PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 153.

October 31, 1917.

CHARIVARIA.

The Ministry of Food has informed the Twickenham Food
Control Committee that a doughnut is not a bun. Local unrest
has been almost completely allayed by this prompt and fearless
decision.

Many London grocers are asking customers to hand in orders
on Monday to ensure delivery within a week. In justice to a
much-abused State department it must be pointed out that
telegrams are frequently delivered within that period without
any absurd restriction as to the day of handing in.

No more hotels in London, says Sir ALFRED MOND, are to be
taken over at present by the Government, which since the War
began has commandeered nearly three hundred buildings. We
understand, however, that a really spectacular offensive is
being prepared for the Spring.

Several parties of Germans who escaped from internment camps
have been recaptured with comparative ease. It is supposed that
their gentle natures could no longer bear the spectacle of the
sacrifices that the simple Briton is enduring in order that
they may be well fed.

The Globe has just published an article entitled “The
End of the World.” Our rosy contemporary is far too
pessimistic, we feel. Mr. CHURCHILL’S appointment as Minister
of the Air has not yet been officially announced.

The Vossische Zeitung reports that the KAISER refuses
to accept the resignation of Admiral VON CAPELLE. The career of
Germany’s Naval chief seems to be dogged by persistent bad
luck.

Another scoop for The Daily Telegraph. “On October
14, 1066, at nine A.M.,” said a recent issue, “the Battle of
Hastings commenced.”

We fear that our allotment-holders are losing their dash.
The pumpkin grown at Burwash Place, which measured six feet in
circumference, is still a pumpkin and not a potato.

The Grimsby magistrates have decided not to birch boys in
the future, but to fine their parents. Several soft-hearted
boys have already indicated that it will hurt them more than
their parents.

A female defendant at a London police court last week was
given the choice of prison or marriage, and preferred to get
married. How like a woman!

A correspondent protests against the high prices paid for
old postage-stamps at a recent sale, and points out that stamps
can be obtained at one penny each at most post-offices, all
ready for use.

A North of England lady last week climbed to the top of the
chimney-stack of a large munition works and affixed a silver
coin in the masonry. The lady is thought to be nervous of
pickpockets.

A contemporary wit declares that nothing gives him more
pleasure than to see golfers at dinner. He loves to watch them
doing the soup course, using one iron all the way round.

There is no truth in the rumour that during a recent
air-raid a man was caught on the roof of a certain Government
building in Whitehall signalling to the Germans where not to
drop their bombs.

It should be added that the practice of giving air-raid
warnings by notice published in the following morning’s papers
has been abandoned only after the most exhaustive tests.

The Home Office announces that while it has not definitely
decided upon the method of giving warnings at night it will
probably be by gun fire. To distinguish this fire from the
regular barrage it is ingeniously suggested that the guns
employed for the latter purpose shall be painted blue, or some
other distinctive colour.

It is reported that Sinn Fein’s second-best war-cry, “Up the
KAISER,” is causing some irritation in the Wilhelmstrasse,
where it is freely admitted that the KAISER is already far
higher up than the circumstances justify.

The Lambeth magistrate recently referred to the case of a
boy of fifteen who is paying income-tax. Friends of the youth
have since been heard to say that there is such a thing as
carrying the spirit of reckless bravado too far.

“Farm work is proceeding slowly,” says a Midland
correspondent of the Food Production Department. Those who
recall the impetuous abandon of the pre-war agriculturist may
well ask whether Boloism has not been work at again.

Railway fares in Germany have been doubled; but it is
doubtful if this transparent artifice will prevent the KAISER
from going about the place making speeches to his troops on all
the fronts.

It is announced that promotion in the U.S. services will be
based solely on fitness, without regard to seniority. These are
the sort of revolutionists who would cover up grave defects in
army organisation by the meretricious expedient of winning the
War.

Inquiries, says The Pall Mall Gazette, disclose a
wide-spread habit among customers of bribing the assistants in
grocery shops. The custom among profiteers of giving them their
cast-off motor cars probably acted as the thin end of the
wedge.

A dear old lady writes that she is no longer nervous about
air-raids, now that her neighbourhood has been provided with an
anticraft airgun.

THE AIR-RAID SEASON.

THE RESULT OF A LITTLE
UNASSUMING ADVERTISEMENT: “CELLARMAN WANTED.—APPLY,
82, —— STREET, W.”

Food Economy in Ireland.

“Gloves, stockings, boots and shoes betoken the energy
and meal of the day, something tasty is desirable, and a
very economical dish of this kind can be made by
making…”—Belfast Evening Telegraph.

ZEPP-FLIGHTING IN THE HAUTES ALPES.

To J.M.

PURPLE PATCHES FROM LORD YORICK’S GREAT BOOK.

(Special Review.)

Lord Yorick’s Reminiscences, just published by the
house of Hussell, abound in genial anecdote, in which the
“personal note” is lightly and gracefully struck, in welcome
contrast to the stodgy political memoirs with which we have
been surfeited of late. We append some extracts, culled at
random from these jocund pages:—

THE SHAH’S ROMANCE.

“I don’t suppose it is a State secret—but if it is
there can be no harm in divulging the fact—that there was
some thought of a marriage in the ‘eighties’ between the Shah
of PERSIA and the lovely Miss Malory, the lineal descendant of
the famous author of the Arthurian epic. Mr. GLADSTONE, Mme. DE
NOVIKOFF and the Archbishop of CANTERBURY were prime movers in
the negotiations. But the SHAH’S table manners and his
obstinate refusal to be converted to the doctrines of the
Anglican Church, on which Miss Malory insisted, proved an
insurmountable obstacle, and the arrangement, which might have
been fraught with inestimable advantages to Persia, came to
nought. Miss Malory afterwards became Lady Yorick.”

PRACTICAL JOKING AT OXFORD IN THE “SIXTIES.”

“Jimmy Greene, afterwards Lord Havering, whose rooms were
just below mine, suffered a good deal from practical jokers.
One day I was chatting with Reggie Wragge when we heard loud
cries for help just below us. We rushed down and found Jimmy in
the bath, struggling with a large conger-eel which had been
introduced by some of his friends. I held on to the monster’s
tail, while Wragge severed its head with a carving-knife. Poor
Jimmy, who was always nervous and not very ‘strong in his
intellects,’ was much upset, and was shortly afterwards
ploughed for the seventh time in Smalls. He afterwards went
into diplomacy, but died young.”

MRS. MANGOLD’S COMPLEXION.

“At one of these dances at Yorick Castle Mrs. Mangold,
afterwards Lady Rootham, was staying with us. She was a very
handsome woman, with a wonderful complexion, so brilliant,
indeed, that some sceptics believed it to be artificial. A plot
was accordingly hatched to solve the problem, and during a set
of Kitchen Lancers a syphon of soda-water was cleverly squirted
full in her face, but the colour remained fast. Mrs. Mangold, I
am sorry to say, failed to see the point of the joke, and fled
to her room, pursued as far as the staircase by a score or more
of cheering sportsmen.”

THE ORDEAL OF LADY VERBENA SOPER.

“Mr. GOSCHEN, as he then was, was entertaining a large party
to dinner at Whitehall. He was at the time First Lord of the
Admiralty, and an awkward waiter upset an ice-pudding down the
back of Lady Verbena Soper, sister of Lady ‘Loofah’ Soper and
daughter of the Earl of Latherham, The poor lady cried out,
‘I’m scalded!’ but our host, with great presence of mind,
dashed out, returning with a bundle of blankets and a can of
hot water, which he promptly poured on to the ice-pudding. The
sufferer was then wrapped up in the blankets and carried off to
bed; The waiter was of course sacked on the spot, but was saved
from prosecution at the express request of his victim and
assisted to emigrate to America, where I believe he did well on
an orange farm in Florida.”

IN A GOOD CAUSE.

There is no War-charity known to Mr. Punch that does better
work or more quietly than that which is administered by the
Children’s Aid Committee, who provide homes in country cottages
and farm-houses for children, most of them motherless, of our
soldiers and sailors, visit them from time to time and watch
over their needs. Here in these homes their fathers, who are
kept informed of their children’s welfare during their absence,
come to see them when on leave from the Front, and find them
gently cared for. Since the War began homes have been provided
for over two thousand four hundred children. A certain grant in
aid is allowed by the London War Pensions Committee, who have
learned to depend upon the Children’s Aid Committee in their
difficulties about children, but for the most part this work
relies upon voluntary help, and without advertisement. Of the
money that came into the Committee’s hands last year only about
two per cent. was paid away for salaries and office
expenses.

More than a year ago Mr. Punch appealed on behalf of this
labour of love, and now he begs his readers to renew the
generous response which they made at that time. Gifts of money
and clothing, and offers of hospitality, will be gratefully
acknowledged by Miss MAXWELL LYTE, Hon. Treasurer of the
Children’s Aid Committee, 50, South Molton Street, London,
W.

VIVE LA CHASSE!

[With Mr. Punch’s compliments to
our gallant Allies on their bag of Zepps.]

STRONGER THAN HERSELF.

In an assortment of nieces, totalling nine in all—but
two of them, being still, in Sir WALTER’S phrase, composed of
“that species of pink dough which is called a fine infant” do
not count—I think that my favourites are Enid and Hannah.
Enid being the daughter of a brother of mine, and Hannah of a
sister, they are cousins. They are also collaborators in
literature and joint editors of a magazine for family
consumption entitled The Attic Salt-Cellar. The word
“Attic” refers to the situation of the editorial office, which
is up a very perilous ladder, and “salt-cellar” was a
suggestion of my own, which, though adopted, is not yet
understood.

During the search for pseudonyms for the staff—the
pseudonym is an essential in home journalism, and the easiest
way of securing it is to turn one’s name round—we came
upon the astonishing discovery that Hannah is exactly the same
whether you spell it backwards or forwards. Hannah therefore
calls herself, again at my suggestion, “Pal,” which is short
for “palindrome.” We also discovered, to her intense delight,
that Enid, when reversed, makes “Dine”—a pleasant word
but a poor pseudonym. She therefore calls herself after her pet
flower, “Marigold.”

Between them Pal and Marigold do all the work. There is room
for an epigram if you happen to have one about you, or even an
ode, but they can get along without outside contributions. Enid
does most of the writing and Hannah copies it out.

So much for prelude to the story of Enid’s serial. Having
observed that all the most popular periodicals have serial
stories she decided that she must write one too. It was called
“The Prairie Lily,” and begun splendidly. I give the list of
characters at the head of the first instalment:—

The Duke of Week, an angry father and member of the
House of Lords.

The Duchess of Week, his wife, once famous for her
beauty.

Lady Lily, their daughter, aged nineteen and very
lovely.

Mr. Ploot, an American millionaire who loves the Lady
Lily.

Lord Eustace Vavasour, the Lady Lily’s cousin, who
loves her.

Jack Crawley, a young farmer and the one that the
Lady Lily loves.

Fanny Starlight, a poor relation and the Lady Lily’s
very closest friend.

Webb, the Lady Lily’s maid.

Such were the characters when the story began, and at the
end of the first instalment the author, with very great
ingenuity—or perhaps with only a light-hearted disregard
of probability—got the whole bunch of them on a liner
going to America. The last sentence described the vessel
gliding away from the dock, with the characters leaning over
the side waving good-bye. Even Jack Crawley, the young farmer,
was there; but he was not waving with the others, because he
did not want anyone to know that he knew the Lady Lily, or was
on board at all. Lord Eustace was on one side of the Lady Lily
as she waved, and Mr. Ploot on the other, and they were, of
course, consumed with jealousy of each other.

Having read the first instalment, with the author’s eye
fixed embarrassingly upon me, and the author giggling as she
watched, I said that it was very interesting; as indeed it was.
I went on to ask what part of America they were all going to,
and how it would end, and so on; and Enid sketched the probable
course of events, which included a duel for Lord Eustace and
Mr. Ploot (who turned out to be not a millionaire at all, but a
gentleman thief) and a very exciting time for the Lady Lily on
a ranche in Texas, whither she had followed Jack Crawley, who
was to become famous throughout the States as “The Cowboy
King.” I forget about the Duke and Duchess, but a lover was to
be found on the ranche for Fanny Starlight; and Red Indians
were to carry off Webb, who was to be rescued by the Cowboy
King; and so on. There were, in short, signs that Enid had not
only read the feuilletons in the picture papers but had been to
the Movies too. But no matter what had influenced her, the
story promised well.

Judge then my surprise when on opening the next number of
The Attic Salt-Cellar I found that the instalment of the
serial consisted only of the following:—

THE PRAIRIE LILY.

CHAPTER II.

All went merrily on the good ship Astarte until
the evening of the third day out, when it ran into another
and larger ship and was sunk with all hands. No one was
saved.

THE END.

“But, my dear,” I said, “you can’t write novels like
that.”

“Why not, Uncle Dick?” Enid asked.

“Because it’s not playing the game,” I said. “After arousing
everyone’s interest and exciting us with the first chapter, you
can’t stop it all like this.”

“But it happened,” she replied. “Ships often sink, Uncle
Dick, and this one sank.”

“Well, that’s all right,” I said, “but, my dear child, why
drown everyone? Why not let your own people be saved? Not the
Duke and Duchess, perhaps, but the others. Think of all those
jolly things that were going to happen in Texas, and the duel,
and—”

“Yes, I know,” she replied sadly. “It’s horrid to have to
give them up, but I couldn’t help it. The ship would sink and
no one was saved. I shall have to begin another.”

There’s a conscience for you! There’s realism! Enid should
go far.

I have been wondering if there are any other writers of
serial stories whose readers would not suffer if similar
visitations of inevitability came to them.

“DO TELL ME, UNCLE, ALL ABOUT THIS
PERSIFLAGE YOU PUT ON YOUR TENTS.”

Another Impending Apology.

“Attracted by anti-aircraft guns the Zeppelin bounded
upwards.”—Daily Chronicle.

That was in France. In England the lack of firing (according
to our pusillanimous critics) was positively repulsive.

Tommy. “‘ANDS UP, ALL OF YER, I’M
GOIN’ ON LEAVE TERMORRER. AIN’T GOT NO TIME TO WASTE.”

OUR INNOCENT SUBALTERNS.

The leave-boat had come into port and there was the usual
jam around the gangways. On the quay at the foot of one of them
was a weary-looking officer performing the ungrateful task of
detailing officers for tours of duty with the troops. He had
squares of white cardboard in his hand, and here and there, as
the officers trooped down the gangway, he picked out a young
and inoffensive-looking subaltern and subpoenaed him.

I chanced to notice a young and rosy-cheeked
second-lieutenant, innocent of the ways of this rude world, and
I knew he was doomed.

As he passed out on to the wharf I saw him receive one of
those white cards; he was also told to report to the corporal
at the end of the quay.

I saw him slip behind a truck, where he left his bag and
haversack, his gloves and his cane, and when he reappeared on
the far side he had on his rain-coat, without stars. He had
also altered the angle of his cap.

He waited near the foot of the other gangway, which was
unguarded. I drew nearer to see what he would do. Presently
down the plank came an oldish man—a lieutenant with a
heavy moustache and two African ribbons. My young friend
stepped forward.

“You are detailed for duty,” I heard him say. “You will
report to the N.C.O. at the end of the quay.” His intonation
was a model for the Staff College.

“Curse the thing! I knew I should be nabbed for duty,” I
heard the veteran growl as he strode off with the white
card…

I met the young man later at the Hotel ——, where
he had had the foresight to wire for a room. As I had failed to
do this, I was glad to avail myself of his kind offer to share
his accommodation. After such hospitality I could not refuse
him a lift in my car, as we were both bound for the same part
of the country.

I did not learn until afterwards that a preliminary chat
with my chauffeur had preceded his hospitable advances.
Whenever anybody tells me that our subalterns of to-day lack
savoir faire or that they are deficient in tactical
initiative, I tell him that he lies.

“A Bachelor, 38, wishes meet Protestant, born 4th Sept.,
1899, or 17th, 18th Sept., 1886, plain looks; poverty no
barrier; view matrimony.”—The Age
(Melbourne).

For so broad-minded a man he seems curiously fastidious
about dates.

HUMOURS OF THE WAR OFFICE.

THE EXCHANGE.

Our Modest Publicists.

“I felt it to be my duty to say that and I said it; and,
of course, nobody took any notice.”—Mr. Robert
Blatchford, in “The Sunday Chronicle.”

“CHRISTIANA, Thursday.

Several hours’ violent cannonading was heard in the
Skagerack.

Norwegian torpedoes proceeded thither to
investigate.”—Toowoomba Chronicle
(Queensland).

Intelligent creatures, they poke their noses into
everything.

BEASTS ROYAL.

VI.

KING GEORGE’S DALMATIAN. A.D. 1823.

CAMOUFLAGE CONVERSATION.

It came as a shock to the Brigade Major that the brigade on
his left had omitted to let him know the time of their
projected raid that night. It came as a shock all the more
because it was the General himself who first noticed the
omission, and it is a golden rule for Brigade Majors that they
should always be the first to think of things.

“Ring ’em up and ask,” said the General. “Don’t, of course,
mention the word ‘raid’ on the telephone. Call
it—um—ah, oh, call it anything you like so long as
they understand what you mean.”

At times, to the casual eavesdropper, strange things must
appear to be going on in the British lines. It must be a matter
of surprise, to such a one, that the British troops can think
it worth their while to inform each other at midnight that “Two
Emperors of Pongo have become attached to Annie Laurie.” Nor
would it appear that any military object would be served in
passing on the chatty piece of information that “there will be
no party for Windsor to-morrow.” This habit of calling things
and places as they most emphatically are not is but a
concession, of course, to the habits of the infamous Hun, who
rightly or wrongly is supposed to overhear everything one says
within a mile of the line.

Thinking in the vernacular proper to people who keep the
little knowledge they have to themselves, the Brigade Major
grasped the hated telephone in the left hand and prepared to
say a few words (also in the vernacular) to his fellow Staff
Officer a mile away.

“Hullo!” Br-rr—Crick-crick. “Hullo, Signals! Give me
S-Salmon.”

“Salmon? You’re through, Sir,” boomed a voice apparently
within a foot of his ear.

“OO!” An earsplitting crack was followed by a mosquito-like
voice singing in the wilderness.

“Hullo!”

“Hullo!”

“This is Pike.”

“This is Possum. H-hullo, Pike!”

“Hullo, Possum!”

“I say, look here, the General w-wants to know” (here he
paused to throw a dark hidden meaning into the word) “what
time—it—is.”

“What time it is?”

“Yes, what time it is! It. Yes, what time it
is”—repeated fortissimo ad lib.

“Eleven thirty-five.”

“Eleven thirty-five? Why, it’s on now. I don’t hear anything
on the Front?”

“No, you wouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s all quiet.”

“But you said s-something was on?”

“No, I didn’t. You asked me what time it was and I told
you.”

Swallowing hard several times, Possum girded up his loins,
so to speak, gripped the telephone firmly in the right hand
this time, and jumped off again. His “Hullo” sent a thrill
through even the Bosch listening apparatus in the next
sector.

“Hullo! L-look here, Pike,
we—want—to—know—what time it
is.”

“Eleven thir—”

“No, no, it—it“

“What?”

“It! You know what I mean. Damit, what can I call it?
Oh—er, sports; what time is your high
jump?” he added, nodding and winking knowingly. “Well, what
time’s the circus? When do you start for Berlin?”

“I say, Possum, are you all right, old chap?” said a voice
full of concern.

A crop of full-bodied beads appeared on the Brigade Major’s
brow. His right hand was paralysed by the unceasing grip of the
receiver. There was a strained look in his eyes as of a man
watching for the ration-party.

“S-something,” he said, calmly and surely mastering his
fate—”s-something is happening to-night.”

“You’re a cheery sort of bloke, aren’t you?”

“Good God, are you cracked or what? There’s a—”

“Careful, careful!” called the General from his comfortable
chair in the other room.

“O-oh!” sang the mosquito voice, “now I know what you
mean. You want to know what time our—er—ha! ha! you
know—the—er—don’t you?”

“The—ha! ha! yes”—they leered frightfully at
each other; it was a horrible spectacle. No one would think
that Possum had so much latent evil in him.

“We sent you the time mid-day.”

“Well, we haven’t had it. C-can you give me any indication,
w-without actually s-saying it, you know?”

“Well now,” said the mosquito, “You know how many years’
service I’ve got? Multiply by two and add the map square of
this headquarters.”

“Well, look here,” it sang again, “you remember the number
of the billet where I had dinner with you three weeks ago?
Well, halve that and add two.”

“Half nine and add two” (aside: “These midnight
mathematics will be the death of me—ah! that’s between
six and seven?”). Aloud: “But that’s daylight.”

“No, it isn’t. Which dinner are you thinking of?”

With the sweat pouring down his face, both hands now
clasping the telephone—his right being completely
numbed—he called upon the gods to witness the foolishness
of mortals. Suddenly a hideous cackle of mosquito-laughter
filtered through and, by some diabolical contrivance of the
signals, the tiny voice swelled into a bellow close to his
ear.

“If you really want to know, old Possum,” it said, “the raid
took place two hours ago!”

“I hope,” said Possum, much relieved, but speaking with
concentrated venom, “I h-hope you may be strafed with
boiling— Are you there?” Being assured that he was he
slapped his receiver twice, and, much gratified at the
unprintable expression of the twice-stunned-one at the other
end, went to tell the General—who, he found, had gone to
bed and was fast asleep.

“The customary oats were administered to the new
Judge.”—Perthshire Constitutional.

There had been some fear, we understand, that owing to the
food shortage he would have to be content with thistles.

Stout Lady (discussing the best thing
to do in an air-raid). “WELL, I ALWAYS RUNS ABOUT
MESELF. YOU SEE, AS MY ‘USBAND SEZ, AN’ VERY
REASONABLE TOO, A MOVIN’ TARGIT IS MORE DIFFICULT TO
‘IT.”

THE OLD FORMULA.

Private Brown lay upon his pillows thoughtfully sucking the
new pencil given him by his mate in the next bed. Propped
against the cradle that covered his shattered knee was a pad,
to which a sheet of paper had been fixed, and he was about to
write a letter to his wife.

It was plainly to be an effort, for apart from the fact that
he was never a scholar there was the added uncertainty of his
long disused right hand to be reckoned with; but at last he
grasped the pencil with all the firmness he could muster and
began:—

“DEAR WIFE,—I got your letter about Jim he ought to
gone long ago, shirking I calls it. This hospital is very nice
and when you come down from London youll see all the flowers
and the gramophone which is a fair treat. My wounds is slow and
I often gets cramp.”

No sooner was the fatal word written than the fingers of his
right hand began to stiffen, the pencil fell upon the bed, then
rolled dejectedly to the floor, where the writer said it might
stay for all he cared.

“You must let me finish the letter,” said I, when his hand
had been rubbed and tucked away in a warm mitten.

“Thank you, Miss; I was getting on nicely, and there’s not
much more to say,” he returned ruefully, scanning the wavering
lines before him.

“Well, shall I go on for a bit and let you wind up,” said I,
unscrewing my pen and taking the pad on my knee.

“Me telling you what to put like?” he asked with a look of
pleased relief.

“That’s it. Just say what you would write down
yourself.”

He cleared his throat.

“DEAR WIFE,” he resumed, “the wounds is … awful, not
letting me write at all. The one in my back is as long as your
arm, and they says it will heal quicker than the one in my
knee, which has two tubes in which they squirts strong-smelling
stuff through. The foot is a pretty sight, as big as half a
melon, and I doubts ever being able to put it to the ground
again, though they says I shall. I gets very stiff at nights
and the pain sometimes is cruel, but they gives me a prick with
the morphia needle then which makes me dream something
beautiful….”

There was a pause while he indulged in a smiling
reverie.

“Perhaps we have said enough about your pains,” I ventured,
when, returning from his visions, he puckered his brows in
fresh thought. “Your wife might be frightened if—”

“Not her,” he interrupted proudly. “She’s a rare good nurse
herself, and it would take more than that to turn her
up.”

I shook my pen; he shifted his head a little and
continued:—

“DEAR WIFE,—If you could see my shoulder dressed of a
morning you would laugh. They cuts out little pieces of lint
like a picture puzzle to fit the places, and I’ve got a regular
map of Blighty all down my arm; but that’s not so bad as my
back, which I cannot see and which the wound is as
long—”

I blotted the sheet and turned over, and Private Brown eyed
the space left for further cheerful communications.

“Shall I leave this for you to finish?” I suggested,
thinking of tender messages difficult to dictate. “Your fingers
may be better after tea, or perhaps to-morrow morning.”

“That’s all right, Miss. There’s nothing more to put except
my name, if you’ll just say, “Good-bye, dear wife, hoping this
finds you well as it leaves me at present.”

Fair Warning.

“A POPULAR CONCERT WILL BE HELL IN THE PORTEOUS HALL, On
Friday, 2nd November.”—Scotch Paper.

CURRAGH MEETING.

“WELL, UPON MY WORD! AFTER ALL THE
TROUBLE I HAD TO GET A QUARTER OF A POUND OF BUTTER,
THE COOK’S SENT UP MARGARINE. I SHOULD HATE THE MAIDS
TO GO SHORT, BUT I DO THINK WE OUGHT TO
SHARE THINGS.”

THE ULTIMATE OUTRAGE.

HOW TO LOSE THE WAR AT HOME.

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

Monday, October 22nd.—The fact that a couple of
German raiders contrived to slip through the North Sea patrol
the other night was made the excuse for an attack upon the
Admiralty. Sir Eric Geddes came down specially to assure the
House that if it viewed things “in the right perspective” it
would realise that such isolated incidents were unavoidable.
Members generally were convinced, I think, by the sight of the
First Lord’s bulldog jaw, even more than by his words, that the
Navy would not loose its grip on the enemy’s throat.

If “darkness and composure” are, as we have been told, the
best antidotes to an air-raid, where would you be more likely
to find them than in a CAVE? The HOME SECRETARY’S explanation
did not, of course, satisfy “P.B.”—initials now standing
for “Pull Baker”—who, in a voice of extra raucosity,
caused by his al-fresco oratory in East Islington,
demanded that protection should be afforded
to—ballot-boxes. But he and Mr. JOYNSON-HICKS and Mr.
DILLON—whose sudden solicitude for the inhabitants of
London was gently chaffed by Mr. CHAMBERLAIN—were
deservedly trounced by Mr. BONAR LAW, who declared that if
their craven squealings were typical he should despair of
victory.

Who says that the removal of the grille has had no effect
upon politics? Exposed to the unimpeded gaze of the ladies in
the Gallery the House decided with great promptitude that the
female voter should not be called upon to state her exact age,
but need only furnish a statutory declaration that she was over
thirty.

Tuesday, October 23rd.—So far as I know, the
duties of a Junior Lord of the Treasury have never been exactly
defined. Apparently those of Mr. PRATT include the compilation
of a “London Letter,” to be sent to certain favoured
newspapers. In one of them he appears to have stated that Mr.
ASQUITH’S condition of health was so precarious that there was
little likelihood of his resuming an active part in politics.
It was pleasant, therefore, to see the ex-Premier in his place
again, and able to contribute to the Irish debate a speech
showing no conspicuous failure either of intellect or verbal
felicity.

Mr. Duke. “HERE, I SAY—”

Mr. Redmond. “SURE AN’ I’M SORRY, BUT THE
GINTLEMAN BEHIND PUSHED ME.”

Both Mr. REDMOND and Mr. DUKE had drawn a very gloomy
picture of present-day Ireland—the former, of course,
attributing it entirely to the ineptitudes of the “Castle,” and
being careful to say little or nothing to hurt the feelings of
the Sinn Feiners, while the latter ascribed it to the
rebellious speeches and actions of Mr. DE VALERA and the other
hillside orators whom for some inscrutable reason he leaves at
large.

I hope Mr. ASQUITH was justified in assuming that the Sinn
Fein excesses were only an expression of the “rhetorical and
contingent belligerency” always present in Ireland, and that in
spite of them the Convention would make all things right.

Meanwhile the Sinn Feiners have refused to take part in it.
And not a single Nationalist Member dared to denounce them
to-night. Mr. T.M. HEALY even gave them his blessing, for
whatever that may be worth.

Wednesday, October 24.—The strange case of Mrs.
BESANT and Mr. MONTAGU was brought before the Upper House by
Lord SYDENHAM, who hoped the Government were not going to make
concessions to the noisy people who wanted to set up a little
oligarchy in India. The speeches of Lord ISLINGTON and Lord
CURZON did not entirely remove the impression that the
Government are a little afraid of Mrs. BESANT and her power of
“creating an atmosphere” by the emission of “hot air.”
Apparently there is room for only one orator in India at a
time, for it was expressly stated that Mr. MONTAGU, who got
back into office shortly after the delivery of what Lord
LANSDOWNE characterised as an “intemperate” speech on Indian
affairs, has given an undertaking not to make any speech at all
during his progress through the Peninsula.

Thursday, October 25th.—Irish Members have
first cut at the Question-time cake on Thursdays, and employ
their opportunity to advertise their national grievances. Mr.
O’LEARY, for example, drew a moving picture of a poor old man
occupying a single room, and dependent for his subsistence on
the grazing of a hypothetical cow; he had been refused a
pension by a hard-hearted Board. Translated into prosaic
English by the CHIEF SECRETARY it resolved itself into the case
of a farmer who had deliberately divested himself of his
property in the hope of “wangling” five shillings a week out of
the Treasury.

According to Mr. BYRNE the Lord Mayor of DUBLIN has been
grossly insulted by a high Irish official, who must be made to
apologise or resign. Again Mr. DUKE was unreceptive. He had
seen the LORD MAYOR, who
[pg 305] disclaimed any
responsibility for his self-constituted champion. Mr. BYRNE
should now be known as “the cuckoo in the mare’s nest.”

An attack upon the Petroleum Royalties was led by Mr.
ADAMSON, the new Chairman of the Labour Party, who was
cordially congratulated by the COLONIAL SECRETARY on his
appointment. Mr. LONG might have been a shade less enthusiastic
if he had foreseen the sequel. His assurance that there was
“nothing behind the Bill” was only too true. There was not even
a majority behind it; for the hostile amendment was carried by
44 votes to 35, and the LLOYD GEORGE Administration sustained
its first defeat. “Nasty slippery stuff, oil,” muttered the
Government Whip.

THE UNSEEN HAND.

Bill. “A FELLER IN THIS HERE PAPER SAYS AS WE
AIN’T FIGHTING THE GERMAN PEOPLE.”

Gus. “INDEED! DOES THE BLINKIN’ IDIOT SAY WHO
WE’VE BEEN UP AGAINST ALL THIS TIME?”

“Wanted, at once, three Slack Carters; constant
employment.”—Lancaster Observer.

We fear that intending applicants may be put off by the
conditions.

“WHERE MY CARAVAN HAS RESTED—in A
flat.”—Advt. in Provincial Paper.

And, in the recent weather, a very good place for it.

WAR-TIME TAGS FROM “JULIUS CÆSAR.”

A “TAKE COVER” CONSTABLE TO A “SPECIAL.”

A WISE MAN.

A RASH MAN.

TO A MUNITION STRIKER.

TO A LADY CLERK.

TO LORD RHONDDA

(with a wheat and potato War-loaf).

THE TRANSLATOR SEES THROUGH IT.

Announcement by a French publisher:—

“Vient de paraitre:—’M. Britling commence à
voir clair.'”

“MUSICAL INSTRUMENTS.

A Large Quantity of Old Bricks for
Sale.”—Dublin Evening Herald.

Do not shoot the pianist. Throw a brick at him instead.

Regarding a certain judge:—

“Hence so many reversals by the Court of Appeal that
suitors were often more uneasy if they lost their case
before him than if they won it.”—Irish
Times.

We assume that they were Irishmen.

“Elderly Lady Requires Post, as companion, Secretary or
any position of trust, would keep clergyman’s wife in
Parish, etc.”—Church Family Newspaper.

But the difficulty with the parson’s wife in some parishes,
we are told, is just the reverse of this.

“Duck and drake (wild) wanted; must be
tame.”—Scotsman.

We dislike this frivolity in a serious paper.

OUR YOUNG VETERANS.

Grandfather. “JUST HAD A TOPPING BIT OF NEWS, OLD
DEAR. GERALD’S WANGLED THE D.S.O.”

Granny. “ABSOLUTELY PRICELESS, OLD THING.
ALWAYS THOUGHT THAT CHILD WAS SOME NIB.”

THE MUD LARKS.

Albert Edward and I are on detachment just now. I can’t
mention what job we are on because HINDENBURG is listening. He
watches every move made by Albert Edward and me and disposes
his forces accordingly. Now and again he forestalls us, now and
again he don’t. On the former occasions he rings up LUDENDORFF,
and they make a night of it with beer and song; on the latter
he pushes the bell violently for the old German god.

The spot Albert Edward and I inhabit just now is very
interesting; things happen all round us. There is a tame
balloon tied by a string to the back garden, an ammunition
column on either flank and an infantry battalion camped in
front. Aeroplanes buzz overhead in flocks and there is a
regular tank service past the door. One way and another our
present location fairly teems with life; Albert Edward says it
reminds him of London. To heighten the similarity we get bombed
every night.

Promptly after Mess the song of the bomb-bird is heard. The
searchlights stab and slash about the sky like tin swords in a
stage duel; presently they pick up the bomb-bird—a
glittering flake of tinsel—and the racket begins.
Archibalds pop, machine guns chatter, rifles crack, and here
and there some optimistic sportsman browns the Milky Way with a
revolver. As Sir I. NEWTON’S law of gravity is still in force
and all that goes up must come down again, it is advisable to
wear a parasol on one’s walks abroad.

In view of the heavy lead-fall Albert Edward and I decided
to have a dug-out. We dug down six inches and struck water in
massed formation. I poked a finger into the water and licked
it. “Tastes odd,” said I, “brackish or salt or something.”

“We’ve uncorked the blooming Atlantic, that’s what,” said
Albert Edward; “cork it up again quickly or it’ll bob up and
swamp us.” That done, we looked about for something that would
stand digging into. The only thing we could find was a
molehill, so we delved our way into that. We are residing in it
now, Albert Edward, Maurice and I. We have called it “Mon
Repos,” and stuck up a notice saying we are inside,
otherwise visitors would walk over it and miss us.

The chief drawback to “Mon Repos” is Maurice. Maurice
is the proprietor by priority, a mole by nature. Our advent has
more or less driven him into the hinterland of his home and he
is most unpleasant about it. He sits in the basement and sulks
by day, issuing at night to scrabble about among our boots,
falling over things and keeping us awake. If we say “Boo!
Shoo!” or any harsh word to him he doubles up the backstairs to
the attic and kicks earth over our faces at three-minute
intervals all night.

Albert Edward says he is annoyed about the rent, but I call
that absurd. Maurice is perfectly aware that there is a war on,
and to demand rent from soldiers who are defending his molehill
with their lives is the most ridiculous proposition I ever
heard of. As I said before, the situation is most unpleasant,
but I don’t see what we can do about it, for digging out
Maurice means digging down “Mon Repos,”
[pg 307] and there’s no sense in
that. Albert Edward had a theory that the mole is a
carnivorous animal, so he smeared a worm with carbolic
tooth-paste and left it lying about. It lay about for days.
Albert now admits his theory was wrong; the mole is a
vegetarian, he says; he was confusing it with trout. He is
in the throes of inventing an explosive potato for Maurice
on the lines of a percussion grenade, but in the meanwhile
that gentleman remains in complete mastery of the
situation.

The balloon attached to our back garden is very tame. Every
morning its keepers lead it forth from its abode by strings,
tie it to a longer string and let it go. All day it remains
aloft, tugging gently at its leash and keeping an eye on the
War. In the evening the keepers appear once more, haul it down
and lead it home for the night. It reminds me for all the world
of a huge docile elephant being bossed about by the mahout’s
infant family. I always feel like giving the gentle creature a
bun.

Now and again the Bosch birds come over disguised as clouds
and spit mouthfuls of red-hot tracer-bullets at it, and then
the observers hop out. One of them “hopped out” into my
horse-lines last week. That is to say his parachute caught in a
tree and he hung swinging, like a giant pendulum, over my
horses’ backs until we lifted him down. He came into “Mon
Repos” to have bits of tree picked out of him. This was the
sixth plunge overboard he had done in ten days, he told us.
Sometimes he plunged into the most embarrassing situations. On
one occasion he dropped clean through a bivouac roof into a hot
bath containing a Lieutenant-Colonel, who punched him with a
sponge and threw soap at him. On another he came fluttering
down from the blue into the midst of a labour company of
Chinese coolies, who immediately fell on their faces,
worshipping him as some heavenly being, and later cut off all
his buttons as holy relics. An eventful life.

PATLANDER.

A PRECOCIOUS INFANT.

“Will any kind lady adopt nice healthy baby girl, 6
weeks old, good parentage; seen
London.”—Times.

“The King has given £100 to the Victoria Station
free buffet for sailors and soldiers.”—The
Times.

In the days of RICHARD I. it was a commoner who furnished
the King in this respect. Vide Sir WALTER SCOTT’S
Ivanhoe, vol. ii., chap. 9: “Truly, friend,” said the
Friar, clenching his huge fist, “I will bestow a buffet on
thee.”

Prisoner (on his dignity). “BUT YOU VOS
NOT KNOW VOT I AM. I AM A SERGEANT-MAJOR IN DER PRUSSIAN
GUARD.”

Tommy. “WELL, WOT ABAHT IT? I’M A PRIVATE IN THE
WEST KENTS.”

RHYMES OF THE TIMES.

“Wanted—a Pair of Lady’s Riding Boots, black or
brown, size of foot 4, diam. of calf 14
inches.”—Statesman (Calcutta).

Great Diana!

“WANTED—Late Model, 5-passenger McLaughlin,
Hudson, Paige, or Cadillac car, in exchange for 5-crypt
family de luxe section, value $1,500, in Forest Lawn,
Mausoleum.”—Toronto Daily Star.

With some difficulty we refrain from reviving the old joke
about the quick and the dead.

THE NEW MRS. MARKHAM.

III.

CONVERSATION ON CHAPTER LXX.

Mary. Do tell us something more, Mamma, about the
Great Rebellion and how it began.

Mrs. M. Well, my dear, you must know that in the
previous reign it had been the fashion for middle-aged and
elderly people to behave and dress as if they were still
juvenile. Mothers neglected their daughters and went to balls
and theatres every night, where they were conspicuous for their
extravagant attire and strange conversation. They would not
allow their daughters to smoke, or, if they did, provided them
with the cheapest cigarettes. Fathers of even advanced years
wore knickerbocker suits on all occasions and spent most of
their time playing a game called golf. This at last provoked a
violent reaction, and the Great Rebellion was the consequence.
Although there was no bloodshed many distressing scenes were
enacted and something like a Reign of Terror prevailed for
several years.

Richard. Oh, Mamma, please go on!

Mrs. M. Parents trembled at the sight of their
children, and fathers, even when they were sixty years old,
stood bareheaded before their sons and did not dare to speak
without permission. Mothers never sat down in the presence of
their grown-up daughters, but stood in respectful silence at
the further end of the room, and were only allowed to smoke in
the kitchen.

George. That cannot have been very good for the
cooking.

Mrs. M. The daughters of the family were seldom
educated at home, and when they returned to their father’s roof
their parents were only admitted into the presence of their
children during short and stated periods.

Mary. And when did the English begin to grow kinder
to their parents?

Mrs. M. I really cannot say. Perhaps a climax was
reached in the Baby Suffrage Act; but after that matters began
to improve, and the Married Persons Amusements Act showed a
more tolerant spirit towards the elderly. But even so lately as
when my mother was a child young people were often exceedingly
harsh with their parents, and she has told me how on one
occasion she locked up her mother for several hours in the
coal-cellar for playing a mouth-organ in the bathroom without
permission.

Richard. Pray, Mamma, did the English speak Irish
then, as they do now?

Mrs. M. Compulsory Irish was introduced under ALFRED
as a concession to Ireland for the services rendered by that
kingdom to art and literature and the neutrality which it
observed during England’s wars. There was a certain amount of
opposition, but it was soon overcome by ALFRED’S wisely
insisting on the newspapers being printed in both languages.
Since then the variations in dialect and pronunciation which
prevailed in different districts of England have largely
disappeared, and from Land’s End to John o’ Groat’s the
bilingual system is now securely established, though my mother
told me that as a child she once met an old man in
Northumberland who could only speak a few words of Irish, and
had been deprived of his vote in consequence.

Richard. What were the Thirty-Nine Articles? I don’t
think I ever heard of them before.

Mrs. M. When you are of a proper age to understand
them they shall be explained to you. They contained the
doctrines of the Church of England, but were abolished by
Archbishop WELLS, who substituted seventy-eight of his own. But
as Mary is looking tired I will now conclude our
conversation.

THE MOTH PERIL.

[“Fruit growers are warned to be on their guard against
the wingless moth, for lime-washing the trees is almost
useless.”—Evening Paper.]

If the brute ignores the notice, “Keep off the trees,” order
him away in a sharp voice.

Sulphuric acid is a most deadly antidote; but only the best
should be used. If the moth be held over the bottle for ten
minutes it will show signs of collapse and offer to go
quietly.

This pest abhors heat. A good plan is to heat the
garden-roller in the kitchen fire to a white heat and push it
up the tree.

A gramophone in full song, is also useful. After a few
minutes the moth will come out of its dug-out with an
abstracted expression on its face, and commit suicide by
jumping into the mouth of the trumpet.

A Comforting Thought for use on War-Time Railways.

“To travel hopefully is a better thing than to
arrive.”—R.L. STEVENSON.

From a parish magazine:—

“I know ‘the war’ still continues but these do not
explain everything. The large water tank at the schools is
for sale—price £5 10s. The sermons and as far
as possible the music and hymns on 21st (Trafalgar Day)
will bear on the work of our incomparable Navy.”

It is believed in the village that the parson is suffering
from a rush of Jumble Sales to the head.

HERBS OF GRACE.

SWEET WOODRUFF.

VII.

“Once or twice Mr. Dickens has taken the place of
circuit judge when the King’s Bench roll has been
repleted.”—Evening Paper.

This, of course, was before the War. Our judges never
over-eat themselves nowadays.

From a list of current prices:—

“Brazil nuts 1s. 2d., Barcelona nuts 10d. per lb.;
demons 1½d.”—Derbyshire Advertiser.

No mention being made of the place of origin of the
last-named, it looks very much as if there had been some
trading with the enemy.

What America says to-day—

“Feminist circles are greatly interested in the
announcement made by Dr. Sargeant, of Harvard University,
that women make as good soldiers as men.”—Sunday
Pictorial.

Canada does to-morrow—

“The Canadian Government has issued a proclamation
calling up … childless widows between the ages of 20 and
34 comprised in Class 1 of the Military Service
Act.”—Yorkshire Evening Paper

Mike (in bath-chair). “DID YE SAY
WE’LL BE TURNING BACK, DENNIS? SURE THE EXERCISE WILL
BE DOING US GOOD IF WE GO A BIT FURTHER.”

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

The numerous members of the public who like to take their
printer’s ink with something more than a grain of sea-salt will
welcome Sea-Spray and Spindrift (PEARSON), by their
tried and trusted friend, TAFFRAIL, the creator of Pincher
Martin, O.D. TAFFRAIL, it must be admitted, has a dashing
briny way with him. He doesn’t wait to describe sunsets and
storm-clouds, but plunges at once into the thick of things.
Consequently his stories go with a swing and a rush, for which
the reader is duly grateful—that is, if he is a
discerning reader. Of the present collection most were written
some time ago and have no reference to the War. Such, for
instance, is “The Escape of the Speedwell,” a capital
story of the year 1805, which may serve to remind us that even
in the glorious days of NELSON the English Channel was not
always a healthy place for British shipping. “The Channel,”
says TAFFRAIL, “swarmed with the enemy’s privateers…. Even
the merchant-ships in the home-coming convoys, protected though
they were by men-of-war, were not safe from capture, while the
hostile luggers would often approach the English coast in broad
daylight and harry the hapless fishing craft within a mile or
two of the shore.” Yet there does not appear to have been a
panic, nor was anyone’s blood demanded. Autres temps autres
moeurs. In “The Gun-Runners” the author describes a shady
enterprise undertaken successfully by a British crew; but
nothing comes amiss to TAFFRAIL, and he does it with equal
zest. “The Inner Patrol” and “The Luck of the Tavy” more than
redress the balance to the side of virtue and sound warfare.
Both stories are excellent.

Among the minor results following the entry of America into
the War has been the release from bondage of several diplomatic
pens, whose owners would, under less happy circumstances, have
been prevented from telling the world many stories of great
interest. Here, for example, is the late Special Agent and
Minister Plenipotentiary of the United States, Mr. LEWIS
EINSTEIN, writing of his experiences Inside Constantinople,
April-September, 1915 (MURRAY). This is a diary kept by the
Minister during the period covered by the Dardanelles
Expedition. As such you will hardly expect it to be agreeable
reading, but its tragic interest is undeniable. Mr. EINSTEIN,
as a sympathetic neutral, saw everything, and his comments are
entirely outspoken. We know the Dardanelles story well enough
by now from our own side; here for the first time one may see
in full detail just how near it came to victory. It is a
history of chances neglected, of adverse fate and heroism
frustrated, such as no Englishman can read unmoved. But the
book has also a further value in the light it throws upon the
Armenian massacres and the complicity of Germany therein.
“Though in later years German officialdom may seek to disclaim
responsibility, the broad fact remains of German military
direction at Constantinople … during the brief period in
which took place the virtual extermination of the Armenian race
in Asia Minor.” It is [pg 310] one more stain upon a
dishonoured shield, not to be forgotten in the final
reckoning.

I never met a story more aptly named than Mrs. BELLOC
LOWNDES’ Love and Hatred (CHAPMAN AND HALL). Oliver
Tropenell worshipped Laura Pavely, who returned this
attachment, despite the fact that she was already married to
Godfrey. Godfrey, for his part, loved Katty
Winslow, a young widow, who flirted equally with him, with
Oliver, and with Laura’s undesirable brother,
Gilbert. So much for the tender passion. As for the
other emotion, Oliver naturally hated Godfrey; so
did Gilbert. Laura also came to share their
sentiment. By the time things had reached this climax the
moment was obviously ripe for the disappearance of the much
detested one, in order that the rest of the tale might keep you
guessing which of the three had (so to speak) belled the cat.
Followers of Mrs. LOWNDES will indeed have been anticipating
poor Godfrey’s demise for some time, and may perhaps
think that she takes a trifle too long over her arrangements
for the event. They will almost certainly share my view that
the explanation of the mystery is far too involved and
unintelligible. I shall, of course, not anticipate this for
you. It has been said that the works of HOMER were not written
by HOMER himself, but by another man of the same name. This
may, or may not, give you a clue to the murder of Godfrey
Pavely. I wish the crime were more worthy of such an artist
in creeps as Mrs. LOWNDES has proved herself to be.

The test of the second water, as sellers of tea assure us,
provides proof of a quality for which one must go to the right
market. BARONESS ORCZY has not feared to put her most famous
product, The Scarlet Pimpernel, to a similar trial.
Whether the result of this renewed dilution is entirely
satisfactory I leave you to judge, but certainly at least
something of the well-known and popular aroma of romantic
artificiality clings about the pages of her latest story,
Lord Tony’s Wife (HODDER AND STOUGHTON), while at the
bottom of the cup there is not a little dash of the old strong
flavour. On the other hand, though it may be that one’s
appetite grows less lusty, it does seem that in all the earlier
chapters there is some undue proportion of thin and rather
tepid preparation for episodes quite clearly on the way, so
that in the end even the masterly vigour of the much advertised
Pimpernel, in full panoply of inane laughter and
unguessed disguise, failed to astound and stagger me as much as
I could have wished. Lord Tony was a healthy young
Englishman with no particular qualities calling for comment,
and his wife an equally charming young French heroine. After
having escaped to England from the writer’s beloved Reign of
Terror, the lady and her aristo father were comfortably decoyed
back to France by a son of the people whose qualifications for
the post of villain were none too convincing, and there all
manner of unpleasant things were by way of happening to them,
when enter the despairing husband with the dashing scarlet one
at his side—et voilà tout. The last few
chapters come nearly or even quite up to the mark, but as for
most of the rest, I advise you to take them as read.

In A Certain Star (HODDER AND STOUGHTON) Miss PHYLLIS
BOTTOME achieves the difficult feat of treating a love
conceived in a romantic vein without declining upon
sentimentality, and seasons her descriptions, which are
shrewdly, sometimes delicately, observed, with quite a pretty
wit. I commend it as a sound, unpretentious, honestly-written
book. Sir Julian Verny, a baronet with brains and a very
difficult temper, falls a captive to Marian’s proud and
compelling beauty. Then, just before the War flames up, secret
service claims him, and he returns from a dangerous mission
irretrievably crippled. Marian fails him. True, she
disdains to be released, but out of pride not out of love. It
is little grey suppressed Stella (her light has been
hidden under the dull bushel of a Town Clerk’s office) who
comes into her kingdom and wins back an ultra-sensitive
despairing man to the joy of living and working and the fine
humility of being dependent instead of masterful. There are so
many Julians and there’s need of so many Stellas
these sad days that it is well to have such wholesome doctrine
stated with so courageous an optimism.

There is a sentence on page 149 of A Castle to Let
(CASSELL) which, though not for its style, I feel constrained
to quote: “It was a glorious day, the sunshine poured through
the green boughs, and the moss made cradles in which most
people went to sleep with their novels.” Well, given a warm day
and a comfortable resting-place, this book by Mrs. BAILLIE
REYNOLDS would do excellently well either to sleep or keep
awake with, according to your mood. The scene of it is laid in
Transylvania, where a rich young Englishwoman took an old
castle for the summer. Incidentally I have learned something
about the inhabitants of Transylvania, but apart from that I
know now exactly what a novel for the holidays should contain.
Its ingredients are many and rather wonderful, but Mrs.
REYNOLDS is a deft mixer, and her skill in managing no fewer
than three love affairs without getting them and you into a
tangle is little short of miraculous. Then we are given plenty
of legends, mysteries and dreams, just intriguing enough to
produce an eerie atmosphere, but not sufficiently exciting to
cause palpitations of the heart. Need I add that the tenant of
the castle married the owner of it? As she was both human and
sporting, it worries me to think that she may now be
interned.

Patriot Golfer (seeing British
aeroplane and not wanting to take any risks).
“FORE!”