck (Liberal) was also returned without opposition for Saffron Waldon Division of Essex."—Freeman's Journal.
A NOTE ON NURSES.
[Lines addressed to a friend who, on hearing that the writer was in a military hospital and "very well looked after," unjustly pictured him as surrounded by devoted females.]
Extract from a schoolboy's essay on electricity:―
   "Doctors use it a lot for X-rays, which is a very wonderful thing ... They are using them a lot to find pullets in soldiers."
These must be the "eggs-rays."
SWEDISH DRILL.
First Weary "Special" to Second ditto. "I say, what's the good of all this? We're not at war with Sweden, are we?"
A PLEA FOR REPRIEVE.
[Removed from the old West London Police Court, which is being demolished, the last wooden dock in London has just been condemned for firewood.]
THE MENACE OF PEACE.
"The War has done you good, you know, Henry," said I, as he concluded a brilliant forecast as to what was really going to happen to Hindenburg.
"How?" said the Reverend Henry. "I was pretty fit before."
"I mean morally. These occasional week-ends of ours have been much more harmonious than they were six months ago. You used to be such a quarrelsome brute."
"It's quite true," said Sinclair. You used to fuss horribly about the Welsh Church and payment of Members, and all those queer old things."
"I'm sorry," said the Reverend Henry, very humbly. "But you follows used to have such extreme viows. And at least I was always out for a big Navy, you know."
"As for the House of Commons," said Sinclair, "the atmosphere of gentlemanly acquiescence that pervades that assembly in these days is most refreshing. For success in debate you only seem to require a repertoire of three remarks—'After you, Sir,' 'My mistake' and 'Don't mention it.'"
"The really ghastly thing," said the Reverend Henry, "is that as soon as the War is over they will be at it again. This is all very jolly while it lasts, they say in effect, but of course we reserve to ourselves the absolute right to begin all over again exactly where we left off. It is understood that no one need forego———"
"Yes, that's it," said I. "The great point is not to forego. As far as I remember—it is all so long ago—they left off at the stage where they were chucking things at one another."
You don't mean that it will really break out again?" said Sinclair in a voice of horror. "Just as it was before?"
"Just like that," said Henry.
"Not Plural Voting?"
"Yes," said Henry.
"But not Tariff Reform and The Foreigner's Got My Job and all that?"
"Yes," said Henry.
"But hang it, man, you don't mean ​Devolution and Exclusion, and the Servant Stamp, and Ninepence for Fourpence, and———"
"Yes," said Henry. "And all the Constitutional Lawbreakers and Conscientious Resisters and Passive Objectors will bob up again."
We looked at each other in dismay.
"And they call it," said Sinclair drearily, "a War of Liberty!"
THE LONELY SOLDIER.
Darling Delia,—I am in the most lacerating fix, and it all comes of my tender heart!
It gets an one's nerves saying goodbye to the boys, and sitting at home doing nothing oneself. For weeks I've been longing for something to do, and at last Lady Anne asked me to join the "Lonely Soldiers' Consolation League," and of course I jumped. The Lonely Soldiers send in their names, and they are put in a hat and handed round, and each member writes to her special Lonely once a week, and sends him a parcel once a month.
I haven't come to the parcel stage, but I sent a gushing letter. It was just after the last attack, when they'd been for days in the trenches, and their poor dear boots had stuck fast in the mud, and one was strung up to feeling that we'd love them, bless them, kiss them, when they came home again! I said so to Ted Johnson (that's my Lonely), quoting the refrain of the song in the actual words; I said he must never feel lonely or forgotten, for I remembered him, I thought of him, I looked forward to his return!
What else could one say? You write to them because they are lonely, and if they are lonely you can only cheer them by saying that you remember!
I spread myself upon Ted Johnson. And in due time his answer came. Prestwick brought it in with the tea-things (we have had no footman since the last Jeames enlisted), and I tore it open, and read it aloud to Ella, too eager to wait even until we were alone. Besides I was rather proud that Prestwick should see that I've been working too.
This was the letter:—
"Dear Miss,—I was glad to hear you missed me and was looking forward to my return. It's a long way to Eaton Gardens and the sweetest girl I know. We are having a deal of rain. With fond love from
Yours truly, Private Ted Johnson."
"How perfectly dinkie!" Ella said. "Isn't he sweet? Isn't he brave? Isn't he cheerful? Wouldn't you love to see him, Flora, and know him in real life?"
Then Prestwick spoke. He was standing with the tea-tray in his hand, staring across the room.
"Pardon me, Madam," he said, "you have seen him! Ted Johnson was our last footman!"
Oh, my Delia! before you correspond with a Lonely Soldier, be warned by me and make sure who he is! I have engaged to kiss Jeames on his return; he has sent me his fond love; and Father has promised to take him back!
Your distracted Flora.
THE HYMN OF EIGHT.
On the High C.
   "The singing at sight, without search or parley, of merchant ships by submarine agency is a totally novel and unprecedented departure."—Western Morning News.
Usually, of course, they take a little practice before they give these vocal performances.
   "Mr. Herbert Samuel, President of the Board of Trade, has appointed a Committee to consider the important question of employment for soldiers and sailors in the war."
   Daily Telegraph.
We understand that Sir John French and Admiral Jellicoe are venturing to send suggestions and are willing themselves to find employment for quite a number.
THE MARTYR.
"And now," I said, when the nice question of food had been carefully settled, "what about drink?" and I called for the wine list. "What shall it be, red or white?" I ran my eye down the clarets.
"No," said my old friend sadly, "none for me. I am having to be very careful. Just water."
I looked at him in astonishment. I had known him for nearly two-and-twenty years and never in that time had he set up an attitude of hostility to any of the good things of the earth, solid or fluid. Not that I had over known him to overstep the bounds; but he had tasted and enjoyed, and flourished on his catholicity. And now to have declined upon water, or dry ginger ale, which was the joyless alternative that he subsequently proposed.
I looked at him in pity too, for I knew that he must be ill indeed for such a sacrifice to have been forced upon him.
"Yes," he said, "I am dieting myself. I find it necessary." He sighed as one sighs who accepts the distasteful inevitable.
"Well," I said, "I won't tempt you. That's not fair."
He looked at me almost as though he wished that I would, and that he might prove vulnerable; but I did not. I felt too sorry for him and his plight to put any obstacle in the way of recovery.
"Very well," I said and ordered the ginger ale, and we then settled down to talk. But all the while I was watching him sympathetically and remembering pleasant occasions on which I had been is guest in his own house and he had dived into the cellar and complacently emerged in the blessed company of ottles—bottles white and bottles red, and, even on special nights of ceremony, bottles bearing the light-brown label of The Widow. ("Butler's Analogy" was his description of himself on those occasions.) Such evenings I remembered, together with other convivial meetings at clubs and restaurants, here the juices of the grape had been carefully put to their predestined friendly uses; and now here he was, in the slang of the day, firmly and dolefully seated on the water wagon.
Poor chap! poor chap! I thought; what a time he has been having! and then—
"How long have you been a teetotaler?" I asked him, with a vista of dreary months in my mind.
"Oh, I only began it this morning," he said. "I had rather a heavy day yesterday."
Aunt. "So your father's going to be a soldier?"
Elder Boy. "Well, you see, one of us had to join."
FROM THE BACK OF THE FRONT.
Some people say that the authorities have at last come to understand our true merits; some people say that they have come to despair of us as private soldiers. Some even identify the two allegations. Howbeit, from whatsoever cause, certain of us are in imminent danger of losing our private status. We are assembled together by companies and instructed in the arts of inspecting water-bottles, telling the time on starless nights by radium-pointed watches, and in all practical and tactical usages that fall to the lot of a platoon-commander. In due course we shall pass out and take the war into our own hands; pending which we meditate on our future responsibilities. Private Ingleby lives abstracted days wondering whether a machine-gun officer may without offence wear puce-coloured riding-breeches, while Edward spends sleepless nights theorising on his procedure if unexpectedly put in charge of a brigade.
Our course of training is rapid and comprehensive; nor are we vowed only to destruction. We think nothing, for instance, of building a bridge between breakfast and lunch, though of course we'd think a whole heap before treading on it. We are here to risk our lives, but not to throw them upon the waters.
No secret of military art is hidden from us; not one of us but can conduct a grand attack on his little own, and that without losing as much as a platoon. Watch General Private Williamson exercising his brief authority over his skeleton battalion. We arrive at the kick-off site. The General halts us, breaks us off, and begins his preliminary reconnaissance. In the far distance loom the twin flags representing enemy's position—an indication, we regret to report, frequently neglected by the Bosches. A lesser man than Private Williamson might immediately plump forward line upon line of extended platoons. Pas si vite. What is the first question our General asks himself—or anyone else present? He enquires the whereabouts of the nearest estaminet. Seated over his coffee he conducts, with the assistance of his staff (the attacking force), the preliminary reconnaissance. First of all we touch lightly on the proximity of the enemy. The General puts it at 2,000 yards; the chief of staff at 800. That makes it, by a simple mathematical compromise, 1,400; which gives you your range chart, without which no attack is quite itself.
But the work of the General does not end here. The land must be spied out; the country which we are—for some obscure reason—fighting for is one-half lake and one-half swamp. Accordingly, as the attack has to have clean boots on parade next day, scouts go forward to select the most land-like portions of the morass. Then at last we advance, and with only an occasional halt for coffee—this depending on the number of farms en route—we sweep on to the rallying position, where we sit down nonchalantly in a hail of bullets and discuss a haversack ration while a real officer tells us how. His telling is competence itself, except in one respect; ​he never makes sufficient allowance for coffee. No one has told him that the arms of our service battalion are an estaminet couchant in a field sodden.
Anon we study billeting. There is in the North of France a crazy old farmhouse full of tumultuous children and their mother. It has, I believe, been condemned as a billet by all the sanitary authorities in France. The accommodation is an antique barn with a leaky roof above, a cesspool underneath, and the four winds of heaven raging between. We visit by parties. The party arrives at the farmhouse and knocks timidly. The door sways open, and four or so children hurl themselves upon the leader's puttees, demanding souvenirs. Madame appears capaciously from a cookery-pervaded interior.
"What is it that it is?"
Has she, we ask, place for some soldiers?
"But yes," says Madame (contrary to the custom, but she knows well how safe she is). "See you! It is by here!"
We go by there and see, while Madame tells us of her sons at the war—only five, fortunately—their names, ranks, localities, ages, and prospects. We appreciate; we admire; and, when her vocabulary, even at the killing pace she subjects it to, outlasts ours, we fall back on sympathetic grunts that sound as if we were learning German or sickening for diphtheria. Arrived at the barn we mark and measure duly, and find to our surprise that it would still—as on our last visit—hold sixty-four men if it would hold any (without chains we fear it wouldn't). Then we relieve the lady by assuring her that we already have the offer of an even better billet elsewhere; and she beams more maternally than ever and announces that coffee is now served; and we for our part realize that even War has its beautiful moments.
Smart Staff Work.
The following Divisional Order gives us some idea of the rapidity of movement of the Staff of our New Armies:—
   "Divisional Headquarters will move on the 20th. The Divisional Office will close at Cholderton at 12 noon that day and open at Blackdown Barracks at the same hour."
Fifty miles in no time!
Journalistic Candour.
"Spend 5/- to do what it costs the Germans thousands"
   The Germans are spending thousands of pounds on the prosecution of a campaign of falsehoods in our Colonies and abroad. If you will send us бs. we will arrange to post for three months to any address in Canada the Overseas Edition of the Daily Sketch."
   Advt. in "Manchester Evening Chronicle."
THE WAR CURE.
A BREAD-AND-BUTTER POSTCARD.
Dear Mr. Punch,—Might not the excellent idea of the Field Service Postcard be more extensively used? I would suggest the following as likely to fulfil a long-felt want of the weekend visitor.
Yours truly, One who likes Things Done for Him.
[Nothing is to be written on this except the date and the signature of the sender. Words not required may be erased. If anything is added the postcard will be destroyed.]
I am quite well/ill.
I have arrived safely.
I have lost my luggage.
I will come again first opportunity/next month/next year/never.
I have enjoyed/bored myself awfully.
I have left behind my tooth brush/my hot-water bottle/my umbrella/my knitting.
Signature only———
Date———
More Impending Apologies.
   "The postponement of his Excellency's departure, owing most probably to the state of the weather, has caused great disappointment."—Limerick Chronicle.
   "Great enthusiasm was manifested at Dublin on the occasion of the departure of Lord and Lady Aberdeen."—Scotsman.
An Adaptable Fruit.
   "Pineapple (Whole).
   Per large tin 0/8$^1$⁄$_2$; 6 tins 4/2; doz. 8/3
   When sliced, these Pines make delicious Apple Fritters."—Stores' Catalogue.
   One cannot altogether regret having trodden on a hornets' nest, for the reason that the hornets themselves have raised so many interesting new points."
   Manchester Guardian.
It is a little way hornets have, but their points are not often taken so philosophically.
A NAVAL OCCASION.
Awful effect on an entire ship's company of distributing a consignment of monster peppermint balls—a present from the shore.
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
(By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks.)
It came as something of a shock to me to find that the title of Mrs. Alfred Sidgwick's latest novel was In Other Days (Methuen). Because I have always regarded her as the historian essentially of the present, and a name like that might cover any age from powder and farthingales to woad and battleaxes. However, to spare you my alarm, I will explain at once that the "other days" are those that ended in July of last year. So, as most of us have at least a dim memory of that placid time, and as all will enjoy being pleasantly reminded of it, there is no cause for anxiety. In Other Days is to some extent the story of a black sheep, who obstinately refuses to point any kind of moral. Perhaps this is what makes it so human and generally comfortable. Simeon Cloudesley was an artist who deserted his wife and daughter, leaving them to find a refuge in the dreary home of some pompous in-laws. When the daughter was seventeen a visit to a school-friend opened her eyes to the fact that life contained happier places than her present abode, so she stirred her mother to revolt, and off went the pair of them to live on a tiny income in a Cornish artist colony. Which would have been all very well, for the colony was a delicious place, and full of just those delightful people whom Mrs. Sidgwick can describe so attractively; but the trouble was that the colonists, being artists first and moralists afterwards, all simply worshipped the name of Simeon Cloudesley; and when that wicked man himself subsequently turned up, not only undeniably great but exasperatingly charming—well, you see what a difficult situation was created, above all for his violently disapproving daughter. Mrs. Sidgwick deserves thanks not only for having written a pleasant and companionable story, but for a very original handling of an ancient theme. See if you do not think so.
Had I to go forth into the appallingly cold and blightingly windy parts of the world, I should without hesitation select Sir Douglas Mawson as my leader; and this not only because in The Home of the Blizzard (Heinemann) he proves himself possessed of the qualities that invite confidence and affection, but also because I remember vividly the genius for leadership that he showed—and to which Professor Davis testified—in the journey to the South Magnetic Pole during the Shackleton Expedition of 1907-9. A few months after his return he was possessed with the idea of exploring the region, his "land of hope and glory," that lies between Cape Adare and Gaussberg; and now he gives us the story of the Australasian Expedition of 1911-14. To everyone concerned in the making of the history that is set forth in these two volumes the warmest praise much be given, but it will still fall short of their due. In every set instance the leader of this band of young men was well ​served, and although the tale of closest interest and most thrilling tragedy is reserved―as Fate willed it―for the leader himself, there is not one of his party who does not deserve his share of the honours gained. As everyone knows―or ought to know―Mawson, with one of his sledge-companions, Lieutenant Ninnis, killed in a crevasse, and the other, Dr. Mertz, dead from sheer exhaustion, was left to battle alone for over three weeks against every conceivable shape of ill-fortune. No one can read of this struggle without being amazed at the courage of man's heart and saluting it with reverent homage. One is impressed almost overwhelmingly, but one is also inspired and invigorated, and this is the reason―quite apart from the valuable scientific discoveries made on these expeditions―why we owe a greater debt to such pioneers than we can ever repay. Men of the type of Scott, Wilson, Oates, Bowers and Mawson have kept the pure flame of heroism still burning, and not even beside the great deeds of our soldiers and sailors can the splendour of their record be paled.
If you hanker for an agreeable fairy tale, about frankly improbable persons in a setting of tropic splendour, where spicy breezes blow soft o'er mango groves, and trenches cease from troubling, then Flower of the Moon (Mills and Boon) is the goods for your money. What happens in it was mainly the fault of a wandering tale-teller named Uhtoo, who had a pet story about a mythical maiden of rare beauty, the offspring of the mango and the moon. This Uhtoo must, as they say, have been some teller, because, having given his recitation to an Arab youth and an English officer, he left them both with no other passion in life than to prove the affair. I am only sorry that Louise Gerard failed to engender in me a like passion. Perhaps it was because of the name of the English officer: call a hero Carlyon, and my interest in him is dead at birth. Anyhow, Whazi, the Arab boy, had the first of the luck, since it was he who found the shipwrecked English maid sleeping beneath the mango and took her to his home. From the first I was exceedingly sorry for Whazi. True, he had not my own blighting experience of similar situations in fiction, which warned me that, with golden-haired Carlyon in reserve, poor Whazi hadn't an earthly―as indeed it turned out. But, though I laugh, there is enough real beauty in this episode of the boy lover to compel the sympathetic sigh. And, as in the writer's other work, a feeling for the heat and scent of the tropics stirs in these pages and saves them from becoming too obvious and commonplace.
To the majority of people Sussex is the county through which the London, Brighton and South Coast Railway runs on its way to Brighton, Eastbourne, Littlehampton and Portsmouth. For every traveller who alights at wayside stations, thousands are carried to the watering-places, and, once there, never leave the sea; but no county is so well worth exploring. In The Book of Sussex Verse, which the Hove firm of Cambridge has put forth with a taste and comeliness that Metropolitan publishers might envy Mr. C. F. Cook has brought together as large and excellent a collection of patriotic enthusiasm as any county could produce. Among the poets who have rejoiced to praise Sussex are pre-eminently Tennyson, Swinburne, Francis Thompson, Mr. Belloc, whose "Envoi" to the volume is one of the most beautiful of recent lyrics, and Mr. Kipling, who chose the land of the South Saxons for his English home, first by the sea and then inland. Among Mr. Cook's discoveries is a charming, topographical, familiar epistle written by William Stewart Rose to John Hookham Frere, then in Malta. It is a pity that the notes take no account of Rose, of whom one would like to know more. The only song that I miss is that complacent ditty which every soldier in Brighton, Shoreham, Seaford and else where in the county is now singing, "Sussex by the Sea"; but that is not Mr. Cook's fault, for it was prepared, for military purposes, only the other day.
I heartily approve of Makers of New France (Mills and Boon). New France is a thing I should very much like to have made myself. But I have reluctantly come to the conclusion that those who had the job were better men; for instance Poincaré, Joffre, Delcassé, the late Jaurés Metchnikoff, Anatole France, Brieux and Madame Paquin appear from Mr. Charles Dawbarn's personal descriptions to have a very definite something in common, which I suppose is French and certainly is not English. The circumstances of the moment make it possible for an Anglo-Saxon to confess that here, at any rate, we are their inferiors. I leave the reader to discover for himself, since I cannot describe it, what this characteristic is; the author succeeds admirably in conveying the impression of it. Incidentally he leaves us wondering how England can ever have fought with Germany against France, even the old France.
Experience does not teach me to look forward very hopefully to a novel "by a well-known author who wishes to remain anonymous. They Who Question (Smith, Elder) is an incoherent and in many ways a tiresome book; and, seeing that it faces the eternal problem of the reconciliation of unmerited suffering with Divine compassion and justice, it is of necessity irremediably inconclusive. But it contains one well-conceived and capably drawn character, Inez Bretherton, the hard, cynical, ultra-maternal mother of the boy who is doomed to the heritage of his father's insanity. The vaguely unorthodox Dean of Malinchester, who alone seems left to uphold the hopeful view in face of the successive shattering strokes of fate, talks and preaches with sympathy and discretion. There is sincerity behind this book, hardly reinforced by any very clear or stiff thinking, the truth being that the thesis is beyond the scope of circulating library treatment.
Captain (addressing team). "Now, mind you spread yourselves, 'cos fightin' in close formation against a 'eavier force is bound ter lead ter utter defeat."