PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 156.

February 19, 1919.

CHARIVARIA.

The report that demobilisation will be completed by March
31st is now officially denied. There would appear to be
something in the rumour that the Demobilisation Staff have
expressed the hope of dying in harness.

It is stated that Woolwich Arsenal is preparing to
manufacture ice-cream freezers. People are wondering if it was
the weather that gave them this happy thought.

The German ex-Crown Prince is so determined that the Allies
shall not place him on trial that he now threatens to commit
suicide or die in the attempt.

“There are things we want to get rid of,” says “BACK
BENCHER” in The Daily Mail. The rumour that Sir
FREDERICK BANBURY, M.P., has already demanded an apology is
unconfirmed.

Soldier-golfers, says a sporting writer, are already urging
the introduction of fresh features into the game. A new method
of addressing the ball, introduced from Mesopotamia, is said to
be most efficacious.

With reference to the North of England man who has decided
not to strike, we now learn that he happens to be out of work
just at present.

ISAAC DENBIGH, of Chicago, is, we are told,
one-hundred-and-thirteen years of age. He must try again. We
expect better things than this from America.

Statesmen, says Sir WILLIAM ORPEN, A.R.A., are poor sitters.
The impulse to rush out and cackle has probably something to do
with it.

It is said that a soldier in the Lancashire Fusiliers
decided, on being demobilised, to accept a standard civilian
suit instead of the usual gratuity. The Sergeant-Major in
charge of the case lies in a critical condition.

Sand-gleaners at Ramsgate are making money from bags of
sugar washed ashore. This answers the oft-propounded question,
“How do grocers spend their week-ends?”

Another hold-up by American soldiers has occurred in
Liverpool. In view of the magnitude of our debt to the United
States it is felt that this method of collecting it in
instalments is bound to prove unsatisfactory.

“Humour and love,” says a contemporary, “are what will pay
the average writer best at the moment.” It is not known whether
Labour or the Peace Conference has done most to send up the
price of these luxuries.

Officials of the Waiters’ Union are perturbed over the
rumour that restaurant habitués are preparing to strike
in favour of a fifty per cent. reduction in tips.

Several of our leading magistrates declare that unless some
High Court judge asks, “What is beer?” they will be compelled
to do it themselves.

A St. Bernard dog belonging to a New York hotel-keeper
perished after swallowing a bundle of dollar notes. It is said
that the deceased died worth sixty-five pounds.

One explanation for the many daylight robberies committed
recently in London is that several of our better-class burglars
object to breaking into people’s houses like thieves in the
night.

Because a Highgate lodger refused to pay his rent, the
landlady wrote asking his wife to come and fetch him away. If
he is not claimed in three days he will be sold to defray
expenses.

Only a person with a perfectly healthy skin, says a
contemporary, can afford to face the keen winds without taking
precaution. If you have any doubts about your skin the best
thing is to leave it at home on the hat-rack.

At a football match at South Hindley last week the referee
was struck in the mouth and severely injured by one of the
backs, after ordering three other players off the field for
fighting. This, we understand, was one of the first fixtures to
be brought off under the auspices of the Brighter Football
League.

The L.C.C. are said to be formulating a plan to meet the
rush for trains on the Underground. Personally we always try to
avoid it.

A medical journal refers to a new method of raising blisters
by hypnotic suggestion. This is said to be an improvement on
the old East End system of developing black eyes by
back-answering.

A defendant told the Tower Bridge magistrate that he only
took whisky when he had a cold. It must be hard work for him to
resist sitting by an open window this weather.

A gold vase, said to have been stolen from Assyria 2478
years ago, has just been found in a sarcophagus at Cairo. We
understand that the local police have been instructed to take
action.

The typist who, as reported in these columns last week, fell
out of a moving train on the Isle of Wight Railway and had
quite a lot to say to the guard when she overtook the train, is
now understood to have been told she could keep on walking if
she liked. However, as her people were not expecting her until
the train arrived, she again entered the carriage from which
she had fallen.

Russian soldiers are now permitted to smoke in the streets
and to travel in railway carriages. Later on it is hoped that
the privilege of dying a natural death may be extended to
them.

House-agent’s
Clerk (to gentleman hunting for a flat).
“NOW THEN, BE OFF WITH YOU. WE NEVER BUY ANYTHING FROM
ITINERANTS.”

THE CAM OFFENSIVE.

O.S.

CAST.

The auctioneer glanced at his book. “Number 29,” he said,
“black mare, aged, blind in near eye, otherwise sound.”

The cold rain and the biting north-east wind did not add to
the appearance of Number 29, as she stood, dejected, listless,
with head drooping, in the centre of the farmers and
horse-dealers who were attending the sale of cast Army horses.
She looked as though she realised that her day had waned, and
that the bright steel work, the soft well-greased leather, the
snowy head-rope and the shining curb were to be put aside for
less noble trappings.

She had a curiously shaped white blaze, and I think it was
that, added to the description of her blindness, which stirred
my memory within me. I closed my eyes for a second and it all
came back to me, the gun stuck in the mud, the men straining at
the wheels, the shells bursting, the reek of high explosive,
the two leaders lying dead on the road, and, above all, two
gallant horses doing the work of four and pulling till you’d
think their hearts would burst.

I stepped forward and, looking closer at the mare’s neck,
found what I had expected, a great scar. That settled it. I
approached the auctioneer and asked permission to speak to the
crowd for a few moments.

“Well,” said he, “I’m supposed to do the talking here, you
know.”

“It won’t do you any harm,” I pleaded, “and it will give me
a chance to pay off a big debt.”

“Right,” he said, smiling; “carry on.”

“Gentlemen,” I said, “about this time a year ago I was
commanding a battery in France. It was during the bad days, and
we were falling back with the Hun pressing hard upon us. My
guns had been firing all the morning from a sunken road, when
we got orders to limber up and get back to a rear position. We
hadn’t had a bad time till then, a few odd shells, but nothing
that was meant especially for our benefit. And then, just as we
were getting away, they spotted us, and a battery opened on us
good and strong. By a mixture of good luck and great effort
we’d got all the guns away but one, when a shell landed just in
front of the leaders and knocked them both out with their
driver; at the same time the gun was jerked off the road into a
muddy ditch. Almost simultaneously another shell killed one of
the wheelers, and there we were with one horse left to get the
gun out of the ditch and along a road that was almost as bad as
the ditch itself.

“It looked hopeless, and it was on the tip of my tongue to
give orders to abandon the gun, when suddenly out of the blue
there appeared on the bank above us a horse, looking
unconcernedly down at us.

“In those days loose horses were straying all over the
country, and I took this to be one from another battery which
had come to us for company.

“I turned to one of the men. ‘Catch that mare quick.’

“In a few minutes we had the harness off the dead wheeler
and on the new-comer. Pull? Gentlemen, if you could have seen
those two horses pull!

“We’d just got a move on the gun when another shell came and
seemed to burst right on top of the strange mare. I heard a
terrified squeal, and through the smoke I saw her stagger and
with a mighty effort recover herself. I ran round and saw she’d
been badly hit over the eye and had a great tearing gash in the
neck. We never thought she could go on, but she pulled away
just the same, with the blood pouring off her, till finally we
got the gun out and down the road to safety.

“I got knocked out a few minutes later, and from that day to
this I’ve often wondered what had happened to the mare that had
served us so gallantly. I know now. There she stands before
you. I’d know her out of a thousand by the white blaze; and if
there was a doubt there’s her blind eye and the scar on her
neck.

“That’s all, gentlemen; but I’m going to ask the man who
buys her to remember her story and to see that her last days
are not too hard.”

She fell at a good price to a splendid type of West Country
farmer, and the auctioneer whispered to me, “I’m glad old
Carey’s got her. There’s not a man in the county keeps his
horses better.”

“Old Carey” came up to me as we were moving off. “I had a
son in France,” he said, “in the gunners, too, but he hadn’t
the luck of the old mare”—he hesitated a moment and his
old eyes looked steadily into mine—”for he’ll never come
back. The mare’ll be all right, Sir,” he went on as he walked
off, “easy work and full rations. I reckon she’s earned
them.”

“The bride was given away by her grandfather who was
dressed in Liberty satin in empire style, with hanging
sleeves of chiffon.”—Provincial Paper.

He must have looked a sweet old dear.

THE GOOSE THAT LAYS THE GOLDEN EGGS.

The
Bird. “HAVE YOU REALISED, MY GOOD SIR, THAT IF YOU
PROCEED TO EXTREMES WITH THAT WEAPON MY AURIFEROUS
ACTIVITIES MUST INEVITABLY CEASE?”

ECHO OF THE TUBE STRIKE.

“TAKE YER UP TO THE CITY
FOR ‘ALF-A-QUID, GUV’NOR.”

THE ACUTE ANGLER.

The Colonel of our Reserve Battalion has an almost unique
reputation as an angler. Scattered elements of the regiment
carry his piscatorial heroics to obscure corners of the earth.
Majors on the Pushti Kuli range recount the episode of the
ingenuous troutling which, having apparently conceived a
violent passion for the Colonel, literally forced itself upon
the hook seven times within a short afternoon. Captains on the
Sultanitza Planina rehearse the epic incidents of how the
Colonel snatched victory from defeat after pursuing for three
miles an infuriated pike which had wrenched the very rod from
his grasp. Subalterns in the chill wilds of Cologne, adding
picturesque details to an already artistic story, relate how he
hooked a mighty veteran carp near Windsor, and played it for
nine full hours (with a rest of ten minutes after the first,
and five after each successive hour); how, under a full moon,
he eventually grounded it on the Blackfriars’ mud and beached
it with a last effort; how they lay panting side by side for a
space, and how, finally, with the courtesy due to an honourable
foe from a gallant victor, he forced neat brandy down its
throat and returned it to its domain in a slightly inebriated
but wholly grateful condition.

Consequently the Colonel’s announcement that in view of the
armistice he intended to spend three days in fishing the waters
of a friend’s estate was received by the Mess with lively
satisfaction. An overwhelming fish diet was deprecated, but it
was generally held that the honour of the regiment was in some
way involved, and the Major felt it his duty to escort his
senior officer on an expedition of such gravity.

It transpired that the first day was unfortunate. The
Colonel was silently impolite throughout Mess and retired
immediately afterwards. The Major explained that the conditions
had been adverse. The punt leaked at the end depressed by the
Colonel and the ground-bait had been left behind. The wind was
fierce and cutting, and the brandlings had been upset into the
luncheon-basket. In addition the Colonel’s reel had escaped
into the river and had declined to give itself up until the
whole length of line had been hauled in; and, in leaning over
the side to reclaim it, his gold fountain-pen had vanished.
Five hooks had failed to return from the deep and two were left
suspended from inaccessible branches; Also in the Major’s
opinion there was not a single fish in the river.

By breakfast the Colonel had regained his spirits. He
commented on the lack of support given him by the Major, and in
his place invited the Adjutant on the ground that he was
probably less clumsy. He remarked that the offensive had not
yet opened and that the previous day had been mainly devoted to
a thorough reconnaissance of the whole sector. He had reason to
believe that the enemy was present in considerable force.

The second day proved equally unfortunate. The Colonel took
his dinner in private, and the Mess orderly, who had dismally
cut the two of clubs in the kitchen, returned from his
ministrations a complete nervous wreck. The Adjutant explained
that misfortune had followed misfortune. They had barely
settled down midstream, and he was in the act of extracting a
hook from the Colonel’s finger with his jack-knife, when the
punt broke from its moorings and carried them half-a-mile
downstream. [pg 137] It was uncanny how the
craft had contrived to navigate four bends without giving an
opportunity of landing. In the afternoon they had fished
from the bank, and the Colonel had fallen asleep while the
Adjutant mounted guard. The Adjutant protested that it was
not his fault that the float suddenly disappeared, or that
the Colonel, on being vigorously awakened by him, struck so
violently at what proved to be a dead branch that he lost
his footing and tobogganned heavily into the river, and was
compelled to waste three hours in the neighbouring hostelry
taking precautions against a chill.

At breakfast next morning the Colonel intimated that on this
his last day he would go unaccompanied. With one eye on the
Major and the other on the Adjutant, he passed a few remarks on
the finesse of fishing. The element of surprise should
be the basis of attack. Precision and absolute secrecy in the
carrying out of preliminary operations was vital. Every trick
and every device of camouflage should be brought into play.
There should be no violent preliminary bombardment of
ground-bait to alarm the hostile forces, but the sector should
be unostentatiously registered on the preceding night. The
enemy’s first realisation of attack should be at that moment
when resistance was futile—though for his part he
preferred a foe that would fight to the fish-basket, as it
were. He thought the weather was vastly improved and admitted
that his hopes were high.

In the evening the Colonel positively swaggered into Mess.
He radiated good fellowship and even bandied witticisms with
the junior subaltern in an admirable spirit of give-and-take.
He had enjoyed excellent sport. Later, in the ante-room, he
delivered a useful little homily on the surmounting of
obstacles, on patience, on presence of mind and on nerve,
copiously illustrated from a day’s triumph that will resound on
the Murman coast as the unconditional surrender of the
intimidated roach. He described how he had cunningly
outmanoeuvred the patrols, defeated the vigilance of the
pickets, pierced the line of resistance, launched a surprise
attack on the main body, and spread panic in the hearts of the
hostile legions.

Unhappily for us, common decency, he said, had forced him to
present his catch to his friend.

“Wanted, to kill time whilst waiting demobilisation, an
old gun, rifle, or pistol.”—Morning Paper.

Now we know why Time flies.

Barber (carried away by
his reminiscences). “AND WHEN HE’D LOOPED THE LOOP
HE DID A NOSE-DIVE THAT FAIRLY TOOK YOUR BREATH AWAY.”

THE TWOPENNY BIN.

It was called Greatheart; or, Samuel’s Sentimental
Side; and I think you will agree that it was a lot of title
for twopence. Day after day, as I fumbled among the old books
in the Twopenny Bin of the little secondhand bookseller’s shop,
that volume would wriggle itself forward and worm its way into
my hands; and I would clench my teeth and thrust it to the
remotest depths of the box.

Then it haunted me. All day in my room I could hear
Greatheart; or, Samuel’s Sentimental Side calling
out to me, “How would you like to be in the Twopenny Bin?”

I began to grow sentimental myself, and to handle those
unconsidered trifles with tenderness. For you never know; I
might be in the Twopenny Bin myself someday; might be picked
up, just glanced at and shifted back into the corner out of
sight.

Yesterday Greatheart again found himself in my hands,
and I looked to see the date of his entry upon the world. I
reflected on his sixty years of life, on the many happy
fireside hours that had been spent in his company, on the
gentle solace he had furnished to lesser hearts.

I had decided what to do. There were few people about; the
bookseller was not looking, and, if offence it was, well, I
could fall back on the mercy of those who would judge.

I leaned forward and tenderly deposited him in the Fourpenny
Bin.

The Visitor. “BY JOVE, PERSEUS, I NEVER KNEW YOU
WENT IN FOR SCULPTURE. GOOD STUFF, TOO, BUT A TRIFLE
REALISTIC.”

Perseus. “OH, JUST A HOBBY. BUT, BETWEEN
OURSELVES, IT’S THE MEDUSA’S HEAD THAT DOES IT. TURNS
PEOPLE INTO STONE, AND THERE YOU ARE.”

TO A DEAR DEPARTED.

[“Georgina,” the largest of the giant tortoises at the
Zoo, has died. She was believed to be about two hundred and
fifty years old.]

ALGOL.

TECHNICALITIES OF DEMOBILISATION.

Officer.
“WHAT ARE THESE MEN’S TRADES OR CALLINGS, SERGEANT?”
Sergeant. “SLOSHER, SLABBER AND WUZZER, SIR.”

A CONTRA APPRECIATION.

LORD NORTHCLIFFE has recently contributed a remarkably
outspoken criticism of Mr. LLOYD GEORGE by way of “send-off” to
his latest journal, The New Illustrated. The following
extracts from an article about to appear in The Pacific
Monthly, kindly communicated to us by wireless, seem to
indicate that the PREMIER is indisposed to take it lying
down:—

“In a letter recently published without my authority I said
that I was unable to control or influence him. This was true at
the time and remains true now. Time and again have efforts been
made to harness his energies to the State, but they have never
succeeded. The responsibilities of office are irksome to his
imperious temperament. There is something almost tragic in a
figure, equipped with the qualities of an hereditary autocrat,
endeavouring to accommodate himself to the needs of a
democracy. The spectacle of this purple Emperor of the Press,
with his ear constantly glued to the ground, is not wanting in
pathos. With him the idols of yesterday are the pet aversions
of to-day. He denounces me as ‘a political chameleon, taking on
the colour of those who at the moment happen to be his
associates.’ But what are you to say of a man who clamours for
a saviour of the situation and then turns him into a cock-shy;
of a Napoleon who is continually retiring to Elba when things
are not going as he likes; of a politician who claims the
privileges but refuses the duties of a Dictator?

“It is obvious that he is still labouring under the
hallucination that the War was a duel between him and the
KAISER; that he ‘downed’ his antagonist single-handed, and that
the prospects of a stable peace have been shattered by my
failure to include him among the British Peace Delegates. So,
all in a moment, the ‘Welsh Wizard’ is converted into the
miserable creature of the Tory Junkers—a man without
‘high moral courage,’ ‘wide knowledge’ or ‘large ideas.’

“Personally I have no illusions about my consistency, but I
do think that here I displayed some moral courage, also
some unselfish consideration for CLEMENCEAU and WILSON and
others. Just think of the panegyrics that would have been
showered upon my head in the Press which he controls if he had
been invited to the Table!

“But with all deductions he is a man to be reckoned with, if
not counted upon. He is a man of large type—almost of
“Pica” type. And sometimes he deviates into sound and just
criticism; as for example when he says that I ‘depend greatly,
upon others.’ It is true. What is more, I know on whom I can
depend; and I have learnt that his support can only be secured
on terms which would reduce the PREMIER to the level of one of
his minor editors.”

Shakspeare will be Pleased.

—Scottish Paper.

The Winter’s Tale, III. 3.

“At the Dogger Bank fight, Lion, the flagship of Sir
David Beatty, was crippled. Some people say she was
torpedoed, almost miraculously, by a Hun destroyer from
five miles’ range (which version is probably
tripe).”—Scottish Paper.

Like so many things that we read in the Press nowadays.

NOUVELLES DE PARIS.

(With acknowledgments to the “Society” Press).

Paris, Feb., 1919.

Dearest POPPY,—Que la vie est drôle! Who was it
said that there are two great tragedies in life—not
getting what you want, and getting it? I never understood that
saying until now. For instance, when I left London most people
I knew seemed to have a feverish desire to get to Paris. They
were ready to move heaven, earth and the Ministry of
Information to obtain the desired passport. They would go to
any lengths to prove how necessary their presence is here
during the Peace Conference.

And now I find my countrymen over here longing with an equal
feverishness to go home again. Ils s’attristent. Ils
s’ennuient. They have nostalgie in its acutest form.
It quite goes to my heart to hear the pathetic questions they
put to newcomers: “How is London looking? What shows are
running now?” And they go on to speak of dear dirty dark
London, its beloved fogs, how adorable is the atrocious climate
of England, in a way that would bring tears to your eyes. Why
don’t they go back? you ask, ma chère. It’s just
because they want to be “in at the death” and say they were
here when la paix était signée.

So these poor exiles continue to sacrifice themselves and
drift aimlessly about Paris, making it so full that there’s
scarcely room for people like myself—who really
are on important work here—to breathe.

Imagine! I met Eleanor Dashgood on the Boulevard Haussmann
to-day, descending from her car with her two poms yapping at
her heels, just as if she were chez elle. I really felt
like saying something pointed; but, after all, my only comment
was, “My dear, what a strange lot of people one meets in
Paris nowadays!”

“Yes, dearest,” she said, “that just occurred to me, too.”
I’m wondering now what the creature meant. Believe me, my dear,
that woman has illegally wangled a passport out of the
authorities by representing herself as her husband’s
typist—he’s got a diplomatic passport, you know. I
inquired if the maid she had brought with her had turned into a
typist, too, to say nothing of the poms. The toupet of
some people!

And, of course, all this unnecessary rabble is helping to
make everything horriblement cher. The price of things
makes one’s hair stand on end like the quills of the fretful
porcupine. I can assure you that le moindre petit dîner
coûte les yeux de la tête. Poor Bobbie Lacklands had a
tragic experience yesterday. He said he quite
unthinkingly dropped into that most recherché of eating
places, Fouquet’s, for a snack. With only a modest balance at
the bank he ordered a sardine. Then he called for a filet
mignon and half-a-pint of vin rouge—he was
always a reckless spendthrift sort of boy, you know. A cup of
café noir and an apple completed his financial ruin.

But he still declares that they were most awfully decent to
him about it. They agreed, with scarcely any trouble, to take
all the notes and loose silver he had with him on account. They
accepted his securities and are now allowing him to pay off the
balance gradually.

Paris is beginning to think of dress once more, or I ought
to say undress, for with the skirts short and the sleeves short
and the bodice low there isn’t very much left to write
about. I hope these short tight skirts will reach the ankles
before they reach England, for I notice the people who have the
courage to wear them generally lack the excuse of symmetry.

Figurez-vous! Jenny Bounceley, who considers herself
quite a Parisienne now she’s got her official carte
d’alimentation, appeared the other day in a skirt that
resembled the jupe of a gamine. I think it’s
disgraceful in one of her age and proportions. If she were
simply knock-kneed; but, as Bertie says, she’s knock-ankled as
well.

Votre bien dévouée,
ANNE.

“RUMANIA. REDIDIVUS.”

East African Standard.

To judge from the rumours of revolution, this false concord
is only too apt.

“Music was supplied and enjoyed by a local
orchestra.”—Provincial Paper.

This phenomenon has frequently been observed; the audience
meanwhile continuing its conversation.

“Colonel Sir Rhys Williams, who wore his khaki uniform,
moved the Address in reply to the Speech from the
Throne….

It was not the glamour of war, Mr. Rhys Williams
continued….”—Evening Standard.

It is refreshing to come across a case of really rapid
demobilisation.

“A message from Vienna states that the Emperor Carl
intends to be a candidate in the forthcoming elections for
the Australian National Assembly.”—Australian
Paper.

But there is no truth in the rumour that, by way of
reprisal, Mr. HUGHES intends to put in for CARL’s vacant
throne.

RIME FAIRIES.

“It is also extremely likely that the Democrats have
induced a considerable number of former Centre voters in
South Germany to join them.”—Christian
World.

“Democrats” would seem to be the German equivalent of “Home
Rulers.”

Extract from a recent novel:—

“She wore under it a white blouse of thin stuff, snowy
white … the big floppy sleeves gently bellowed in the
slight breeze.”

It sounds rather a loud dress. Possibly le dernier
cri.

“It is like a red rag to a bull to the ‘bus drivers to
see those lorries running about picking up members of the
public.

We are trying to keep our heads, but our shoulders are
bending under the pressure, and presently, I am afraid, we
shall collapse and find ourselves in the
vortex.”—Daily Paper.

We should like to see this situation illustrated. Would some
Vorticist oblige?

THE MAN WHO GOT HIS MONEY’S WORTH.

The Demobilised
One. “SEEMS FUNNY TO THINK THAT ONLY LAST WEEK I
WAS WALKING ABOUT LOOKING LIKE THAT, EH?”

LITERARY OPTIONS.

In these days of ever-increasing strikes it is suggested,
for the convenience of contributors to those magazines which of
necessity go to press some time in advance, that they should
submit to editors stories with interchangable
situations:—

NOTE TO INTENDING AUTHORS.—This is not supposed to be
a complete story, but just gives you the idea.

AT PARIS PLAGE.

GIVING HIM ROPE?

GERMAN CRIMINAL (to Allied
Police). “HERE, I SAY, STOP! YOU’RE HURTING ME!
[Aside] IF I ONLY WHINE ENOUGH I MAY BE ABLE TO
WRIGGLE OUT OF THIS YET.”

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

Tuesday, February 11th.—The KING’s Speech
outlined a programme of legislation which would in the ordinary
way occupy two or three Sessions. But the Parliamentary
machinery is to be ruthlessly speeded up and “a short cut to
the Millennium” is to be discovered by way of the
Committee-rooms. Precisians observed with regret that the
customary reference in the Speech to “economy” had by some
oversight been omitted; and the prospective creation of several
additional Departments led Lord CREWE to express apprehension
lest the country should be “doped” with new Ministries, to the
detriment of the national health.

THE OPPOSITION FREAK.

THE ADAMSON-MACLEAN
COMBINATION.

“Where are they gone, the old familiar faces?” was the
question one asked oneself on looking at the crowded benches of
the House of Commons. It was said of a Past President of the
United States that he was the politest man in America—”he
gave up his seat in a street-car and made room for four
ladies.” The gap made on the Front Opposition Bench by the
involuntary retirement of Mr. ASQUITH—to which generous
allusion was made by the PRIME MINISTER—is so vast that
the joint efforts of Sir DONALD MACLEAN and Mr. ADAMSON to fill
it met with only partial success. Unless, by the way, Mr.
SPEAKER definitely decides the problem of precedence, it is to
be feared that the hoped-for acceleration of business will not
occur, for at present each of them thinks it necessary to speak
whenever the other does, like the hungry lions on Afric’s
burning shore. For all their outward politeness I am sure “the
first lion thinks the last a bore”; and if they insist on
roaring together much longer the House will think it of both of
them.

The corner-seat whence Mr. PRINGLE flung his barbed darts at
the Government is filled, physically, by Mr. STANTON. Lonely
Mr. HOGGE now sits uneasily upon the Front Opposition Bench,
but, fearing perhaps lest its dignified traditions should cramp
his style, makes frequent visits to the Lobby.

In accordance with ancient custom Sir COURTENAY ILBERT
asserted the right of the House to initiate legislation by
calling out “Outlawries Bill” in the middle of the SPEAKER’s
recital of the Sessional Orders. Some of the new Members, I
fancy, took the interruption seriously, and thought that this
was the outcome of the “Punish the KAISER.” movement.

The Mover and Seconder of the Address fully deserved the
customary compliments. Col. Sir RHYS WILLIAMS’ quiet and
effective style explained his success as a picker-up of
recruits; while Lt.-Commander DEAN, V.C., though he faced the
House with much more trepidation than he did the batteries of
Zeebrugge, got well home at the finish.

SOUTH HACKNEY’S
CHAMPION.

The lot of a Labour leader just now is not a happy one.
Perhaps that accounted for the querulous tone assumed by Mr.
ADAMSON, who seemed more concerned with the omissions in the
KING’s Speech than with its contents. His best sayings were
imported from America, but he would have done better to content
himself with LINCOLN and abjure BRYAN, whose “cross-of-gold”
fustian will not bear repetition.

After Sir DONALD MACLEAN had thoughtfully provided a welcome
tea interval the PRIME MINISTER rose to reply to his critics.
The accusation that he had forgotten some of his recent
promises, such as “No Conscription,” “Punish the Kaiser,” and
“Germany must pay,” did not trouble him much. If these
election-eggs had hatched out prematurely and the contents were
coming home to roost at an inconvenient moment he had no time
to attend to them. What the country most needs at the moment is
a firm clear statement on the Labour troubles, and that is what
it got. So far as those troubles are due to remediable causes
they shall be remedied; so far as the demands of Labour are
based upon class-greed they shall be fought tooth and nail.
There were a few dissentient shouts from the Opposition
Benches, but the House as a whole was delighted when the
PREMIER in ringing tones declared that “no section, however
powerful, will be allowed to hold up the whole nation.”

Wednesday, February 12th.—The Lords had a brisk
little debate on agriculture. Lord LINCOLNSHIRE paid many
compliments to Lord ERNLE for what he had accomplished as Mr.
PROTHERO, but could not understand why, having exchanged the
green benches for the red, he should have reversed his old
policy, “scrapped” the agricultural committees and begun to
dispose of his tractors. Lord ERNLE, in the measured tones so
suitable to the Upper House, made a good defence of the change.
The chief thing wanted now was to “clean the land,” where
noxious weeds, the Bolshevists of the soil, had been spreading
with great rapidity. As for the tractors, the Board thought it
a good thing that the farmers should possess their own, but
would retain in its own hands enough of them to help farmers
who could not help themselves—not a large class, I
imagine, with produce at its present prices.

In the Commons an hour was spent in discussing the
Government’s now customary motion to take all the time of the
House. Up got Mr. ADAMSON, to denounce it, now the War was
over, [pg 146] as sheer Kaiserism. Up got
Sir DONALD MACLEAN to defend it as commonsense, though he
induced Mr. BONAR LAW to limit its duration to the end of
March. Colonel WEDGWOOD pleaded that private Members might
still be allowed to bring in Bills under the Ten Minutes’
Rule; but that Parliamentary pundit, Sir F. BANBURY,
asserted that there was no such thing in reality as the Ten
Minutes’ Rule, and pictured the possibility of whole days
being swallowed up by a succession of private Members
commending their legislative bantlings one after another
with the brief explanatory statement permitted on such
occasions. Alarmed at the prospect Mr. LAW decided not to
admit the thin end of the WEDGWOOD.

ELEMENTARY
ECONOMICS.

The debate on the Address was resumed by Mr. BOTTOMLEY, who
had a large audience. During his previous membership,
terminated by one of those periodical visits to the Law Courts
to which he made humorous reference, he delivered some capital
speeches; and it was pleasant to find that the necessity of
constantly producing “another powerful article next week” has
not caused him to lose his oratorical form. His gestures are
slightly reminiscent of the action of the common pump-handle,
but his voice is excellent, and his matter has the merit of
exactly resembling what our old friend “the Man in the Street”
would say in less Parliamentary language, He has no
hesitations, for example, on the subject of making Germany pay.
By one of those rapid financial calculations for which he is
renowned he has arrived at the comfortable figure of ten
thousand millions sterling as Britain’s little bill; and if you
express doubts as to the debtor’s capacity to pay he replies
that he cannot recall any judge who made an order against him
ever prefacing his judgment with an inquiry whether it would be
convenient for him to find the money.

Payment in kind is Mr. RONALD McNEILL’s prescription. Let
Leipzig library replenish the empty shelves of Louvain and the
windows of Cologne make good—so far as German glass can
do it—the shattered glories of Rheims.

Mr. CLYNES warned the Government against neglecting the
legitimate aspirations of Labour, one of which, he had the
courage to affirm, was access to more and better beer. He also
sought a clear statement of the Government’s policy in Russia.
This request was repeated by Sir SAMUEL HOARE, who, having
spent a year and a half during the War in that distracted
country, declared that “we must decide between Bolshevists and
anti-Bolshevists.” Unfortunately that is exactly what,
according to the PRIME MINISTER’s reply, we cannot do. The
Allies are not prepared to intervene in force; they cannot
leave Russia to stew in Her own hell-broth. The proposed
Conference is admittedly a pis-aller; and, if it ever
meets, no one can feel very hopeful of a tangible result from
the deliberations of the Prinkipotentiaries.

Thursday, February 13th.—Labour unrest produced
a capital debate, in which Mr. BRACE, Mr. THOMAS and Mr. SEXTON
made excellent speeches on the one side, and Major TRYON, Mr.
REMER (an employer and a profit-sharer) and Mr. BONAR LAW were
equally effective on the other. Brushing aside minor causes the
Leader of the House, in his forthright manner, said the root of
the matter was that “Labour wants a larger share of the good
things which are to be obtained in this world”—not an
unreasonable desire, he indicated, but one which would not be
permanently realised by strikes directed against the whole
community. Mr. SEDDON, of the National Democratic Party,
compressed the same argument into an epigram. If the miners’
full demands were conceded they would have “an El Dorado for
one minute and disaster the next.”

FROST AND THAW.

I was earlier than usual that morning, which was bad luck,
as I heard Fitz-Jones click his gate behind me and thud after
me in his snow-boots. Fitz-Jones and I had a little
disagreement, not long ago, about the sole possession of a
servant-maid. Since then there has been a coolness. Curiously
enough, the hideous frost that raged at the moment (the
thermometer stood at twenty-five degrees in the henhouse)
seemed to thaw Fitz-Jones. And I knew why.

Last summer Fitz-Jones had spent four torrid days with the
thermometer at 75 degrees, winding up his pipes in straw
“against” the winter. I had seen his purple face as I hammocked
it with an iced drink. He had seen and heard me laugh.

“Ah,” he croaked, “you may laugh on the other side of the
hedge now, but you’ll laugh on the other side of your face
later.”

So now I knew that he was thudding after me in the snow,
bursting to hear that my pipes had burst or were about to
burst.

“Hallo, Browne,” he began, “how’d you like this?”

“Oh, all right,” I said airily. Here I did a wonderful step.
Slide on the right heel—hesitation shuffle on the left
toe—two half slips sideways. Wave both
arms—backward bend. Recover.
Jazz—tangle—tickle-toe was nothing to it.

“Slippery, isn’t it?” he said. “My flannel was frozen to the
wash-stand to-day—had to get it off with a chisel.”

I was prepared for these travellers’ tales. I knew he was
leading up to water-pipes.

“Couldn’t get my cold tub,” he went on; “frozen solid
overnight.”

I had heard of this cold tub before. “My tooth-brush froze
on to my teeth,” I capped him; “the teapot spout was hung with
icicles, and the cat’s tongue froze on to the milk when it was
drinking.”

“How about your pipes?” he began, “Who was right about
wrapping?”

“Rapping,” I said in well-feigned innocence—”rapping?
Who rapped? Rapped on what?”

That set him going.

I gathered when we reached the station there was a strike
on. But we found a milk-lorry travelling our way. So Smith had
the entire use of my right ear into which to say, “I told
[pg 147] you so,” for an hour, while
we travelled to the spot on which we win our bread. He had
dragged from me the fact that our hot-water tap had also
struck. The milk cans clattered. Smith chattered. So did my
teeth.

When I got home that night our house seemed to be more
handsomely garnished with icicles than any other house I had
seen that day.

“Keep the home fires burning!” I said to my wife on
entering. “If need be, burn the banisters and the bills and my
boot-trees and everything else beginning with a ‘b.’ Keep us
thawed and unburst, or Fitz-Jones will feel he has scored a
moral victory; he will strut cross-gartered, with yellow
stockings, for the rest of his days.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” said Evangeline,
“but Christabel and I” (Christabel is our general-in-command)
“have been cosseting those pipes all day. Been giving them
glasses of hot water and dressing them up in all our clothes.
The bath-pipe is wearing my new furs and your pyjamas, and I’ve
put your golf stockings on the geyser-pipe. I expect they’ll
all blow up. Come and look at the hot-water cistern.”

The cistern looked dressy in Evangeline’s fur coat. I added
my silk hat to the geyser’s cosy costume and a pair of boots on
the bath-taps. But I was told not to be silly, so took them off
again.

I suggested that the geyser should go to a fancy-dress ball
as “The Winter of our Discontent,” but was again told not to be
silly.

Two days elapsed. The frost held. Then something happened.
Fitz-Jones’s lady-help came round at 7.30 A.M. to borrow a drop
of water, as they were frozen up.

We lent them several drops, and I breathed again, and
continued to breathe, with snorts of derision.

Three days later the thaw came.

As I passed Fitz-Jones’s house I was grieved to hear a
splashing sound. A cascade of water was spouting from his
bathroom window. Fitz-Jones himself was running round and round
the house like a madman, flourishing a water-key and trying to
find the tap to the main.

I begged him to be calm, to control himself for his wife’s
sake, for all our sakes. I was most graceful and sympathetic
about it.

But with the thaw Fitz-Jones had frozen again.

“Civil Servant requires house.”—Local
Paper.

On the other hand, many houses just now require a civil
servant.

Lady. “YOU COME HERE BEGGING AND SAY YOU ARE NOT
EXPECTED TO DO ANY MORE WORK. I NEVER HEARD OF SUCH A
THING.”

Tramp. “THEN I’VE BEEN MISINFORMED, LIDY. I
CERTAINLY ‘EARD THAT AFTER THE WAR ENGLAND WAS GOIN’ TER BE
A BETTER PLACE FER THE LABOURING CLASSES.”

PAST AND PRESENT.

(After T. HOOD.)

A.P.H.

CUE TYPES.

At the present moment, when the billiard professionals are
contesting the palm and Mr. S.H. FRY has re-captured the title
of amateur champion seven-and-twenty years after he first won
it, there is such interest in the game that a kind of Guide
to Billiard Types cannot but be of value. Hence the
following classification of players who are to be met with in
clubs, country-houses or saloons by any ordinary wielders of
the cue. Any reader who has ever endeavoured to master what may
be called (by way of inversion) the Three Balls Art has power
to add to their number.

The player who, as he drops behind in the game, says so
often that it is months since h” touched a cue that your
success is robbed of all savour.

The player who is funny and calls the red the Cherry, the
Robin, the Cardinal or the Lobster.

The player who comes to the game as to a solemn ritual and
neither smiles nor speaks.

The player who keeps on changing his cue and blames each one
in turn for his own ineptitude.

The player who can use his left hand as well as his right: a
man to be avoided.

The player who whistles while he plays. This is a very
deadly companion.

The player who never has a good word for his opponent’s
efforts.

The player who congratulates you on every stroke: a charming
antagonist.

The player who is always jolly whatever buffets he receives
from fortune.

The player who talks about every one of his strokes.

The player who swears at most of them.

The player who doubts the accuracy of your scoring. Avoid
this one.

The player who hits everything too hard. This is a very
exasperating man to meet because fortune usually favours him.
Either he flukes immoderately or he does not leave well. He is
usually a hearty fellow with no sense of shame. Perhaps he says
“Sorry;” but he adds, “It must have been on.”

The player who hits everything too gently: the lamb as
compared with the previous type, who is a lion. The lamb is
good to play with if you prefer winning to a real contest.

The player who groans loudly when you make a fluke.

The player who is accustomed to play on a much faster table
than this.

The player who calls the game Pills.

The player who calls it Tuskers.

The player who counts your breaks for you, but whether from
interest or suspicion you are not sure.

The player who pots the white when he should and says
nothing about it.

The player who pots the white when he should, with a
thousand apologies.

The player who pots the white when he shouldn’t, with a
thousand apologies.

The player who is snappy with the marker.

The player who drops cigar ash on the cloth.

The player who hates to lose.

The player who would much rather that you won. This type is
a joy to play with, unless towards the end he too patently
ceases to try.

The player who, after the stroke, tells you what you ought
to have done.

The player who talks to the balls, particularly to the red.
“Now then, red,” he says, “don’t go into baulk;” or, “Stop just
by that pocket;” or “White, don’t go down.”

The player who has just come from a spectacular match and
keeps on trying to reproduce that shot of STEVENSON’s.

Ministry Official. “NO NEED TO SCREEN THE LIGHTS
NOW, MY BOY. D’YOU THINK THE WAR’S STILL ON?”

Infatuated Office Boy. “I WAS JUST TRYING TO MAKE
MISS JENKINS A BIT OF TOAST, SIR.”

“In a licensing prosecution at —— yesterday
it was stated that one shilling was charged for a ‘drop’ of
whisky of about one-sixth of a gallon.”—Daily
Paper.

In the interests of temperance we have suppressed the name
of the town at which this bargain was secured.

CONTRACTS.

It was shortly after the commencement of the March offensive
that it was decided to open new munition works in Glenwhinnie,
N.B. The contract for building was offered to the well-known
firm of McTavish, McTurk & McThom, of Auchterinver.

They accepted. With thanks.

And so it came about that, early in April, Glenwhinnie, N.B.
became the scene of great activity. Men bearing strange
instruments came and took extensive measurements; large bodies
of gentlemen in corduroys, armed with powerful implements
indicative of toil, arrived and smoked clay pipes; a special
light railway was rapidly constructed, and bore colossal cranes
and more gentlemen with clay pipes to the scene of action. And
Mr. McTurk went in person to open the proceedings.

In a speech pulsating with patriotism, Mr. McTurk exhorted
his men to do their best for their King and country, and show
everybody what the firm of McTavish, McTurk & McThom could
do. He then departed, leaving things in the hands of a dozen
subordinates well tried and true …

And so by the early days of June the work began …

Came November 11th …

November 20th it was decided that the new works in
Glenwhinnie, N.B., would not be necessary after all.

What was to be done?

A special committee decided that the buildings should be
demolished, and the contract was offered to the well-known firm
of McClusky, McCleery & McClumpha, of Auchtermuchty.

They accepted. With thanks.

And so it came about that a second army of occupation
descended upon Glenwhinnie, N.B. Fresh bodies of gentlemen in
corduroys and armed with a rather different set of powerful
implements arrived, and smoked clay pipes. Another light
railway was rapidly constructed, and Mr. McCleery went in
person to open the proceedings. In a speech full of fervour
…

And so by early January the work commenced.

By this time Messrs. McTavish and Co. had got the buildings
well in hand. What was to be done? Leave
[pg 149] their work uncompleted?
Never! As Mr. McThom pointed out with considerable emotion
to his partners, a contract was a contract all the world
over.

If it ever came to be said that any firm he was interested
in had failed to fulfil a contract, he for one (Angus McThom)
would never hold up his head. The contract must be completed.
It was a sacred duty. Besides—a minor point—what
about payment?

So Mr. McTurk was despatched to Glenwhinnie, N.B., where in
a speech of great power he pointed out the path of duty.

Amid scenes of enthusiasm the work went on apace.

And at the other end the well-known firm of McClusky,
McCleery & McClumpha tore down the buildings with equal
enthusiasm.

And that is the state of affairs just now in Glenwhinnie,
N.B. What will happen when—as they are bound to
do—the wreckers overtake the builders is a matter for
speculation. Mr. McTurk may make another speech. Possibly Mr.
McCleery may also exhort. There is promise of a delicate
situation.

“AND ARE YOU A GOOD NEEDLEWOMAN AND RENOVATOR, AND
WILLING TO BE USEFUL?”

“MADAM, I AM AFRAID THERE IS SOME MISUNDERSTANDING. I AM
A LADY’S MAID—NOT A USEFUL MAID.”

THE STOICS OF THE SERPENTINE.

“THE DOVER PATROL.

VINDICTIVE MEN AS PROGRAMME
SELLERS.”—Times.

After what men have suffered from the flag-day sex, no
wonder they get vindictive when they have a chance of
retaliation.

“The causes of the engineers’ strike in London are a
little obscure, but the stoppage of the ten minutes allowed
for tea before the 47-hour day was introduced brought the
men out from one motor works.”—Provincial
Paper.

The great objection to a day of this length is that it gives
so little scope for overtime.

“The Association for the Betterment of the Highlands and
Islands of the Free Church of Scotland have prepared and
presented to the Secretary for Scotland a memorandum on the
reconstruction of the Highlands.”—Scots
Paper.

We have always thought that judicious thinning of the more
congested views would help the tourist.

“The men who had watched the daily search set up a
cheer, ffi—— ——fl.”—Sunday
Paper.

We hope the cheer was more hearty than it appears at first
sight.

A CONSULTATION.

Persons of the dialogue: Arthur Pillwell, M.D.,
a fashionable physician; Henry Swallow, a
patient. The scene is laid in Dr. Pillwell’s
consulting-room—a solid room, heavily furnished. A
large writing-table occupies the centre of the scene. There
are a few prints on the walls; two bookcases are solidly
filled with medical books. Dr. Pillwell is seated at
the writing-table. He rises to greet his patient.

Dr. P. Good morning, Mr. —— (He looks
furtively at a notebook lying open on the table)
Mr.—ah—Swallow.

Mr. S. (thinking to himself: Ought I to call this
Johnnie “Doctor,” or not? I’m told they’re very particular
about a thing like that. Like a fool, I never gave it a
thought. Still, I can’t go so very far wrong if I call him
“Doctor.” Besides, he’s got to be called “Doctor” whether he
likes it or not. Here goes.) (Aloud) Good morning,
Dr. Pillwell. I’ve been troubled with some symptoms which I
can’t quite make out. I think I described them in my letter.
(To himself: They made several doctors Knights of the
British Empire, and I’m almost certain Pillwell was one of
them. Sir John Pillwell. Yes, it sounds all right; but I shan’t
call him “Sir John” because if he isn’t a knight he might think
I was trying to make fun of him and then he might retaliate by
calling me “Sir Henry,” and I should hate that).
(Aloud) The chief symptoms are a steady loss of appetite
and a disinclination to work. I was recommended to consult you
by my friend, Mr. Bolter, as I think I explained in my
letter.

Dr. P. It’s curious how prevalent these symptoms are
at the present moment. I think, if you don’t mind, I will begin
by taking your temperature.

[Produces clinical thermometer and gives it three
good jerks.

Mr. S. (to himself: There—I knew he’d want
to put one of those infernal machines in my mouth. I simply
loathe the feeling of them, and I’m always on the verge of
crunching them up. Perhaps I ought to warn him.)
(Aloud) I’m afraid I’m not much good as a thermometer
man.

Dr. P. Oh, it’s a mere trifle. All you’ve got to do
is just to hold it under your tongue. There—it’s in.

Mr. S. (talking with difficulty). Ish i’ in ‘e
ri’ plashe?

Dr. P. Yes. But don’t try to talk while it’s in your
mouth. I’ve had patients who’ve bitten it in two.
There—that’s enough. (Extracts it deftly from
patient’s mouth and examines it.) Hum, hum, yes. A point
below normal. Nothing violently wrong there. (He now
performs the usual rites and mysteries.) I’ll make you out
a little prescription which ought to put you all right. And if
you can spare a week, and spend it at Eastbourne, I don’t think
it will do you any harm.

Mr. S. (To himself: I like this man. He doesn’t
waste any time. It’s a curious coincidence that I should have
been thinking this very morning of arranging a visit to the
seaside. Now of course I’ve absolutely got to go. Can’t disobey
my new doctor, and wouldn’t if I could. By Jove, I’d all but
forgotten about the two guineas fee. Yes, the cheque’s in my
breast-pocket. Two guineas for the first visit. The rule is not
to give it too openly, but to slip it on to a desk or table as
if you were half ashamed of it. Where shall I put it so as to
make sure he spots it out of the corner of his eye? Ha! on the
blotting-pad, which I can just reach. Does it with his left
hand, and feels a man once more.)

Dr. P. And here’s your prescription.

Mr. S. Thank you a thousand times. (To himself:
He’s edging up to the blotting-pad, and he’ll have the cheque
in another second.)

TO A CHINESE COOLIE.

“SELF MADE MAN

Young widwep lady intelligent, wealthy wishing to
remarie, wishes to make acquaintance in a Swiss Sportplace
with a well situated english or american gentleman.
Preference is given to a businessman, self made, with fine
caracter aged 35-45 handsome as the lady is it
too.”—Swiss Paper.

We foresee a rush of profiteers to the Alps.

Sportsman. “THEY DON’T SEEM VERY ANXIOUS TO HUNT
TO-DAY, TOM.”

Tom (exasperated by a bad scenting day).
“POOR THINGS, THEY’VE ALMOST FORGOT HOW TO; THEY’VE BEEN SO
BUSY GETTIN’ OUT OF THE WAY OF YOU YOUNG OFFICER GENTS
SINCE YOU CAME ‘OME.”

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

Finding Midas and Son (METHUEN) described on the
wrapper as a tale of “the struggle of a young man and his
immense riches,” I said to myself (rather like Triplet
in the play) that here was a struggle at which it would greatly
hearten me to assist. As a fact, however, the conflict proved
to be somewhat postponed; it took Mr. STEPHEN McKENNA more than
two hundred pages to get the seconds out of the ring and leave
his hero, Deryk, face to face with an income of
something over a million a year. Before this happened the youth
had become engaged to a girl, been thrown over by her,
experienced the wiles of Circe and gone in more or less vaguely
for journalism. Then came the income and the question what to
do with it. Of course he didn’t know how to use it to the best
advantage; it is universal experience that other people never
do. But Deryk impressed me as more than commonly lacking
in resource. All he could think of was to finance and share in
an archæological venture (rather fun), and to purchase a Pall
Mall club-house—apparently the R.A.C.—and do it up
as a London abode for himself and his old furniture. Also for
his wife, as fortune had now flung him again into the arms of
his early love. But it is just here that the subtle and
slightly cruel cleverness of Mr. McKENNA’s scheme becomes
manifest. The million-a-year had been at work on Deryk;
it had slain his capacity for romance. In plain words, he found
that he cared more for his furniture than for his
fiancée, whose adoration soon bored him to shrieking
point. So there you are. I shall not betray the author’s
solution of his own problem. I don’t think he has proved his
somewhat obvious point as to the peril of great possessions.
Deryk was hardly a quite normal subject, and
Idina (the girl) was a little fool who would have
irritated a crossing-sweeper. But what he certainly has done is
to provide some scenes of pre-war London not unworthy to be
companion pictures to those in Sonia; and this, I fancy,
will be good enough for most readers.

Its publishers call The Pot Boils (CONSTABLE) a
“provocative” book, and certainly the title at least deserves
this epithet. But I decline to be drawn into the obvious
retort. Besides, with all its faults, the story exhibits an
almost flaunting disregard of those qualities that make the
best seller. About the author I am prepared to wager, first,
that “STORM JAMESON” is a disguise; secondly, that the
personality behind it is feminine. I have hinted that the tale
is hardly likely to gain universal popularity; let me add that
certain persons, notably very young Socialists and experts in
Labour journalism, may find it of absorbing interest. It is a
young book, almost exclusively about young people, written (or
I mistake) by a youthful hand. These striplings and maidens are
all poor, mostly vain, and without exception fulfilled of a
devastating verbosity. We meet them first at a “Northern
University,” talking, reforming the earth, kissing, and again
talking—about the kisses. Thence they and the tale move
to London, and the same process is repeated. It is all rather
depressingly narrow in outlook; though within these limits
there are interesting and even amusing scenes. Also the author
displays now and again a happy dexterity of phrase (I remember
one instance—about “web-footed Socialists … dividing
and sub-dividing into committees, like
[pg 152] worms cut by a spade”),
which encourages me to hope that she will do better things
with a scheme of wider appeal. But to the general,
especially the middle-aged general, the contents of her
present Pot will, I fear, be only caviare.

Little Sara Lee Kennedy, betrothed to one of those
alert grim-jawed young Americans one sees in the advertising
pages of The Ladies’ Home Journal, learns of the
suffering in Belgium at the beginning of the great War and
finds she must do something about it. She can cook, so she will
go and make soup for KING ALBERT’s men. She takes her young
man’s photograph and his surly disapproval; also a few dollars
hastily collected from her obscure township in Pa.; and becomes
the good angel of a shattered sector of the Belgian line. And
she finds in The Amazing Interlude (MURRAY) her
prince—a real prince—in the Secret Service, and,
after the usual reluctances and brave play (made for the sake
of deferring the inevitable) with the photograph of the old
love, is at last gloriously on with the new. It is a very
charming love-story, and MARY ROBERTS RINEHART makes a much
better thing of the alarms and excursions of war than you would
think. It was no good, I found, being superior about it and
muttering “Sentiment” when you had to blink away the unbidden
tear lest your fireside partner should find you out. So let me
commend to you this idealised vision of a corner of the great
War seen through the eyes of an American woman of vivid
sympathies.

Rovers of the Night Sky (CASSELL) is for more reasons
than one a welcome addition to my rapidly bulging collection of
books about flying. “NIGHT HAWK, M.C.,” was in the
Infantry—what he calls a “Gravel-Cruncher”—before
he took to the air, and by no means the least interesting part
of his sketches is the way in which he explains the
co-operation which existed between the fliers and the men
fighting on the ground. And his delight when a bombing
expedition was successful in giving instant assistance to the
Infantry is frequently shown. After his training in England
“NIGHT HAWK” was attached as an observer to a night-flying
squadron in France, and he tells us of his adventures with no
sense of self-importance but with an honest appreciation of
their value to the general scheme of operations. He has also a
keen eye for the humours of life, and can make his jest with
most admirable brevity. “Doubtless,” he says in a foreword,
“the whole world will fly before many years have passed, but
for the moment most people have to be content to read about
it.” I am one of them, and he has added to my contentment.

My studies of recent fiction induce the belief that modern
Wales may be divided into two parts, in one of which the
inhabitants call each other Bach and follow a code of
morals that I simply will not stoop to characterise; while the
other is at once more Saxon in idiom and considerably more
melodramatic in its happenings. It is to the latter province
that I must assign A Little Welsh Girl (HODDER AND
STOUGHTON), the Romance, with a big R, of Dylis Morgan,
who pushed an unappreciated suitor over a precipice and came to
London to make her fortune in revue. Really the suitor didn’t
go all the way down the precipice; but as, by the time he
recovered, Dylis, disguised, had fled for England, he
was promptly arrested for her murder, and as Dylis
thought she had murdered him there was presently so much
confusion (increased for me by the hopelessly unpronounceable
names of a large cast) that I found it increasingly hard to
keep the affair in hand. As for Dylis’s theatrical
career—well, you know how these things are managed in
fiction; for my part I was left wondering whether Mr. HOWEL
EVANS’ pictures of Wales were as romantically conceived as his
conception of a West-End theatre. Though of course we all know
that Welsh people do sometimes make even more sensational
triumphs in the Metropolis; just possible indeed that this fact
may have some bearing on the recent flood of Cambrian fiction.
Certainly, if A Little Welsh Girl achieves success on
the strength of Mr. LLOYD GEORGE’s triumph, she may thank her
luck, for I have my doubts whether she could manage it
unassisted.

Of Ladies Must Live (HODDER AND STOUGHTON) one may
say, in the first place, that it is fortunately unnecessary as
well as unusual for the bulk of them to live in the scalp and
tomahawk atmosphere that distinguishes the sexual and social
rivalry of Christine Fennimer and Nancy Almar,
the two beautiful American Society dames whose duel for the
affections of the eligible hero form the plot, the whole plot
and nothing but the plot of Miss ALICE DUER MILLER’s latest
book. Nature red in tooth and claw has not mothered
them—they are too well-bred for that; they simply bite
with their tongues. Mrs. Almar, who is married and
purely piratical, comes off worst in the encounter, and the
more artful Christine, ultimately falling in love with
the object of her artifices, becomes human enough to marry him,
despite his lapse from financial eligibility. The plot is a
thin one, but smoothly and brightly unfolded. Unhappily Miss
MILLER lacks the gift of delicate satire and the sense of
humour that the society novel above all others seems to
require. With a lighter and less matter-of-fact treatment one
would accept more easily the overdrawing of her rather
impossible felines.

Man in the Air. “ANOTHER OF THESE BEASTLY
PIVOTAL MEN!”

“Sir Charles Sykes, Director of Wood Production, has
conferred with representatives of each section of the
tailoring trade, with a view to simplifying the regulations
and making possible a larger output of Standard
suits.”—Daily Paper.

We look forward to the part that this new clothing will play
in the general scheme of afforestation.

“A lady visiting the town complained that she went to a
licensed house and asked to be served with tea. She alleged
that the licensee was very rude to her, and refused to
grant her request. He [the Superintendent of Police]
desired to point out to license holders that they were
bound to provide proper accommodation and refreshment for
man and beast.”—West-Country Paper.

And we desire to point out to the Superintendent that that
is not the proper way to refer to a lady.