PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 153.

September 19, 1917.

CHARIVARIA.

There is no truth in the report that one of the most telling
lines in the National Anthem is to be revised so as to read
“Confound their Scandiknavish tricks.”

Grave fears are expressed in certain quarters that the Stockholm
Conference has been “spurlos versenkt.”

Someone has stolen the clock from St. Winefride’s Church,
Wimbledon. We hope that the culprit has responded to the universal
appeals in the newspapers which urged him to put the clock back on
Sunday last.

An Englishwoman living in the East has a servant-girl who, when
told about the War, remarked, “What war?” Another snub for the
KAISER.

“A Vegetarian” writes to accuse Lord RHONDDA of reducing the
price of meat on purpose.

Tube fares are to be raised. An alternative project of issuing
special tickets, entitling the holder to standing room, was
reluctantly abandoned.

The Thames, says a contemporary, has come into its own again as
a holiday resort. Many riparian owners, on the other hand, are
complaining that it has come into theirs.

A trades union of undertakers’ mutes has been formed. Their
first act, it is believed, will be to strike for a fifty-year
life.

We have been asked to explain that the Second Division in which
Mr. E.D. MOREL is now serving is not the one that fought at the
battle of Mons.

Two escaped German prisoners have been arrested at Wokingham by
a local grocer. The report that he charged twopence each for
delivery is without foundation.

At Leith Hill, in Surrey, trees are being felled by a number of
unescaped German prisoners.

“Beans running to seed,” says an informative daily paper,
“should be picked and the small beans extracted.” But the old
custom of lying in wait for them on the return journey and stunning
them with a flail still retains many adherents in the slow-moving
countryside.

“I am the father of sweeps,” declared an elderly employer to the
West Kent Tribunal. He afterwards admitted, however, that the
secret correspondence of Count LUXBURG had not been brought to his
notice.

Acting, explained an applicant to the House of Commons’
Tribunal, is regarded by many as a work of national importance. The
Tribunal have generously arranged for him to storm a few barns in
Flanders.

Sixty-eight thousand persons, it is stated, have visited the
maze at Hampton Court this season. Others have been content to stay
at home and study the sugar regulations.

The admission fee to a concert recently held for the benefit of
the Southwark Military Hospital was one egg. None of the gate
money, it seems, reached the performers.

According to the Town Crier of Dover, who has just retired after
fifty years’ service, town crying isn’t what it was before the War.
People will listen to the bombs instead of attending to the
properly constituted official.

A “History of the Russian Revolution” has been published. The
pen may not be mightier than the sword to-day, but it manages to
keep ahead of it.

A private in one of the London regiments has translated two
hundred and fifty lines of Paradise Lost into Latin verse
during a sixteen-day spell in the trenches. The introduction of
some counter-irritant into our public school curriculum is now
thought to be inevitable.

The crew of the U-boat interned at Cadiz, says a Madrid
correspondent, have been allowed to land on giving their word of
honour not to leave Spain during the continuance of the War. The
mystery of how the word of honour came into their possession is not
explained.

Further evidence of the success of the U-boat starvation
campaign has been thoughtlessly afforded the German Press by a
London newspaper which has announced that burglars are now using
practically nothing but skeleton keys.

No one has yet found anything that will conquer the wire-worm,
says Professor J.R. DUNSTAN. We feel that the Professor is unduly
pessimistic. Has he tried the effect of writing a letter to The
Daily Mail about it?

Things appear to be settling down in Mexico. Last week only one
hundred of General CARRANZA’S men were annihilated by bandits.

The Berlin authorities have ordered a “Shaveless day.” As a
measure of frightfulness this is doomed to failure against an Army
like ours with tanks which will eat their way through all sorts of
entanglements.

Because an officer omitted to salute him, Field-Marshal VON
HINDENBURG stopped his car and said, “I am HINDENBURG.” We
understand that the officer accepted the explanation.

“There is a scarcity of violins,” says The Evening News.
Some papers never know how to keep a secret.

Lundy Island has just been purchased by Mr. AUGUSTUS CHRISTIE,
of North Devon. We are relieved to know it is still on the side of
the Allies.

A grocer at Coalville, Leicestershire, riding a motor-bicycle
without lights, is said to have offered two and a half pounds of
sugar to a policeman to say nothing about it. Fortunately the
constable, when he came out of his faint, remembered the number of
the bicycle, and the man was summoned.

“YOU ON GUARD TO-NIGHT, NOBBY?” “NAW.” “WOT YER BIN AN’ WASHED
YER FACE FOR, THEN?”

OFFICIAL RECTITUDE.

SWEDEN ON THE LUXBURG INCIDENT.

O.S.

THE PRUDENT ORATOR.

“The Premier was accompanied by Mrs. Lloyd George and his
laughter.”

Irish Daily Telegraph.

“Our new nippers are beginning to squeeze to some tune in France
and Belgium.”

Liverpool Daily Post.

Try a little oil.

We print (with shame and the consciousness of turpitude) the
following letter:—

“Bed 56, E Block, 11/9/1917.

“DEAR SIR,—This morning I was reading your edition dated
September 5, 1917. In the ‘Charivaria’ I saw an article in which
you proclaimed the North Pole to be the only territory that has not
had its neutrality violated by the Huns. I beg to draw your
attention to the South Pole.

“I remain, yours sincerely,

“A WOUNDED TOMMY.”

WASHOUT.

We had hardly settled down to Mess when an orderly, armed with a
buff slip, shot through the door, narrowly missed colliding with
the soup, and pulled up by Grigson’s chair. Grigson is our Flight
Commander—one of those rugged and impenetrable individuals
who seem impervious to any kind of shock. There is a legend that on
one occasion four machine-gun bullets actually hit him and bounced
off, which gave the imitative Hun the idea of armour-plating his
machines.

Grigson took the slip and read, slowly and paraphrastically:
“Night operations. A machine will be detailed to leave the ground
at 10:30 pip emma and lay three fresh eggs on the railway-station
at ——. At the special request of the G.O.C.R.F.C.,
Lieutenant Maude, the well-known strafer, will oblige. Co-operation
by B and C Flights.”

Lieutenant Maude, commonly known by a loose association of ideas
as Toddles, buried a heightened complexion in a plate of now tepid
soup. Someone having pulled him out and wiped him down, he was
understood to remark that he would have preferred longer notice, as
it had been his intention that night to achieve a decisive victory
in the Flight ping-pong tournament.

“Oh, but, Toddles,” came a voice, “think how pleased old Fritz
will be to see you. You’ll miss the garden party, but you’ll be in
nice time for the fire-works—Verey lights and flaming onions
and pretty searchlights. Don’t you love searchlights, Toddles?”

Toddles stretched out an ominous hand towards the siphon, and
was only deterred from his fell intention by the entry of the
C.O.

“Oh, Grigson,” said the C.O. pleasantly, “the Wing have just
rung through to say they want that raid done at once, so you might
get your man up toute suite.”

Toddles was exactly halfway through his fish.

Now, though Toddles has never to my knowledge appeared before
the C.O. at dead of night attired in pink silk pyjamas, begging
with tears in his eyes to be allowed to perform those duties which
the dawn would in any case impose upon him (this practice is not
really very common in the R.F.C.), he is a thoroughly sound and
conscientious little beggar. And, making allowances for the
fallibility of human inventions, and the fact that two other young
gentlemen were also engaged in the congenial task of making
structural alterations to the railway station at ——,
Toddles comes out of the affair with an untarnished reputation.

Whether it was that his more fastidious taste in architecture
detained him I do not know, but it was fully ten minutes after the
others had landed before we who were watching on the aerodrome
became aware that Toddles was coming home to roost. The usual
signals were exchanged, and Toddles finished up a graceful descent
by making violent contact with the ground, bouncing seven times and
knocking over two flares before finally coming to rest. His machine
appeared to be leaning on its left elbow in a slightly intoxicated
condition.

“Bust the V strut,” said Toddles cheerfully. We assured
him that one would hardly notice it. Grigson meanwhile had been
examining the under carriage with scientific care, and turned to
ask him how he had got on.

“Bong,” said Toddles, beaming; “absolutely bong. They spotted
us, but Archie was off colour.”

“Did you see your pills burst?”

Toddles beamed more emphatically than ever. “One in what I took
to be the station yard, one right on the line, and one O.K.
ammunition truck; terrific explosion—nearly upset me. Three
perfectly good shots.”

So far Toddles’ account agreed very fairly with the two we
already had.

“Didn’t have any trouble with the release gear, I suppose?” said
Grigson. “Nasty thing that. I’ve known it jam before now.”

“Well,” answered Toddles, “it did stick a bit, but I just yanked
it over and it worked.”

“Splendid!” said Grigson brightly. “A nice bit of work, and very
thoughtful of you to bring home such jolly souvenirs.”

“Look here,” replied Toddles with warmth, “who the devil are you
getting at?”

“Nothing; oh, nothing at all.”

Grigson moved away towards the Mess. “By the way,” he said,
“you’re quite certain they were your own shots? I should have a
good look at that under carriage if I were you.”

We all went down on hands and knees. Lying placidly in the rack
with an air of well-merited ease born of the consciousness that
they had, without any effort of their own, avoided a fatiguing
duty, were three large bombs.

“Er—ah—hum,” said Toddles. “Now then, Sergeant,
hurry up and get this machine back into the shed!”

And the Sergeant’s face was the best joke of all.

“Man, handy at vice, been in motor repair shop.”—Daily
Chronicle.

Still, it must not be assumed that life in a garage is
necessarily fatal to virtue.

PERFECT INNOCENCE.

CONSTABLE WOODROW WILSON. “THAT’S A VERY MISCHIEVOUS THING TO
DO.”

SWEDEN. “PLEASE, SIR, I DIDN’T KNOW IT WAS LOADED.”

THE WATCH DOGS.

LXV.

MY DEAR CHARLES,—I feel some hesitation in passing the
following story on to you, less from the fear of what it will
divulge to the enemy than from the fear of what it may divulge to
our own people. As far as the enemy is concerned be it stated
boldly that the train was going to Paris and “I” got into it at
Amiens. Yes, HINDENBURG, there is a place called Paris and
there is a place called Amiong. Now what are you going to do
about it? As far as our own people are concerned it is asked of
them that, if ever they come to read it, they may not inquire too
closely as to who “I” may be.

It is a long train and there is only one dining-car. Those who
don’t get into the car at Amiens don’t dine; there is accordingly
some competition, especially on the part of the military element,
of which the majority is proceeding to Paris on leave and doesn’t
propose to start its outing by going without its dinner. Only the
very fit or the very cunning survive. Having got in myself among
the latter category I was not surprised to see, among the former
category, a large and powerful Canadian Corporal.

If he can afford to pay for his dinner there is no reason, I
suppose, why even a corporal should not dine. If he can manage to
snaffle a seat in the car there is certainly no reason why a French
Commandant should not dine. There is every reason, I imagine, for
railway companies to furnish their dining-cars with those little
tables for two which bring it about that a pair of passengers, who
have never seen each other before and have not elected to meet on
this occasion, find themselves together, for a period, on the terms
of the most complete and homely intimacy. Lastly, the attendant had
every reason to put the Corporal and the Commandant to dine
together, for there was nowhere else to put either of them.

What would have happened if this had taken place ten years ago,
and the French Commandant had been an English Major? The situation,
of course, simply could not have arisen; it would have been
unthinkable. But if it had arisen the train would certainly have
stopped for good; probably the world would have come to an end. As
it was, what did happen? Let me say at once that both the Corporal
and the Commandant behaved with a generosity which was entirely
delightful; the Corporal’s was pecuniary generosity, the
Commandant’s generosity of spirit. This was as it should be, and
both were true to type.

Quick though the French are at the uptake, it took the good
Commandant just a little while to settle down to the odd position.
This was not the size and shape and manner of man with whom he was
used to take his meals. As an officer one feels one’s
responsibilities on these public occasions, and I felt I ought to
intervene and to do something to rearrange the general position.
But at the start I caught the Corporal’s eye, and there was in it
such a convincing look of “Whatever I may do I mean awfully well,”
that I just sat still and did nothing.

The awkward pause was over before the soup was finished. Rough
good-nature and subtle good sense soon combined to eliminate
arbitrary distinctions. The Commandant won the first credit by
starting a conversation; it was really the only thing to do. Had
the Commandant and I been opposite each other we should probably
have dined in polite silence. But the Corporal was one of those
red-faced burly people with whom you have, if you are close to
them, either to laugh or fight.

The Commandant was not inwardly afraid; he was innately polite.
He talked pleasantly to his vis-à-vis. The Corporal,
a trifle abashed at first, listened deferentially, but as the good
food enlivened him he ceased to be abashed and became cordial. From
cordial he became affable, from affable affectionate, and from
affectionate he passed to that degree of friendship in which you
lean across the dinner-table, tap a man on the shoulder and call
him “old pal.” Finally, he insisted upon the Commandant cracking
with him a bottle of champagne. I give the Commandant full marks
for not persisting in his refusal.

A draught or two of champagne has, as you may be aware, the
effect of developing to an extreme any friendly feelings you may at
the moment happen to possess …

The train chanced to stop just after dinner was finished, and
the Commandant, seizing his opportunity, hurriedly paid his bill
and got into another carriage. My vis-à-vis also left
the car, though I must confess that I had not stood him so
much as a glass of beer. I and the Canadian Corporal were left
facing each other, and the position was such that I couldn’t avoid
his eye. I had no feelings with regard to him, but I simply could
not smile at him, since I do not like champagne. So I suppose I
must have frowned at him; anyhow, he came along and sat down at my
table in order to explain at length that he was not drunk.

He wasn’t drunk, and I had never said he was, and I was not in
the least interested in his theme, until he got to the point of
what his main reason was for not being drunk. This, I admit,
interested me deeply. “When we get to Parry,” said he, “we shall be
met by Military Police, and they will ask to see our papers. And if
my papers weren’t in order and if I wasn’t in order myself I should
be put under arrest and sent back again. And I don’t mean to be
sent back, and I have all my papers in order and I’m in order
myself.” And, dash it all, the fellow was right, and when we got to
the Gare du Nord there were the Military Police as large as life,
and clearly there was no avoiding them.

At first I didn’t quite know what to [pg 203] do
about it, but a little thought decided me. “There are your M.P.,” I
said to the Corporal, as we trooped slowly out of the dining-car.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to come along with me and
interview one of them.” Giving him no time to argue, I led him
straight to the Police Sergeant and insisted upon this case being
dealt with before all others. “I must ask you, Sergeant, to make
this man produce his papers. I have reason to doubt whether he is
in order.”

The Corporal began to expostulate, but the Sergeant adopted the
none-of-that-I-know-all-about-your-sort attitude which is so
admirable in these officials. The Corporal produced some papers and
tendered them indignantly. The Police Sergeant remained impassively
unconvinced, but gave me one fleeting look, as if he wondered
whether I had put him on to a good thing. “There are papers and
papers,” said I, as if I too knew all about the business. “Let us
see if they are in order.” The Sergeant’s instinct had already told
him that the papers were quite in order, and he was all for cutting
the business short and getting out of it as quickly as he could.
But I insisted upon the most minute examination and would not give
in and admit my mistake until the Sergeant practically ordered us
both off the station.

Having given the Sergeant to understand that he was to blame for
the Corporal’s papers being in order, I allowed myself to be passed
on. The Corporal followed me; he wanted an explanation. When we got
outside the station I let him catch me up, because I thought he was
entitled to one.

“Will you allow me to ask why you did that, Sir?” he said very
indignantly but not rudely. “You knew that I had my papers, Sir,
and that they were in order.”

“Yes,” I said. “But I knew that my own weren’t.”

His cheeks suffused with the most jovial red I have ever
seen.

“In the very strictest confidence, Corporal,” I said, “I
haven’t any papers.”

I didn’t know that a human laugh could be so loud. On the whole
I think it was a good thing that we had arrived in Paris after
closing time, since otherwise, in spite of my dislike of the stuff,
I’m sure that three more bottles of the most expensive brand would
have been cracked. I should have had to stand one; he would have
positively insisted on standing two.

Yours ever, HENRY.

Skipper of Drifter (who has been fined thirty-five shillings
for losing a pair of binoculars). “PROPER JUSTICE I CALLS IT;
MY BROTHER-IN-LAW LOSES HIS WHOLE BLINKING DRIFTER AND YOU DON’T
FINE ‘IM A BLOOMING CENT.”

Tommy. “‘E’S A WONDER AN’ NO MISTAKE. I CAN’T TEACH MY
OLD DAWG AT HOME TO DO ANYTHINK.”

Pal. “AH, BUT YER SEE, MATEY, YOU ‘AVE TO KNOW MORE ‘N A
DAWG, OR YER CAN’T LEARN ‘IM NUTHIN.”

A SIGN OF THE TIMES.

“YOUNG LADY Wants post as Housekeeper to working
man.”—Halifax Evening Courier.

“Planers (large letters) Wanted, for machine tool work; good
bonus; war work; permanent job.”—Daily Dispatch.

Pessimist!

“WHAT DISABLED SOLDIERS SHOULD KNOW.

“That there is no such word as ‘imossible’ in his
dictionary.”—Canadian Paper.

Correct.

“M. Polychromads, Green Chargé d’Affaires, has left
London for the Hague.”—Sunday Times.

It is an unfortunate colour, but with a name like that he can
always try one of the others.

“The canker of indiscipline and the wine of liberty have shaken
the Russian Army to its foundations.”—“Times” Russian
Correspondent.

While the tide of new life that was kindled by the torch of
revolution seems destined to crumble into dust.

THE TRIUMPHAL PROGRESS.

There are few phases of the War—subsidiary phases,
side-issues, marginalia—more interesting, I think, than the
return of the natives: the triumphant progress, through their old
haunts and among their old friends, of the youths, recently
civilians, but now tried and tested warriors; lately so urban and
hesitating and immature, but now so seasoned and confident and of
the world. And particularly I have in mind the return of the
soldier to his house of business, and his triumphant progress
through the various departments, gathering admiration and homage
and even wonder. I am not sure that wonder does not come first, so
striking can the metamorphosis be.

When he left he was often only a boy. Very likely rather a young
terror in his way: shy before elders, but a desperate wag with his
contemporaries. He had a habit of whistling during office hours; he
took too long for dinner, and was much given to descending the
stairs four at a time and shaking the premises, blurring the
copying-book and under-stamping the letters. When sent to the bank,
a few yards distant, he was absent for an hour. Cigarettes and late
hours may have given him a touch of pastiness.

To-day, what a change! Tall, well-set-up and bronzed, he is a
model of health and strength. His eyes meet all our eyes frankly;
he has done nothing to be ashamed of: there is no unposted letter
in his pocket, no consciousness of a muddled telephone message in
his head. To be on the dreaded carpet of the manager’s room was
once an ordeal; to-day he can drop cigarette-ash on it and turn
never a hair.

“Oh yes,” he says, “he has been under fire. Knows it backwards.
Knows the difference in sound between all the shells. So far he’s
been very lucky, but, Heavens! the pals he’s lost! Terrible things
happen, but one gets numbed—apathetic, you know.

“What does it feel like to go over the top? The first time it’s
a rotten feeling, but you get used to that too. War teaches you
what you can get used to, by George it does! He wouldn’t have
believed it, but there—”

And so on. All coming quite naturally and simply; no swank, no
false modesty.

“This is his first leave since he went to France, and he thought
he must come to see the firm first of all. Sad about poor old
Parkins, wasn’t it? Killed directly. And Smithers’ leg—that
was bad too. Rum to see such a lot of girls all over the place,
doing the boys’ jobs. Well, well, it’s a strange world, and who
would have thought all this was going to happen?…”

Such is his conversation on the carpet. In the great clerks’
room, where there are now so many girls, he is a shade more of a
dog. The brave, you know, can’t be wholly unconscious of the fair,
and as I pass through I catch the same words, but spoken with a
slightly more heroic ring.

“Lord, yes, you get used even to going over the top. A rotten
feeling the first time, but you get used to it. That’s one of the
rum things about war, it teaches you what you can get used to. You
get apathetic, you know. That’s the word—apathetic: used to
anything. Standing for hours in water up to your knees. Sleeping
among rats.” (Here some pretty feminine squeals.) “It is a fact,”
he swears to them. “Rats running over you half the night, and now
and then a shell bursting close by.”

Standing at his own old desk as he talks, he looks even taller
and stronger than before—by way of contrast, I suppose, and
as I pass out I wonder if he will ever be able to bring himself to
resume it.

Having occasion, a little while later, to go downstairs among
the warehousemen, where female labour has not yet penetrated. I
hear him again, and notice that his language has become more free.
Safely underground he extends himself a little.

“Over the top?” he is saying. “Yes, three blinking times. What
does it feel like the first time? Well—” and he tells them
how it feels, in a way that I can’t reproduce here, but vivid as
lightning compared with his upstairs manner. And still he remains
the clean forthright youth who sees his duty a dead sure thing, and
does it, even though he may be perplexed now and then.

“So long!” they say, old men-friends and new girl-acquaintances
crowding round him as at last he tears himself away (and watching
him from the distance I am inclined to think that, if he gets
through, he will come back to us after all). “So long!” they say.
“Take care of yourself.”

“You bet!” he replies. “But the question is, Shall I be allowed
to? What price the Hun?” And with a “So long, all!” he is gone.

All over London, in the big towns all over Great Britain, are
these triumphant progresses going on.

We respect the advertiser’s dislike of publicity.

“JONG.”

(Lines suggested by an Australian aboriginal place-name
commonly known by its last syllable.)

OUR STYLISTS.

“It is the desire of the Management that nothing of an
objectionable character shall appear on the stage or in the
auditorium, and they ask the co-operation of the audience in
suppressing same by apprising them of anything that may escape
their notice.”

From a provincial Hippodrome programme.

From the evidence in a juvenile larceny case:—

“The Father: Devils seem to be getting into everyone nowadays,
not only in boys, but in human beings.”

Devon and Exeter Gazette.

A delicate distinction.

Win-the-War Vice-President of our Supply Depot (doing grand
rounds). “HERE AGAIN IS A FIFTH GLARING EXAMPLE. THE HEM OF
THIS BAG IS AN EIGHTEENTH OF AN INCH TOO WIDE. GET THEM ALL REMADE.
WE CANNOT HAVE THE LIVES OF OUR TROOPS ENDANGERED.”

A MIXED LETTER-BAG.

(Prompted by “Thrifty Colleen’s” letter
in “The Times” of September 12.)

CRUELTY TO VEGETABLES.

SIR,—May I be allowed to protest with all the vigour at my
command against the revolting suggestion that, with the view of
making cakes from potatoes they should be first boiled in their
skins. I admit that this is better than that they should be boiled
without them, but that is all. The potato is notoriously a
sensitive plant. Personally I regard it more in the light of an
emblem than a vegetable. That it is not necessary as an article of
food can be conclusively proved from the teaching of history, for,
as a famous poet happily puts it—

If, however, the shortage of cereals demands that potatoes
should be used as a substitute for wheat, I suggest that, instead
of being subjected to the barbarous treatment described above, they
should be granted a painless death by chloroform or some other
anæsthetic.

I am, Sir, yours truly,

POTATOPHIL.

ERIN’S INCUBUS.

SIR,—A great deal of fuss is being made over Irish
potato-cakes. Why Irish? The tradition that the potato is the Irish
national vegetable is a hoary fallacy that needs to be exploded
once and for all. It is nothing of the sort. The potato was
introduced into the British Isles by Sir WALTER RALEIGH, a
truculent Elizabethan imperialist of the worst type, transplanted
into Ireland by the English garrison, and fostered by them for the
impoverishment of the Irish physique. The deliberations of the
National Convention now sitting in Dublin will be doomed to
disaster unless they insist, as the first plank of their programme,
on the elimination of this ill-omened root. If ST. PATRICK had only
lived a few centuries later he would have treated the potato as he
did the frogs and snakes.

I am, Sir, Yours rebelliously,

SHANE FINN.

A DANGEROUS DISH.

SIR,—May I put in a mild caveat against excessive
indulgence in potato-cakes, based on an experience in my
undergraduate days at Trinity College, Cambridge, when WHEWELL was
Master? One Sunday I was invited to supper at the MASTER’S, and a
dish of potato-cakes formed part of the collation. WHEWELL was a
man of robust physique and hearty appetite, and I noted that he ate
no fewer than thirteen, considerably more than half the total.
Whether it was owing to the unlucky number or the richness of the
cakes I cannot say, but the fact remains that the MASTER was
seriously indisposed on the following day and unable to deliver a
lecture on the Stoic Philosophy, to which I had greatly looked
forward. I cannot help thinking that PYTHAGORAS, who enjoined his
disciples to “abstain from beans,” would, if he were now alive, be
inclined to revise that cryptic precept and bid us “abstain from
potatoes,” or, at any rate, from over-indulgence in hot
potato-cakes.

I am, Sir, Yours faithfully,

CANTAB.

WANTED—A NEW NAME.

SIR,—If a thing is to make a success a good name is
indispensable. The potato has been handicapped for centuries by its
ridiculous name, which is almost as cumbrous as “cauliflower” and
even more unsightly to the eye. It is futile to talk of a “tuber”
since that means a hump or bump or truffle. No, if you are to get
people to eat potato-cakes you must devise a more dignified and
attractive name; and it [pg 206] would be good policy for the FOOD
CONTROLLER to offer a large prize for the best suggestion, Mr.
EUSTACE MILES, Mr. EDMUND GOSSE and Mr. HALL CAINE to act as
adjudicators.

I am, Sir, Yours obediently,

EARTH-APPLE.

“HULLO! WHERE’S BABY? I THOUGHT HE WAS WITH YOU.” “SO HE IS,
AUNTIE; BUT HE THOUGHT YOU WERE COMING TO FETCH HIM IN, SO HE’S
OVER THERE, CAMMYFLAGING HIMSELF WITH A TOWEL.”

THOROUGHNESS.

It is generally agreed that the War has given women great
chances, and that women for the most part have taken them. Where
they have not, but have preferred frivolity, it is not always their
own fault, but the result of outside pressure. Such a paragraph,
for example, as the following, by “Lady Di,” in The Sunday
Evening Telegram, is hardly a clarion call to
efficiency:—

“This recurrence of night raids has made business brisk in the
lingerie salons, especially among flatland dwellers, for it’s quite
the thing now to have coffee and cake parties after a raid, with
brandy neat in liqueur glasses for those whose nerves have been
shaken. And such parties do give chances for the exhibition of
those dainty garments that usually you have to admire all by
yourself. Which reminds me. Don’t forget an anklet and a wristlet
of black velvet—the wristlet on the right and the anklet on
the left!”

Since “Lady Di” is out for making the most of every opportunity,
and since even she might forget something, I am minded to help her,
two heads being often better than one. Air raids are not the only
unforseen perils. Surely some such paragraph as this would be
useful and indicate zeal:—

The escape of German prisoners being of almost daily occurrence,
it would be well for all women who wish never to be taken unawares
to be prepared to look their best should one of these creatures
meet them. For nothing is lost by looking nice; indeed it is one’s
duty to be smart, lest dowdiness should give him the impression
that England really is suffering from the War. A costume which I
have designed to be seen in by escaping German prisoners is a
“simple” one-piece (not peace) frock—which, when built by a
real artist, can be so intriguing. Of ninon, for choice, with a
Duvetyn hat. Carry a gold purse and lift the skirt high enough to
show the finest silk stockings.

THE CROSSBILLS.

RUSSIA FIRST.

RUSSIA (to the Spirit of Revolution). “THROW DOWN THAT
TORCH AND COME AND FIGHT FOR ME AGAINST THE ENEMY OF LIBERTY.”

“WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR? WE ARE READY FOR YOU TO BEGIN.”

“YES, MADAM. WE ARE JUST TUNING UP.”

“TUNING UP! WHY, I ENGAGED YOU TWO MONTHS AGO!”

BELLAIRS ON MAN-POWER.

MR. BELLAIRS, it will be remembered, was the first to discover
the possibilities of proving (by figures) the dwindling reserves of
hostile man-power. His estimates, based upon pure reason, personal
experience and some two tons of figures, have been carefully
revised and brought to date, more especially for the benefit of
those busy people who cannot take a holiday by the sea, but like to
solace themselves at home with a weekly immersion in Mud and
Water.

Germany.

Here Mr. BELLAIRS is the first to admit a slight inaccuracy in
his previous calculations. Germany has now eight men, instead of
four, on the Western Front. It would appear from these numbers that
the enemy attaches greater importance to defending his line on this
Front than on any other.

Russia.

There are five (and one in reserve) on the Russian Front. The
Russian retreat is explained to be due to artfully inculcated
Christian Science (made in Germany), which has persuaded the
Russians to entertain the belief that they are being heavily
attacked.

Austria.

Austria is reputed on her last legs (three altogether). Her one
man and a boy are fighting with the nonchalance of despair to
resist the Allied pressure. Good news may be expected from this
Front shortly.

Bulgaria.

The warfare of attrition has never shown such excellent results
as in the case of Bulgaria. Her army of trained goats is now the
only barrier to the vengeance of the Serbs.

Turkey.

According to the latest report the Turkish Army has lost its
rifle. It is hoped that every advantage will be taken of our
momentary superior armament.

China.

As a last resort Germany is sending her remaining Hun to attack
the Chinese. What they can hope to achieve by so prodigal a waste
of “cannon-fodder” is difficult to see.

Rumania.

There is no news on the Rumanian Front. It is thought that there
is nobody there.

Palestine.

In Palestine both sides have withdrawn their troops and the
battle is proceeding without them.

When one realises that against these weakening and ever
decreasing forces our Allies will still have a reserve of
80,000,000 by the Spring of 1925, it is impossible to take an
otherwise than optimistic view of the situation.

Intensive Rainfall.

“CUMBERLAND and WESTMORELAND.—After a ten weeks’ drought
we have had three weeks’ rain every day.”—Daily
Paper.

“Officer’s camp kit wanted, in good condition, Sam Browne belt
(5 ft. 7), haversack, &c.”—Scotsman.

In readiness for this hero’s arrival at the Front the
communication-trenches are being specially widened.

“I WISH—

“That it were possible to get frying-pans that would stand LEVEL
when one is cooking in them.”—Home Chat.

It is so awkward to be tilted out of the frying-pan into the
fire.

C.O. (to sentry). “DO YOU KNOW THE DEFENCE SCHEME FOR
THIS SECTOR OF THE LINE, MY MAN?”

Tommy. “YES, SIR.”

C.O. “WELL, WHAT IS IT, THEN?”

Tommy. “TO STAY ‘ERE AND FIGHT LIKE ‘ELL.”

THE GREAT OFFENCE.

As everybody knows, a Gurkha is first of all a rifleman, but
apart from his rifle (which to a hill-man is both meat and raiment)
there are two other treasures very dear to the little man’s heart.
These are his kukri and his umbrella—symbols of war and
peace; and, although he knows the weapon proper to each state and
can dispense (none better) with superfluities, there must have been
many times in France when the absence of his umbrella has caused
him a bitter nostalgia. “Battle is blessed by Allah and no man
tires thereof,” but trenches are of the Shaitan, and from the same
malevolent one comes the ever-raging bursât, the pitiless
drenching rain, that falls where a man may not strip.

With his kukri he did wonders out there on stilly nights, when
he wriggled “over the top,” gripping its good blade in his teeth.
Then No Man’s Land became a jungle and the Bosch a beast whose
dispatch was swift and sure under his cunning wrist. Dawn would
find him squatting in the corner of his dug-out sleeping as one who
has sweet dreams—dreams maybe of counting the decapitated
before an admiring crowd in his native city, himself again the
dapper young dog of Darrapore.

No kilted Jock goes with more swagger down Princes Street than
Johnny Gurkha down the bazaar of Darrapore, particularly in the
evening, when he doffs khaki for the mufti suit of his
clan—the spotless white shorts, coat of black sateen, little
cocked cap and brightly bordered stockings—a mode de
rigueur that would be robbed of its final cachet without
the black umbrella, tucked well up under the arm.

A splendid warrior; in private life a bit of a Don Juan,
perhaps; but his womenfolk bear him no grudge on this score, liking
themselves to sail easy through matrimonial seas.

When I returned to the depôt a month ago there were tales,
but, as our old Subadar-Major observed, “War brought little
disturbances. The mischief was unfortunate, perhaps, but not
irremediable,” and, as the Subadar had himself been on service in
China for a matter of three years, he knew what he was talking
about.

As for the tales, well, I was reminded of them a few days ago on
making a tour of the lines to see that quarters were clean and
habitable for the next batch of invalids. There would be hospital
for some, for others the sunny little married quarters, and round
there wives were bustling with glee, making no secret of their late
coquetries, but manifestly glad of the return of their former
lords.

Brass pots were being scoured in the doorways; babies sprawled
in the sun; a smell of cooking sweetmeats filled the air; a band of
small urchins in the roadway, wearing the sham accoutrements of
war, was prancing blithely to the song of
“Lang-taraf-Tippalaerlee,” and as their leader pulled up to give me
a grave and perfect salute I recognised the son of old Bahadur
Rai.

Now Bahadur Rai would be returning, and, as I recalled the man,
I wondered how he would take the news of Bibi, his capricious wife,
for I had heard (unofficially) that she had no intention of leaving
the lines of the 2nd Battalion, or the dashing young Naik Indrase.
This might be a bit awkward, I mused, remembering the tough little
chap who had been so popular with us all by reason of being the
best shikari in the regiment. His incorrigible love of sport
may have made the defaulter’s sheet ugly (and there’s no denying
that “Absent with leave” does not lead to quick promotion); but
that was in the good old days. Now he was returning covered with
glory, and I was sorry about Bibi.

The train arrived at noon with what our travelled Babu calls the
“blissies.” They were nearly all marked “P.D.”, [pg 210] and I
hope it may be given to me to look as cheerful when my turn comes
to be Permanently Disabled.

It was worth a week’s pay to see the grins on their brown
puckered faces and hear their husky contented salaams as they were
lifted from the train. Blankets, top-coats, pillows, and other
items belonging to the State were gaily abandoned, but every man
clung with tenacity to his tunic and his water-bottle, for was
there not a collection of trophies in those bulging pockets and
sea-water in those battered bottles? Real salt sea-water, for the
taste and enlightenment of incredulous elders.

Outside the station the usual crowd had gathered, where it
disported itself like a herd of wild elephants. Veteran bandsmen
played the regimental march; casual minstrels blew conches or
banged tom-toms; and when at last the ambulance waggons moved off,
drawn by oxen that wore blue bead necklaces, and marigolds over
their ears, one had the proud satisfaction of feeling that the most
perfect organisation in the world could not have given our fine
fellows a reception more after their own hearts.

When we reached the parade-ground the scene was still merry and
bright, for there Gurkha ladies were massed in their many-coloured
saris, chattering for all the world like the parrakeets they
resembled. Dogs barked; pet names were squealed; old men waved
their staffs; children clung to the waggons and whooped, and when
the cortège finally turned into the hospital compound and I
cantered back to the lines I wondered what a London bobby would
have made of the heterogeneous traffic that littered the Darrapore
Road. I had to sit tight in office to get level with work that
evening, and the mess bugle was dwelling maliciously on its top
note when at last I put down my pen.

Then the door opened and with a confederate mysterious air the
orderly announced Bahadur Rai. (Heavens!)

“And the Sahib?” the Bahadur was asking in swift Nepalese after
a wealth of salutations was over. “Can but one arm do all this?”
waving towards my bulging files.

“One does not want two hands to write with, you know,
Bahadur.”

“True. But the shooting?” he added sadly.

“We’ll have that again too some day. Great things are done in
Vilayat, where I go when peace comes. And you? You have done well,
Bahadur.”

“Well enough,” he admitted with a trace of pride, Then, after a
pause, “The 2nd Battalion starts on service to-morrow, Sahib?”

“Yes. A few men will be left at the depôt—not those
of any use.”

“And Naik Indrase, does he go?”

“No. The Colonel-Sahib put his name down long ago for station
duty.”

“Then I desire leave, your Honour. I want to visit 2nd Battalion
lines.”

“Ah! Put it off a bit,” I urged weakly. “It’s rough getting
across the nullah, and with that crutch—”

There was silence. “Your son?” I began irrelevantly.

“My son does well and grows fast, Allah be praised. Later he
will come to the hills to learn the ways of a gun. Even now he has
the heart of a lion,” added the proud father with a return of the
old twinkle in his eyes. “But of this other matter. Perhaps the
Sahib has heard what the Naik has done?”

“Yes,” I admitted reluctantly. “I visited your house this
morning. All was in order, and I gave instructions about the roof,
which—”

“It is already repaired,” interrupted the old fellow quickly,
“and my mother has arranged all things well within. But the Naik,
Sahib. It is necessary that I should beat him. The Sahib has
heard—”

“About Bibi? Yes. But he will give her up,” I said
confidently.

“Bibi? He can keep Bibi. She was ever swift with her tongue and
liked not the ways of shikaris. Yes, he can keep Bibi,”
added Bahadur Rai without bitterness. “But, Sahib”—and here
the little man’s voice rose almost to a scream of
indignation—”that was not the worst. The Naik must be
beaten, and well beaten, for he took, not Bibi
alone—he took my umbrella!“

“YOU’VE GOT SOME ROCKERY HERE, DAD, SINCE I LEFT.”

“HUSH! NOT A WORD. IT’S COAL, MY BOY, WHITEWASHED! CELLAR’S FULL
UP.”

PROPAGANDA FRIGHTFULNESS.

(It is reported that the German Minister to Patagonia, with
the assistance of the Swedish Chargé d’Affaires, has caused
the following Proclamation to be distributed, along with a
translation into the vernacular, among the natives; alleging that
it reproduces a leaflet composed by the ALL-HIGHEST and dropped
from a German aeroplane over the London district.)

This is a know-making to my Britisch Underthanes addressed. Be
it known that from to-day on the Britisch Empire my Empire is, and
all Britisch Men, Fraus and Childer are Germans. The folgende are
now rules:—

(1) I make all Laws alone and nobody with me interfere must.

(2) When a Man or Frau or Child a mile from me laughs it is as
when into my All-Highest Face gelaughed is and the Strafe shall the
Death be.

(3) Who me sees shall flat on the Earth fall and shall him there
until I my gracious Hand wave keep.

(4) The German Sprache shall the Britisch Folk’s Sprache be and
every Englisch Man who German not sprech kann shall with a
by-Proclamation-to-be-declared-Strafe gestrafed be.

(5) German at the Table Manners shall by all Britisch Childer
gelernt be.

(6) Everyone shall German Soldiers salute. If any one misses
this to do shall the Soldier the Right have him through the body
with a sword to run.

(7) Only German Cigars and Tabak shall gesmokt be.

(8) The Newspapers shall every day print an Artikel me for my
good Heart, my Genius and my Condescension praising.

(9) It shall a Picture of me in every House be.

AN OPEN-AIR VARIETY ENTERTAINMENT AT THE FRONT

WITH “OCCASIONAL MUSIC BY THE ANTI-AIRCRAFT SECTION.”

AT THE PLAY.

“THE YELLOW TICKET.”

If Mr. MICHAEL MORTON doesn’t mind my not taking his original
play too seriously I don’t mind telling him how much I enjoyed it.
It is quite a neat example of the shocker—an agreeable form
of entertainment for the simple and the jaded. The chief properties
are a yellow ticket and a hat-pin. Both belong to the innocent and
beautiful Jewish heroine, Anna Mirol.

It appears that she wanted to leave the pale to go to see her
dying father in Petersburg, and the police, who will have their
grim joke against a Jewess, offer her “the most powerful passport
in Russia”—the yellow ticket of Rahab. She accepts it
desperately, and, to escape its horrible obligations, enters an
English family as governess, under an assumed name. Here the head
of the sinister Okhrana (Secret Police Bureau), a sleek red-haired
sensualist, Baron Stepan Andreyeff, and a chivalrous but
tactless English journalist, Julian Rolfe, become acquainted
with her. The latter wishes to marry her; the former’s intentions
are strictly dishonourable, and with the aid of his ubiquitous
secret policemen he persecutes her, using his power to set her free
from the attentions of his detestable minions for bargaining
purposes in a perfectly Hunnish manner. Discreet servants, locked
doors, champagne, a perfectly priceless dressing jacket, a sliding
panel disclosing a luxuriously appointed bedroom—all these
resources are at his disposal.

But he reckons without her hatpin, which in the course of his
deplorably abrupt attempts at seduction she pushes adroitly into
his heart, and next day well-informed St. Petersburg winks
discreetly when it learns that the Baron has died after an
operation for appendicitis.

How that nice young man, Julian, is more than a match for
the forthright methods of the Okhrana is for you to go and find
out.

Mr. ALLAN AYNESWORTH’S finished skill was reinforced by a quite
admirable make-up, though only a policeman of very melodrama could
have missed that brilliant pate as it shone balefully over the
inadequate chair in which he sat concealed while his subordinate
was bullying the hapless Anna. Also I doubt whether so stout
a ruffian would have succumbed so promptly to such a simple
pin-prick. But perhaps the surprise, annoyance and keen
disappointment broke his soldierly heart. Anyway, living or dying,
the Baron was a clever and plausible performance.

You know Mr. WONTNER’S loose-limbed ease of manner and agreeable
voice. He was rather a stock and stockish hero as he left the
author’s hands, but Mr. WONTNER put life and feeling into him. Miss
GLADYS COOPER reached no heights or depths of passion, but took a
pleasant middle way, and certainly gets more out of herself than
once seemed likely. I should like to commend to her the excellent
doctrine of the “dominant mood.” She was, for instance, just a
little too detached in the recital of that story when playing for
time by the bad Baron’s fireside.

Mr. SYDNEY VALENTINE, having happily come by an early death in
another theatre, is able to present us a lifelike portrait of a
really remorseless policeman in our third Act, condemning folk to
Siberia with all the arbitrary despatch of the Red
Queen.

On the whole, then, distinctly good of its
kind—transpontine matter with the St. James’s form.

T.

OUR SOUVENIR UNIT.

“No,” said the Canadian slowly, “organization isn’t everything.
Up to a certain point it’s necessary, but there must be a latitude.
Give me scope for initiative every time.

“Take an instance. You know our regiments have runners, men who
go to and fro carrying orders and making liaison along the line. In
the regiment I’m telling you about the runners were two smart
chaps—drummers they were before the War—and not having
too much work with their errands they ran a few side lines of their
own, such as shaving and hair-cutting, cobbling and the like. But
of all their side lines souvenir-selling was the most profitable.
In their capacity of runners they could go where they liked and
accompany any of the attacking parties, so they had good chances
for souvenirs.

“One evening they went over into D Company’s trench and said,
‘Say, you fellows, anybody want souvenirs? Bert’s ordered an attack
for daybreak. A, B, and C Companies carry it out. You’re not going.
I expect we shall be doing a nice line in tin hats. Any orders?
Helmet for you? Right, that’ll be twenty francs, cash on delivery.
Bosch rifle? Yes, if we get any, fifty francs. Bandoliers, same
price. What’s that? Iron Cross? Oh, not likely! But we’ll do our
best. A hundred francs if we deliver the goods.’

“Well, the next day the attack was made, and at one end of a
Bosch trench there was some pretty hand-to-hand work. An old
Rittmeister held it, his breast covered with decorations, and he
just wouldn’t give in. Of course, so long as he stuck it the other
Bosches did too, and there was nothing doing in the Kamerad line.
They fought like fury. So did our men, but we were slightly
outnumbered, and it soon began to be evident that we should have to
retire if we didn’t get reinforcements. But, just when things were
looking hopeless, over the top of the parapet leaped the two
runners, unarmed but irresistible. With blazing eyes they flung
themselves on that old Rittmeister, and while one of them downed
him with a blow under the chin we heard the voice of the other
uplifted in a new slogan: ‘Give over, will you, old turnip-head!
You’ve got the goods, and, by Sam Hill, we mean to have ’em!’ And
with one hand he held the prisoner down while with the other he
tore the Iron Cross from his tunic.

“After the Bosch officer’s fall our men made short work of the
rest, but the runners didn’t wait for victory. There was a muttered
counting of the spoils: ‘Six helmets for D Company. Two Bosch
rifles. One bandolier. And the Iron Cross. That’s the lot. We’d
better git.’ And they got.”

“The two British Colossuses, The Tribune says, opened
fire with their 300 five-millimetres guns.”—The Post
(Dundee.)

This is the first we have heard of the new naval
pea-shooter.

“The war aims to which Germany and Austria must give assent must
be expressed in unequivocal language and based on the principles of
jujsjtjicjejjjjji.”—Evening Echo (Cork).

We are not quite sure whether our spirited contemporary refers
to justice or ju-jitsu; but, either way, it means to give the Huns
a knock-out.

“For British and Oversea soldiers and sailors who visit Paris a
club is to be opened at the Hotel Moderne, Place de la
République.

“The British Ambassador, Sir Douglas Haig, Sir John Jellicoe, and
Sir William Robertson have become patrons of the club, which will
provide them with comfortable quarters and meals at reasonable
prices, supply guides, and generally fulfil a useful purpose.”

Evening Standard.

But surely the British Ambassador has already fairly comfortable
quarters in the Rue Faubourg St. Honoré.

SMALL CRAFT.

C.F.S.

TRIALS OF A CAMOUFLAGE OFFICER.

WHEN AN INSPECTING GENERAL MISTAKES A DISGUISED TRENCH FOR SOLID
GROUND.

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

The opening paragraph of Mr. JEFFERY FARNOL’S latest novel,
The Definite Object (LOW, MARSTON), informs us that in the
writing of books two things are essential: to know “when and where
to leave off … and where to begin.” Perhaps without churlishness
I might add a third, and suggest that it is equally important to
know where to make your market. Mr. FARNOL, very wisely, plumps for
America; and the new story is a thing of millionaires, crooks,
graft and the like. But don’t go supposing for one moment that
these regrettable surroundings have in the smallest degree impaired
the exquisite and waxen bloom of our author’s sympathetic
characters. Far from it. Of the young and oh-so-good-looking
millionaire (weary of pleasures and palaces, too weary even to
dismiss his preposterous and farcical butler—lacking, in
effect, the definite object); of the heroine’s young brother, crook
in embryo, but reclaimable by influence of hero; and of the
peach-like leading lady herself, I can only say that each is worthy
of the rest, and all of a creator who must surely (I like to think)
have laughed more than once behind his hand during the progress of
their creation. I expect by now that I have as good as told you the
plot—young brother caught burgling hero’s flat; hero,
intrigued by mention of sister, doffing his society trappings,
following his captive to crook-land, bashing the wicked inhabitants
with his heroic fists, and finally, of course, wedding the sister.
So there you are! No, I am wrong. The wedding is not absolute
finality, since the heroine (for family pride, she said, because
her brother had tried to shoot her husband; but, as this reason is
manifestly idiotic, I must suppose her to be acting on a hint from
Mr. FARNOL’S publishers) decreed their union to be in name alone.
Which provides for the extra chapters.

Have you ever imagined yourself plunged (bodily, not mentally)
into the midst of a story by some particular author? If, for
example, you could get inside the covers of a Mrs. ALFRED SIDGWICK
novel, what would you expect to find? Probably a large and
pleasantly impecunious family, with one special daughter who
combines great practical sense with rare personal charm. You would
certainly not be startled to find her brought into contact with
persons of greater social importance than her own; and you would be
excusably disappointed if she did not end by securing the most
eligible young male in the cast. I feel bound to add that a perusal
of Anne Lulworth (METHUEN) has left me with these
convictions more firmly established than ever. The Lulworth
household, from the twins to the practical mother, is Sidgwickian
to its core, though perhaps one can’t but regret that the Great
Unmasking has for ever robbed them of the society of those fat and
seemingly kindly Teutons who used to provide such good contrast.
The Lulworths lived at Putney, and never had quite enough
money for the varied calls of clothes and education and sausages
for breakfast. Then Anne went on a visit to ever such a
delightful big house in Cornwall, and there met the only son …
But then came [pg 214] the War and he was reported missing,
so Anne stayed on indefinitely with his widowed mother; and
the unpleasant next-of-kin (Mrs. SIDGWICK never can wholly resist
the temptation of burlesquing her villains) refused to believe that
she had ever been engaged to Victor, and indeed went on indulging
their low-comedy spleen till the great moment, so long and
confidently expected, when—But really I suppose I needn’t say
what happens then. Sidgwickiana, in short, seasonable at all times,
and sufficient for any number of persons.

Mrs. A.M. DIXON began her work in October, 1915, as manager of
one of the Cantines des Dames Anglaises established in
France under the ægis of the London Committee of the French
Red Cross. She remained until the beginning of July in the
following year, and in The Canteeners (MURRAY) she gives an
account of her experiences at Troyes, Héricourt and Le
Bourget, where she and her helpers ministered to an almost
unceasing stream of tired-out French soldiers. There is something
remarkably fresh and attractive about this story. It does not aim
at fine writing, but its very simplicity, which is that of letters
written to an intimate friend, carries a reader along through a
succession of incidents keenly observed and sympathetically noted
in the scanty leisure of a very busy life. That she succeeded as
she did is a high tribute to her kindness and tact as well as to
her organising capacity, I cannot forbear quoting from the letter
of a grateful poilu: “DEAR MISS,—I am arrived
yesterday very much fatiguated. After 36 o’clocks of train we have
made 15 kms. You can think then that has been very dur for us,
because in the train we don’t sleep many … We go to
tranchées six o’clocks a day and all the four days we go the
night. I don’t see other things to say you for the moment. Don’t
make attention of my mistakes, please.” The book is well
illustrated with photographs. I recommend it both on account of its
intrinsic merits and because the author’s profits are to be given
to the London Committee of the French Red Cross.

When a penniless but oh, so ladylike “companion” goes to the
Savoy in answer to a “with a view to matrimony” advertisement, what
more natural than that the party of the first part should prove to
be—not a genteel widower in the haberdashery business, but a
handsome super-burglar of immense wealth and all the more refined
virtues. True, he burgles, but his manly willingness to reform in
order to please the lady shows that his heart was always in the
right place, wherever his fingers might be. Then again the actual
pillage occurs “off,” as they say, and the gentlemanly burglar,
while not “occupied in burgling,” walks the stage a perfect Sir
George Alexander of respectability. Do I hear you, gentle reader,
exclaiming, like the Scotsman when he first saw a hippopotamus,
“Hoots! There’s nae sic a animal!” It is simply your ignorance. The
joint authors of This Woman to this Man (METHUEN) have
selected him as the hero of their latest novel, so there he is. His
combined annexation of the penniless beauty’s hand and her titled
relatives’ objets d’art, her discovery that the splendid
fellow she has idolised—it must be admitted, without any
indiscreet investigation of his past—is a thief, and their
final reconciliation in the rude but honest atmosphere of a New
Mexico cattle ranch, are all included in the modest half-crown’s
worth that C.N. and A.M. WILLIAMSON put forward as their latest
effort. And nowadays you can’t buy much of anything for
half-a-crown.

With commendable idealism Mr. SIDNEY PATERNOSTER considers
The Great Gift (LANE) to be Love, and brings a certain
seriousness to bear upon his theme. Hugh Standish,
ex-newsboy, is at the age of twenty-five partner of an important
shipping firm, as well as large holder in a book-selling business,
which, in his leisure, he has so successfully run that it is
“floated with a capital of £100,000 and over-subscribed”
(incidentally rejoice, ye novelists!). At forty-six he is the whole
shipping firm and a Cabinet Minister to boot. I would ask Mr.
PATERNOSTER if such a man, who has, ex hypothesi, been so
busy that he needs the sight of an out-of-work being tended and
caressed by his faithful wife in a London Park to suggest to him
that there exists such a thing as Love, with a capital L; needs
also a later conversation with the same out-of-work to convince him
that there is really something the matter with the industrial
system (and wouldn’t it be a good idea to do something about it now
one is a Cabinet Minister?)—I ask Mr. PATERNOSTER, I say, if
this is the sort of man to take it all so sweetly when the girl of
his choice prefers his cousin and secretary to him? I think not.
Our author has woven his story without any reference to the play of
circumstance upon his characters. I am afraid he has shirked the
difficult labour of artistic plausibility, and I leave it to
moralists to decide whether his excellent intentions and sentiments
redeem this æsthetic offence.

Weird o’ the Pool (MURRAY) may be described as a
subterranean book. I mean that its characters are frequently to be
found in secret passages and caves and places unknown to
law-abiding citizens. The scenes of this story of incident are laid
in Scotland at the beginning of last century, and Mr. ALEXANDER
STUART makes things move at such a pace that for a hundred pages or
so I could not keep up with him. Then two kind ladies had a
conversation, and the confusion which had invaded my mind was
suddenly and completely cleared away. The pace after this dispersal
is as brisk as ever, but it is quite easy to keep up with it. All
the same, I cannot help thinking that Mr. STUART has overcrowded
his canvas, and that his tale would be the better for the removal
of a few of his plotters and counter-plotters from it. I have never
yet said a good word for a synopsis, but I do not mind admitting
that I could put up with one here.

“Auntie Madge” (who writes the weekly letter to the darling
kiddies in “Mummy’s Own Magazine”). “NOISY LITTLE BEASTS! I
SHALL NEVER DO ANY DECENT WORK IN THIS ATMOSPHERE.”

Suggested by the Kaiser-Tsar Revelations.