PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 156.

May 28, 1919.

“AUSTRIAE EST IMPERARE ORBI UNIVERSO”.

 

ONCE UPON A TIME.

TO-DAY.

CHARIVARIA.

It was the pig, says an eminent Danish economist, that lost
Germany the War. His omission to specify which pig seems almost
certain to provoke further recriminations among the German High
Command.

After all, the War may have wakened a new spirit in the
nation. Up to the time of writing no one has attempted to corner
mint-sauce.

A movement, we hear, is on foot to give a public welcome to the
cheeses on their return to our midst. It is thought that a
march-past could easily be arranged.

Hackney will supply electricity to consumers at a special rate
during the Peace celebrations. The present price of
one-and-sixpence per kilowatt-and-soda practically inhibits
anything like deep-seated festivity.

A Miners’ Association in the North has decided not to establish
a weekly newspaper. Pending other arrangements they will do a
little light mining, but it must not be taken as a precedent.

At a meeting of Hassocks allotment-holders a speaker stated that
he had seen rabbits jump a fence five feet high. Experts declare
that this is at least three feet over proof.

As the outcome of suggestions by the Economy Committee at Eton
Dr. ALINGTON has made certain restrictions in regard to various
articles of dress, notably socks and mufflers. Henceforward only
such socks as do not require muffling will be worn.

The cow that walked into the lending library at Walton Heath has
since explained that it merely wanted to look up “Manchuria” in the
encyclopaedia.

It is said that the question of neutrality has caused most of
the delay in the formation of the League of Nations. We certainly
realise the difficulty in deciding how Norway and Switzerland could
come to grips, in the event of a War between these two countries,
without infringing the laws of neutrality.

“No harm to the moon will result from the eclipse of the sun on
May 28th,” states a writer in an evening paper. This is good news
for those who have mining shares there.

There is a falling off in the tanning of kids in India, says
The Shoe and Leather Trades Record. Smith minor talks of
migrating to the Orient.

Government ale, says a trade paper, will shortly be on sale in
some parts of Ireland. This certainly ought to be a lesson to
them.

Two Parisians who had previously arranged to fight a duel have
refused to meet. It is supposed that they have quarrelled.

As we go to press we are informed on good authority that the cat
that developed rabies last week has now been successfully killed
eight times, and it is expected that its final execution will have
taken place by the time this appears in print.

We understand that the Tredegar Fire Brigade strike is settled.
Patrons are asked to bear with the Brigade, who have promised to
work off arrears of fires in strict rotation.

A Surrey Church magazine appeals for funds to renovate the
church exits. For ourselves, if we were a parson, we shouldn’t
worry about getting people out of church so long as we got them
in.

A Scottish Chamber of Commerce has passed a resolution in favour
of smaller One Pound Treasury Notes. If at the same time they could
be made a bit cheaper the movement would be a popular one.

A taxi-driver who knocked down a pedestrian in Edgware Road and
then drove off has been summoned. His defence is that he mistook
the unfortunate man for an intending fare.

The Northumberland Miners’ Council has passed a resolution
calling on the Government to evacuate our troops from Russia, drop
the Conscription Bill, remove the blockade and release
conscientious objectors. Their silence on the subject of Dalmatia
is being much commented on.

A report reaches us that Jazz is about to be made a notifiable
disease.

A SPRING IDYLL.

If wound stripes were given to soldiers on becoming casualties
to Cupid’s archery barrage, Ronnie Morgan’s sleeve would be stiff
with gilt embroidery. The spring offensive claimed him as an early
victim. When be became an extensive purchaser of drab segments of
fossilized soap, bottles of sticky brilliantine with a chemical
odour, and postcards worked with polychromatic silk, the billet
began to make inquiries.

“It’s that little mam’zelle at the shop in the Rue de la
République,” reported Jim Brown. “He spends all his pay and
as much as he can borrow of mine to get excuses for speaking to
her.”

There was a period of regular visits and intense literary
activity on the part of Ronnie, followed by the sudden
disappearance of Mam’zelle and an endeavour by the disconsolate
swain to liquidate his debts in kind.

“I owe you seven francs, Jim,” said he. “If you give me another
three francs and I give you two bottles of brilliantine and a cake
of vanilla-flavoured soap we’ll be straight.”

“Not me!” said Jim firmly. “I’ve no wish to be a scented
fly-paper. Have you frightened her away?”

“She’s been swept away on a flood of my eloquence,” said
Ronnie sadly. “But in the wrong direction; and after I’d bought
enough pomatum from her to grease the keel of a battleship, and
enough soap to wash it all off again. Good soap it is too, me lad;
lathers well if you soak it in hot water overnight.”

“How did you come to lose her?” asked Jim, steering the
conversation out of commercial channels.

“The loss is hers,” said Ronnie; “I wore holes in my tunic
leaning over the counter talking to her, and I made about as much
progress as a Peace Conference. I got soap instead of sympathy and
scent instead of sentiment. However, she must have got used to me,
because one day she asked if I would translate an English letter
she’d received into French.

“‘Now’s your chance to make good,’ I thought, language being my
strong suit; but I felt sick when I found it was a love-letter from
a presumptuous blighter at Calais, who signed himself ‘Your devoted
Horace.’ Still, to make another opportunity of talking to her, I
offered to write it out in French. She sold me a block of
letter-paper for the purpose, and I went home and wrote a lifelike
translation.

“She gave me a dazzling smile and warm welcome when I took it
in, but on the balance I didn’t feel that I’d done myself much
good. And next day I’m dashed if she didn’t give me another letter
to translate, this time signed ‘Your loving Herbert.’ Herbert, I
discovered, was a sapper who’d been transferred to Boulogne and,
judging by his hand, was better with a shovel than a pen. As an
amateur in style I couldn’t translate his drivel word for word.
Like Cyrano, the artist in me rose supreme, and I manicured
and curled his letter, painted and embroidered it, and nearly
finished by signing ‘Ronnie’ instead of ‘Herbert.’

“She was quite surprised when she read the translation.

“‘C’est gentil, n’est-ce-pas?’ said she, kissing it and
stuffing it away in her belt. ‘I did not think,’ she went on in
French, ‘that the dear stupid ‘Erbert had so much eloquence.’ I saw
my error. I had made a probable of a horse that hadn’t previously
got an earthly. So, to adjust things, I refrigerated the next
letter—which happened to be from ‘Orace—to the
temperature of codfish on an ice block. And the consequence was
that Georgette sulked and would scarcely speak to me for three
whole days.

“The situation, coldly reviewed, appeared to be like this. When
‘Orace or ‘Erbert pleased her I got a share of the sunshine, but
when their love-making cooled her displeasure was visited on poor
Ronnie. Any advances on my own part were countered with sales of
soap, customers apparently being rarer than lovers. So I had to
bide my time.

“But one day letters from ‘Orace and ‘Erbert arrived
simultaneously, and were duly handed to the fourth party for
necessary action. It occurred to me that when the time came for me
to enter the race on my own behalf I need have little fear of
‘Erbert as a rival, so I determined to cut ‘Orace out of the
running.

“I translated his letter first. I censored the tender parts,
spun out the padding and served it up like cold-hash. Then I set to
work on ‘Erbert. I got the tremolo stop out and the soft pedal on
and made a symphony of it. I made it a stream of trickling
melody—blue skies, yellow sunshine and scent of roses, with
Georgette perched like a sugar goddess on a silver cloud and
‘Erbert trying to clamber up to her on a silk ladder. To read it
would have made a Frenchman proud of his own language. Then, for
dramatic effect, I took the letters, put them on the counter and
walked out without a word. ‘That,’ thought I, ‘will do ‘Orace’s
business—and then for ‘Erbert!’

“Next day, when I went to see the result, to my surprise I found
that her place behind the counter was taken by that little
red-haired Celestine.

“‘Where’s Georgette?’ said I.

“‘Ah, M’sieur, she has gone,’ said Celestine. ‘Figure to
yourself, this ‘Orace, who used to write with ardour and spirit,
sent her yesterday a poor pitiful note. It made one’s heart bleed
to read it, such halting appeal, such inarticulate sentiment.
“Le pauvre garçon!” cried Georgette, “his passion is
so strong he cannot find words for it. He is stricken dumb with
excess of feeling. I must be at his side to comfort him.” And she
has flown like the wind to Calais, that she may be affianced to
him. But if M’sieur desires to buy the soap I know the kind you
prefer.’

“So you see me,” concluded Ronnie plaintively, “bankrupt in love
and money. Three francs, Jim, and I’ll chuck in a packet of
post-cards.”

SONGS OF SIMLA.

I.—THE BUREAUCRAT.

Our Feminine Athletes.

“Wanted, Young Lady, vaults bar.—Apply personally, Mrs.
——, Oddfellows’ Arms.”—Provincial
Paper.

THE GREAT RENUNCIATION.

PRESIDENT WILSON. “NO! I DON’T THINK IT QUITE SUITS MY AUSTERE TYPE
OF BEAUTY.”
[It is reported that the United States of America have declined to
accept a mandate for Constantinople.]

PERFORMING LION AT MUSIC-HALL, HAVING GOT LOOSE, FINDS ITS WAY
TO ROOM OCCUPIED BY CHARWOMAN.

Char. “NAH, THEN! I WON’T ‘AVE THEM NASTY THINGS IN ‘ERE.
I CAN’T ABIDE ‘EM.”

BLANCHE’S LETTERS.

PEACE AND OTHER COMPLICATIONS.

Park Lane.

DEAREST DAPHNE,—Already everyone’s got peace-strain and
what state we shall all be in by the time it’s actually signed I
haven’t the dimmest. People have their own ideas of how they mean
to celebrate it, and when they find that other people have the same
ideas and mean to do the same things at the same time there are
alarums and excursions, and things are said, and quite several
people who were dear friends during the War don’t speak now owing
to the peace!

Par exemple, marches and processions being so much in the
air, I’d planned a lovely Procession of Knitters; two enormous gilt
knitting-needles to be carried by the leaders and a banner with “We
Knitted our Way to Victory!” and myself on a triumphal car dressed
in white silk-knitting. And then, just as everything was being
arranged at our “Knitters’ Peace Procession” committee meetings, I
found that Beryl Clarges had stolen my idea and was
arranging a “Crochet Peace Procession,” with an immense gilt
crochet-hook to be carried in front, and a banner with some
nonsense about crochet on it, and herself on a triumphal car
dressed in crochet!

I said exactly what I thought before I left off speaking to
her.

Then, again, everyone wants to give a dance on peace night. I’d
settled to give a big affair with some perfectly new departures,
and all the nicest people I wanted have said, “Sorry, dearest, but
I’m giving one myself that night.” I’ve no patience with the
silliness and selfishness of everybody.

Talking of dances, one’s getting a bit
dégoûtée of Jazz bands and steps. When
ces autres get hold of anything it always begins to leave
off being amusing. There’s really a new step, however, the Peace
Leap, that hasn’t yet been quite usé and spoilt by
the outlying tribes. The origin of it was a little funny. Chippy
Havilland was at one of Kickshaw’s Jazz dinners one night, where
people fly out of their seats to one-step and two-step between the
courses and during the courses and all the time. Well, while Chippy
was eating his fish the band struck up that catchy Jazz-stagger,
“She’s corns on her toes,” and Chippy, his mouth full of fish,
jumped up and began to dance. Of course several fish-bones
flew down his throat, and while he was choking he did such fearful
and wonderful things that the whole room, not dreaming the poor
dear was at his dernier soupir, broke out clapping and
shouting and then imitated him, and by the time Chippy felt better
he found himself famous and everybody doing the Peace Leap, which
has completely cut out the Jazz-stagger, the Wolf’s Prowl and
everything else.

Oh, my dearest, who do you think are among the crowd of
married people who’re going to celebrate peace by dissolving
partnership? The Algy Mallowdenes! Our prize couple! The
flitchiest of Dunmow Flitch pairs! The turtlest of
turtle—doves! Whenever people spoke of marriage as played out
other people always weighed in with, “Well, but look at the Algy
Mallowdenes.”

They married on war-bread and [pg 417] Government cheese and
kisses (unrationed). Seriously, though, m’amie, I believe
they’d scarcely anything beyond his two thousand pounds a year as
Permanent Irremovable Assistant Under-Secretary at the
No-Use-Coming-Here Office. Certainly an “official residence” and a
staff of servants were allowed ’em, but when poor Lallie asked to
have a ball-room built, and Algy said he simply must have a
billiard-room and smoke-room added, one of those fearful red-flag
creatures got up in the House just as the money was going to be
voted and made such an uproar that the matter was dropped.

And then, having heaps of spare time at the No-Use-Coming-Here
Office, Algy began to write novels and found himself at once.
You’ve read some of them, of course? Life with a big L, my dear.
Every kind of world while you wait, the upper, the under, and the
half. Lallie was very glad of the money that came rolling in, but I
believe she said wistfully, “How does my gentle quiet Algy know so
much about this, that and the other?” And her gentle quiet Algy
made answer: “Intuition, dear; imagination; the novelist’s
temperament.”

By-and-by, however, she began to hear of his being seen at the
Umpty Club and Gaston’s, chatting with Pearl Preston (one of those
people, you know, Daphne, who’re immensely talked about but never
mentioned). And then a “certain liveliness” set in at the official
residence of the Permanent Irremovable Assistant
Under-Secretary.

“You silly little goosey!” said Algy; “don’t you see that it’s
not as a man who admires her but as a novelist who’s studying her
that I talk to Pearl Preston? She’s my next heroine. A heroine like
that is a sine quâ non in a novel of the Modernist
school.”

But Lallie couldn’t see the dif between a man and a
novelist, and Algy couldn’t write his best seller without
studying its heroine, and so—and so—at last our poor
prize couple are in that long list that an overworked judge
complained of the other day. And if you ask for the moral I suppose
it’s “Don’t try to study character where there isn’t any.”

This is emphatically a season for arms, my Daphne, which
seems quite a good little idea for peace-time! Faces and figures
don’t count; it’s the arm, the whole arm and nothing but the arm!
There are all sorts of stunts for attracting attention to round
white arms, and if one has the other kind one had better go and do
a rest-cure. Your Blanche is beyond criticism in that respect, as
you know, and the other night at the opera I’d a succès
fou with a big black-enamel beetle, held in place by an
invisible platinum chain, crawling on my upper arm.

Lady Manoeuvrer is simply ravie de joie at the rage for
arms, for her Daffodil, who’s been a great worry to her (she’s the
only clever one, you know, all the others being pretty), has the
best arms of the whole bunch. She’s taken Madame Fallalerie’s
course, “The Fascination of the Arms,” and is made to flourish hers
about from morn to night, poor child, till she sometimes does a
small weep from sheer exhaustion. The other day at Kempford Races,
in a no-sleeved coatee with a black sticking-plaster racehorse in
full gallop on her upper arm, she attracted plenty of attention and
had two offers, I hear. Arms and the man, again!

À propos, Lady Manoeuvrer told me yesterday she’d
sent a thank-offering to one of the hospitals. “But how sweet of
you!” I said. “For the restoration of Peace, I suppose?” “No,
dearest,” she whispered; “for the restoration of the London
Season!”

Ever
thine,      BLANCHE.

Tube Habitué (homeward
bound). “TWO STRAPS, ‘AMMERSMITH.”

“LETTS TAKE RIGA.”

Daily Mail.

Yes, and let’s keep it.

Manager (introducing music-hall turn). “LADIES AND
GENTLEMEN, KHAGOOLA WILL NOW PROCEED TO GIVE HIS ASTOUNDING
CLAIRVOYANT, MEMORY AND SECOND SIGHT ACT, AND WILL ANSWER ANY
QUESTION THAT ANY MEMBER OF THE AUDIENCE MAY PUT TO HIM.”

Voice from Gallery. “TELL US WHERE THERE’S A ‘OUSE TO
LET.”

MURMAN AMENITIES.

This was to have been an essay from an igloo, describing the
awful privations of the writer and the primitive savagery of his
surroundings on the Murman coast. It was to have wrung the
sympathetic heart of the public and at the same time to have
enthralled the student of barbaric life with its wealth of exotic
detail. While embodying all the best-known newspaper
clichés appropriated to these latitudes it was to
have included others specially and laboriously prepared after a
fascinating study of Arctic literature.

But circumstances have blighted its early inspiration, and the
article it was to have been will never be written, the telling
word-pictures designed on board the transport never executed.

Figure the disgust of five adventurers who, landing at the
Murman base, sternly braced to encounter the last extremity of
peril and of hardship, to sleep in the snow and dig one another out
o’ mornings, to give the weakest of their number the warmest icicle
to suck, the longest candle to chew—found themselves billeted
in a room which the landladies of home would delight to advertise!
Its walls were hung with such pictures as give cheap lodgings half
their horror; it was encumbered with countless frail chairs and
“kiggly” tables, and upon every flat surface had settled a swarm of
albums, framed photographs, china dogs, wax flowers,
penholder-stands, and all the choicest by-products of civilization
struggling towards culture. As we were not to be frozen by exposure
or immediately attacked by Bolshies, we might reasonably have
expected to be asphyxiated by the Russian stove; but even this
consolation was denied us, since Madame, convinced that the English
are mad in their love of fresh air, consented to leave it
unlit.

When first we arrived, five large soldiers with five large kits,
the aspect of the room filled us with terror. The fiercest frost or
foe we could have faced, but the bravest man may quail before
wax-flowers and fragile tables top-heavy with ornaments and
knick-knacks, and all felt that to encounter such things within the
Arctic Circle was an unfair test of our fortitude. Why had not the
War Office or some newspaper correspondent warned us?

Madame, however, proved to have a sense of proportion or humour;
or perhaps the collection was not her own. In any case she showed
no reluctance to displace family photographs or china dogs, and
rapidly had the room cleared for action; so that now, when we roll
about the floor in friendly struggle, it is only someone’s toilet
tackle that crashes with its spidery table, instead of cherished
artificial fauna and flora.

Thanks to our serviceable and becoming Arctic kit and the steady
approach of the Spring thaw, heralded by the preparation of spare
bridges to replace the existing ones, we can defy the
eccentricities of the climate. Even the language begins to reveal
what might be termed hand-holds; though possibly, when the natives
echo our words of greeting, painfully acquired from textbooks on
Russian, they are simply imitating the sounds we make under the
impression that they are learning a little English.

More difficult problems arise, however, regarding questions of
military etiquette. Not King’s Regulations, nor Military Law, nor
any handbook devotes even a sub-paragraph to light and leading upon
certain points which we have here to consider every day. For
example, if a subaltern glissading on ski down the village street,
maintaining his precarious balance by the aid of a “stick” in each
hand, meets a General, also on ski and also a novice, what should
happen? What does happen we know by demonstration: the
subaltern brandishes both sticks round his head, slides forward
five yards, smartly crosses the points of his ski and then,
plunging forward, buries his head in the wayside drift, while the
General Officer sits down and says what he thinks. But we do not
know if these gestures of natural courtesy are such as our mentors
would approve. No authority has set up for us any ideal in such
matters. From official rules of deportment the British soldier
knows how to salute when on foot or mounted on bicycle, horse,
mule, camel, elephant, motor-lorry or yak, but no provision has
been made for the case of an army scooting on ski. So here we are
at large in the Arctic Circle, coping with new conditions by the
light of nature, and paying such perilous “compliments” to senior
officers as our innate courtesy and sense, of balance suggest and
permit.

Further, consider the question of dress. Even the gunners, who
in the late war used to wear riding-breeches of their favourite
colour, no matter what it was, the kind of footgear they most
fancied, and any old variety of hat they thought becoming, are
shocked by the fantastic kit that is countenanced in this latitude.
It must be borne in mind that most of us are old campaigners and
old nomads whose tailors have grown accustomed to build us
appropriate gear for various climes. Fashions for fighting in
France, in Egypt, in Mesopotamia, have gained a hold upon our
affections, to say nothing of those [pg 419] designs for civil
breadwinning or moss-dodging in Central Africa, Bond Street,
Kirkcaldy or Dawson City. The consequence is that here, pretty well
out of A.P.M. range, sartorial individualism flourishes unchecked.
Thus the eye is startled to behold a fur headdress as big as a
busby, an ordinary service tunic, gaberdine breeches, shooting
stockings and Shackleton boots, going about as component parts of
one officer’s make-up; or snow-goggles worn with flannel trousers,
or sharp-toothed Boreas defied by a bare head and a chamois-leather
jerkin; or the choice flowers of Savile Row associated with
Canadian moccasins.

What idea will the North Russians retain of the outward
appearance of the typical British officer? How will the little
Lapps, befurred and smiling, who come sliding to market behind the
trotting reindeer, report of us to the smaller Lapps at home? In
any case I hope we shall found a legend of a well-meaning if
peculiar and patchwork people.

British Matron (whose husband has just had his weekly coat of
woad, to visitor). “I’M SORRY, SIR, BUT MY HUSBAND CAN’T SEE
YOU TILL HE’S DRY.”

“Gas Stoker wanted for 11 million works, used to gas engine and
exhauster; 50s. per week of seven 12-hour
shifts.”—Advt. in Daily Paper.

In the circumstances the reference to “exhauster” seems
superfluous.

NEW AIDS TO THE ANGRY.

The readers of the Personal Column of The Times were
lately refreshed by the following entry:—

“Would the person in the green Tyrolese hat note
that though it may be a custom on his own course to pocket
golf-balls on the fairway, it is not done elsewhere.”

For long the Personal Column has been a vehicle for appeal and
regret, for affection and grief, in addition to its other manifold
uses; but as an instrument of admonishment it is fresh. The tragic
thing is that up to the time of going to press the green Tyrolese
hat has made no reply. Either it does not read The Times or
it has been rendered speechless. We were longing for some
first-class recriminations.

The new fashion is sure to spread. For example, any morning we
are liable to find this:—

Would the lady (?) in the purple toque note that,
though it may be the thing in her home to disregard the feelings of
others, the abstraction of someone else’s chair at a White Sale at
Blankridge’s is not the thing.

And again:—

The female with a red parasol, who thought it her
duty to struggle like a wild-cat for a place on a No. 11 bus,
opposite the Stores, on Friday afternoon last at a quarter to
three, may be interested in learning that the service is not run
solely for her.

And a more intimate note still may be struck. Something like
this may be looked for:—

Will Lydia Lopokova take pity on an unhappy and
neglected wife, whose husband has stated that he would resume
dining at home only on condition that the table was laid as it is
laid in The Good-Humoured Ladies?

BEFORE.

R. F.

More Dillydallying.

“Arbitration is to be adopted first in disputes between members
of the League, then meditation by the Council.”—Liverpool
Paper.

THE TREACHEROUS SON.

I certainly hoped when I took up my quarters in this quiet
village that there would be no jarring note to disturb the idyllic
peace of my surroundings. And yet I had not been long in this
pleasant sitting-room, with its outlook on blossom-laden
fruit-trees, creamy-spired chestnuts and wooded down, before I
became aware that a pitiful and rather sordid little domestic drama
was in progress within fifty yards from my open windows. I
discovered a son in the act of encouraging his aged and apparently
imbecile parent to gamble with a professional swindler! Not that I
have actually seen them thus engaged. As a matter of fact I have
merely heard a few short remarks—and those were all spoken by
the son. But, as everyone knows, even a single sentence
accidentally overheard by an observant stranger may give him a
clearer insight into the unknown, and possibly unseen, speaker’s
character than could be gained from countless chapters of a modern
analytical novel.

So these four sentences were quite enough for me. Perhaps
I should mention here that the three personages in this drama are
birds—which makes it all the more painful.

Like many of our British birds, the sole speaker occasionally
drops into English, or I should never have understood what was
going on. He may be a blackbird or thrush, but I doubt it, because
I know all their remarks, while his are new to me. If A.A.M.
heard them he would probably tell me they were those of a
“Blackman’s Warbler,” and I should have believed him—once.
Hardly now, after he has so airily exposed his title as an
authority; but even as it is I should not dream of questioning his
statement that “the egg of course is rather more speckled,” because
I can well believe that the egg this bird—whatever he
is—came from was very badly speckled indeed.

It seems that, some time ago—I can’t say when exactly, but
it was before I came down here—this unnatural son introduced
to the parental abode (which I think is either No. 5 or No. 6 in a
row of young chestnuts abutting on the high road) a rook of more
than dubious reputation, whom he persuaded his unsuspecting sire to
put up for the night. And there the rook has been ever since. As I
said, I have neither heard nor seen him, but I’m positive he’s
there. I am unable to give the precise date on which he
first led the conversation to the good old English game of “rigging
the thimble”—that also was before I came. All I can state
with certainty is that he interested his host in it so effectually
that now the infatuated old fool is playing it all day long.

This is evident from his son’s conversation; during the pause
which invariably precedes it I should undoubtedly hear the
father-bird (if he would only speak up—which he doesn’t)
quavering, “I’m not sure, my boy, I’m not sure, but I’ve a
notion that, this time, he’s left the pea under the
middle thimble—eh?”

On which the young scoundrel, knowing well that it is elsewhere,
pipes out, “There it is, Fa-ther, there it is,
Fa-ther!” with an unctuous humility shading into impatient contempt
that is simply indescribable, being indeed too revolting for
words.

Then, as the father still wavers, his son makes some
observations which I cannot quite follow, but take to be on the
fairness of the game as played with a sportsbird, and the certainty
that the luck must turn sooner or later. After which he exhorts
him—this time in plain English—to “be a bird.”
Whereupon the doting old parent decides that he will be a
bird and back the middle thimble, and the next moment I hear the
son exclaim, evidently referring to the rook, “No, ‘e‘s got
it; no, ‘e‘s got it. Cheer up! Cheer up!” with a perfunctory
concern that is but a poor disguise for indecent exultation. I am
not suggesting, by the way, that birds are in the habit of dropping
their “h’s”—but this one does. There are times when he
is so elated by his parent’s defeat that he cannot repress an
outburst of inarticulate devilry. And so the game goes on, minute
after minute, hour after hour, every day from dawn to dusk. The
amount of grains or grubs or whatever the stakes may be (and it is
not likely that any rook would play for love), that that old idiot
must have lost even since I have been here, is beyond all
calculation. He has never once been allowed to spot the right
thimble, but he will go on. As to the son’s motive in
permitting it, any bird of the world would tell you that, if you
possess a senile parent who is bound to be rooked by somebody, it
had better be by a person with whom you can come to a previous
arrangement.

Now I come to think of it, though, I have not heard the
unnatural offspring once since I sat down to write this. Can it
have dawned at last upon his parent that this is one of those
little games where the odds are a trifle too heavy in favour of the
Table? Or can the son have sickened of his own villainy and washed
his claws of his shady confederate? I don’t know why, but I am
almost beginning to hope…. No; through the open window comes the
well-known cry, “There it is, Fa-ther! There it is,
Fa-ther! Be a bird! Be a bird!… No, ‘e‘s got it!
No, ‘e‘s got it! Cheer up! Cheer up!” They are at it
again!

F.A.

A SHADY TENANT.

[From inquiries made by a Daily Chronicle
representative it appears that the present demand for housing
accommodation is such that people no longer draw the line at
ghosts.]

A PAUSE BEFORE RECONSTRUCTION.

Small Bridesmaid (loudly, in middle of ceremony).
“MUMMIE, ARE WE ALL GETTING MARRIED?”

THE NEW ARM.

(On perceiving William in mufti again and
carrying one.)

East is East.

“The Girl Guides are doing well…. Another guide was married
this month to Corporal ——. We wish them all
happiness.”—Diocesan Magazine (India).

Corporal —— appears to be a specialist.

“There are persistent rumours of a plot to bring back the old
régime and put either a Hohenzollern or a representative of
some other Royal house on the Thorne of Germany.”—Canadian
Paper.

EX-KAISER (loq.): “No, thanks; I’ve had some.”

“OXFORD FOR HOLIDAYS.—Most beautiful city in England. Good
lodgings and boating. Two golf links and fishing.”—Advt.
in Provincial Paper.

We seem to remember, too, some mention of an educational
establishment in connection with the place.

Our Helpful Contemporaries.

“There have been cases, we believe, in which the height of a
person has increased after the person had reached mature age, but
it has always been suspected that this was due to greater
uprightness. A man who stoops always looks shorter than when he is
standing quite upright. But no such explanation as this can be
given for an apparent increase of the human head. If a head really
requires a larger hat it must be because the head is
larger.”—Provincial Paper.

HONOUR SATISFIED.

GERMAN DELEGATE. “SIGN? I’D SOONER DIE! (Aside) AFTER
WHICH PRELIMINARY REMARKS I WILL NOW SELECT A NIB.”

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

Monday, May 19th.—The coalminers lately received
concessions in wages and hours that are going to cost the country
twenty millions sterling in the present financial year. The first
result of this boon (teste Sir AUCKLAND GEDDES) is that they
are turning out less coal per man than ever, and that the unhappy
consumer must look forward to a further reduction in his already
meagre ration. It is rather hard upon Mr. SMILLIE, who daily
dilates in the Coal Commission upon the hardships of the miner’s
life, that his clients should let him down like this.

For a thorough-going democrat commend me to Lieutenant-Commander
KENWORTHY, the new Member for Central Hull, whose latest idea is
that before British troops are sent to any new front the approval
of the House of Commons should be obtained. I suspect that if,
during his active-service days, some Member had proposed a similar
restriction on the movements of the Fleet the comments of the
gallant Commander himself would have been more pithy than
Parliamentary.

LADIES IN GOVERNMENT
MOTOR-CARS.
General Seely. “WELL, HARDLY EVER.”

The number of motor-cars at the disposal of the Air Ministry now
stands at the apparently irreducible minimum of forty-two. Quite a
number of the officials use train or bus, like ordinary folk; some
have even been seen to walk; and there has been such a slump in
“joy-riding” that when asked if ladies were now carried in the
official chariots General SEELY was able to assure the House that
that never happens; though I think he added under his
breath—”well, hardly ever.”

There was barely a quorum when Colonel LESLIE WILSON rose to
introduce the estimates of the Shipping Controller. This was a
pity, for he had a good story to tell of the mercantile marine, and
told it very well. He was less successful on the subject of the
“national shipyards,” which have cost four millions of money and in
two years have not succeeded in turning out a single completed
ship. With the wisdom that comes after the event Sir CHARLES HENRY
fulminated ferociously against the “superman” who had imposed this
“disastrous scheme” upon the country.

This brought up the superman himself, Sir ERIC GEDDES, who in
the most vigorous speech he has yet delivered in the House defended
the scheme as being absolutely essential at the time it was
initiated. It was a war-time expedient, which changing
circumstances had rendered unnecessary; but if the War and the
U-boat campaign had gone on it might have been the salvation of the
country. After all you can’t expect to have shipyards without
making a few slips.

Tuesday, May 20th.—The advance of woman continues.
Very soon she will have her foot upon the first rung of the
judicial ladder, and be able to write J.P. after her name, for the
LORD CHANCELLOR, pointing out that in this matter the Government
were bound to honour the pledges of the PRIME MINISTER, gracefully
swallowed Lord BEAUCHAMP’S Bill. He took occasion, however, to warn
the prospective justicesses (if that is the right term) that, as
the Commissions of the Peace were already fully manned, it might be
some time before any large number of ladies could be added to the
roll of those who, in the words of the Prayer-book, “indifferently
administer justice.”

Quite unintentionally, of course, Mr. BOTTOMLEY did the
Government a real service in the Commons. Every day since his
return from Paris Mr. BONAR LAW has been pestered with inquiries as
to when, if ever, the House was to be allowed to discuss the Peace
terms, and has evaded a direct answer with more or less ingenuity.
This afternoon Mr. BOTTOMLEY, after hearing that the LEADER OF THE
HOUSE had “nothing to add” to his previous replies, asked if he was
right in supposing that, when the Treaty came up for ratification,
the House must take it or leave it, and would have no power to
amend it in any respect. Mr. LAW joyfully jumped at the chance of
ending the daily catechism once for all. “That,” he said, “exactly
represents the position, and I do not see in what other way any
Treaty could ever be arranged.”

In anticipation of the debate on the Finance Bill Mr. SYDNEY
ARNOLD sought an admission from the CHANCELLOR OF THE EXCHEQUER
that the income-tax on small incomes was hardly worth retaining,
owing to the cost of collection. Not at all, said Mr. CHAMBERLAIN.
It costs six hundred thousand pounds and brings in eight million.
Of course, he added, it costs more proportionately to collect small
amounts than large. If the whole of the income-tax could be paid by
one individual the cost of collection would be nil. One
imagined the CHANCELLOR on the eve of the Budget wishing,
à la NERO, that the whole of the British people had
but one purse, into which he could dip as deeply and as often as he
pleased.

The debate on the Finance Bill was largely devoted to the
proposed “levy on capital,” which a section of the “Wee Frees,” who
already display fissiparous tendencies, have borrowed from the
Labourites. After their amendment was framed, however, Mr. ASQUITH
spoke at Newcastle, and ostentatiously refused to say a word about
the new nostrum. Sir DONALD MACLEAN, anxious to avoid displeasing
either his old leader or his new supporters, contented himself with
the suggestion that a Commission should be set up to consider the
subject.

The CHANCELLOR had little difficulty in disposing of the
amendment. He might, indeed, have contented himself with quoting
the War Bond advertisements, which daily inform us that the
patriotic investor “will receive the whole of his money back with a
substantial premium.”

The Preference proposals which Mr. ACLAND had described as bred
“by Filial Piety out of the Board of Trade” received the unexpected
aid of Sir ALFRED MOND, who disposed of his Cobdenite prejudices as
easily as the conjurer swallows his gloves, and unblushingly
asserted that the tiny Preference now proposed, far from being the
advance-guard of Protection, was in reality a very strong movement
towards Free Trade. Comforted by this authoritative declaration
Coalition Liberals helped the Government to defeat the amendment by
317 to 72.

THE LONG PULL.
MR. ROBERTS RESPONDS TO HIS COUNTRY’S CALL.

Wednesday, May 21st.—The Peers being as usual
rather short of work at this period of the Session, the LORD
CHANCELLOR introduced a Bill “to enable the Official Solicitor for
the time being to exercise powers and duties conferred on the
person holding the office of Official Solicitor.”

The rumours that have lately appeared in the papers, to the
effect that the FIRST COMMISSIONER OF WORKS was contemplating
revolutionary alterations at Hampton Court—in particular that
he was going to transform the famous pond-garden into something
quite different: a MOND-garden, in fact—are, it seems,
grossly exaggerated. All that he has done is to appoint a Committee
of experts to advise him what, if any, changes are desirable.

The resumed debate on the Finance Bill was enlivened by some
personal details. By way of showing that even without a levy on
capital the rich man bears his share of the burdens of the State,
Sir EDWARD CARSON remarked that, when he receives a retainer, he
immediately allows for the super-tax and enters it in his fee-book
at only half the amount. He had had one that very morning. “Say it
was five pounds”—and the House laughed loudly at such an
absurd supposition.

Then we had Lord HUGH CECIL pointing his argument that the
importance of the proposed Preference to the Dominions was
political rather than economical by the remark that if he was going
to be married—which he fervently hoped would not happen to
him—he would expect his mythical bride to value his
engagement-ring less for its pecuniary than its sentimental
value.

A capital speech by Mr. STANLEY BALDWIN, one of the few men in
the House who talks finance as if he really understood it, wound up
the debate, and procured the Finance Bill a second reading nem.
con.

Thursday, May 22nd.—The Ministry of Health Bill
came up for third reading in the Lords. An eleventh-hour attempt by
the Government to provide the new Minister with an additional
Under-Secretary was heavily defeated, Lord DOWNHAM being
appropriately enough one of the Tellers for the Opposition.

The Commons heard some good news. Mr. KENDALL’S pathetic story
of an angling-party which, after walking five miles along a dusty
road to its favourite hostelry, found it adorned with the now too
frequent notice, “Closed—No Beer,” brought a most sympathetic
reply from Mr. GEORGE ROBERTS, who boldly confessed, “I am a
believer in good beer myself,” and later on announced that the
Government had decided to increase the output from twenty million
to twenty-six million standard barrels.

Geordie (after intently watching conductor of Jazz band for
some time). “AH’VE HAD ENOUGH O’ THIS. YON CHAP WI’ STICK’S
ONLY CODDIN’. HE’S NOT HIT ONE OF ‘EM SINCE WE CAAME IN.”

Farmer. “WELL, I BE MAIN GLAD TO SEE YOU BACK FROM THE
WAR. I SUPPOSE YOU’LL BE THINKING OF TAKING TO WORK NOW?”

WHAT’S IN A NAME?

The original answer to the question at the head of these
insignificant remarks was (correct me if I am wrong) nothing. “A
rose,” said Juliet, “by any other name would smell as
sweet.” But of course she was wrong. If a rose were handed to a
visitor in the garden, with the words, “Do see how wonderful this
onion is!” such a prejudice would be set up as fatally to impair
its fragrance. There is, in fact, much in a name; and therefore the
attempt of a correspondent of The Daily Express to find a
generic nomenclature for domestic servants should be given very
serious attention; the purpose being to meet “the objection felt by
so many women servants to being either called by Christian or
surname.”

As a means of placating this very sensitive class the
correspondent writes:—

“One nearly always calls a cook by the name of her calling. I
therefore suggest that a name be adopted beginning with the first
letter of the class. For example:—

Here we have materials for a sweeping innovation which might, if
it spread, not only simplify life but reinforce the language. For
why confine such terms to domestic servants? If all parlourmaids
are to be called “Palmer,” why not, for example, call all editors
“Eddy” (very good Eddy, or very bad Eddy, according to taste)? And
all London County Councillors, “Elsie”?

But let us look a little narrowly at the specimens given.
“Palmer” for “parlourmaid” is good; but “Louise” does not reproduce
the sound values of “lady’s-maid.” Some such word as “Lais” would
be better, or why not “Lady-bird,” which combines the desired
similarity with the new euphemism “home-bird,” invented to help
transform domestic service to a privilege and pleasure? “Hannah”
for “housemaid” is also wrong, although for “handmaid” it would be
good. On the analogy of “Palmer,” why not call all housemaids
“How”? or even “House”?

If American Colonels can be called HOUSE, why not English
housemaids? For generals “Jenny” would be better than “Gertrude”;
and for scullery-maids “Scully.” “Scully” is quite a good name;
there is a distinguished psychologist named SULLY, and there was an
M.P. for Pontefract named GULLY. No scullery-maid need be
offended.

It is odd how we call some persons by their profession or
calling, and others not. We say “Doctor,” but we do not address our
gum-architect as “Dentist.” We say “Carpenter,” but we do not
address a plumber as “Plumber.” (Incidentally, all plumbers might
be called Warner). We say “Gardener” and “Coachman,” but we do not
address an advocate as “Barrister.” If we had a definite rule
everything would be simple, but as we have not it is necessary to
find several more names. I am not at all satisfied with The
Daily Express’s test. For example, what would a second
parlour-maid be called? If three were kept they might be called
Palm, Palmer and Palmist. A long vista of difficulties opens.

RUS IN URBE.

[“Encouraged by the summer weather yesterday, a
titled lady took her tea with some friends on the footway at
Belsize Park Gardens, Hampstead. Unsympathetic passers-by, however,
complained of the obstruction … and, following representation to
the police by the public, the al-fresco tea-party was broken
up.”—Daily News.]

In spite of the innate conservatism of the police we are pleased
to think that the seeds of a happy unconventionality, sown by this
courageous lady of title, have already borne fruit.

On Thursday night, about ten o’clock, the attention of
passers-by was drawn to a four-post bed, which was being trundled
along the Strand by eight stalwart footmen. On it reposed the Duke
of Sleepyacres. It appears that his Grace, on return from active
service, found that the confined air of an ordinary bed-room
engendered insomnia. He therefore conceived the idea of sleeping in
the open-air and caused his bed to be placed in the centre of the
Strand, opposite the entrance to the Savoy Hotel. The presence of
the sleeping nobleman might have been unnoticed, had not Mr.
SMILLIE chanced to pass the spot on his way from dining after a
session of the Coal Commission. His eye was immediately caught by
the ducal crest on the panels of the bed. Suspicious that this was
a dastardly attempt on the part of a member of the landed classes
to obtain sleeping-rights in a public thoroughfare, Mr. SMILLIE
lodged a complaint with the police, and the Duke was removed to Bow
Street.

Some mild interest has been displayed by the public in a camp
which has been established by three subalterns in the roadway at
the corner of Charing Cross and Northumberland Avenue. It is a
small and quite inconspicuous affair, consisting merely of an army
pattern bell-tent, a camp fire and a few deck chairs. Our
representative recently visited the occupants to ascertain the
reason for their presence. After hastily declining an offer of a
glass of E.F.C. port, smuggled over from France, he inquired with
polite interest whether his hosts contemplated a lengthy stay. They
replied that they did. They were waiting for their demobilisation
gratuities. The locality, they added, was a quiet one, where
advancing old age could be met in comfortable meditation. Also the
offices of Messrs. Cox, Box & Co., the Regimental Agents, were
in convenient proximity, and the latest news of the gratuities
could be obtained with a minimum of trouble. Up to the present the
police have not interfered with them, apparently taking them for
workmen employed in repairing the roadway.

AT THE PLAY.

“KISSING TIME.”

For an infrequent worshipper at the shrine of Musical Comedy the
atmosphere of a first night at a new, or renascent, theatre is
perhaps rather too heady. There are so many potent vintages set on
the board; so many connoisseurs who will offer to tell you
beforehand of the merits of their favourite brands.

I confess, to my shame, that when an actor with whose gifts I am
unfamiliar is received on his entrance with a storm of applause, I
am not prejudiced, as I ought to be, in his favour. On the contrary
I follow his performance the more judicially, and if I cannot find
that it corresponds to his apparent reputation I am apt (wrongly
again) to conclude that the fault lies with him and not with
myself.

THE OLD GAIETY IN A NEW
HOME.

MR. GEORGE GROSSMITH AND MR. LESLIE HENSON AT THE WINTER GARDEN
THEATRE.

But in the case of Kissing Time, after a rather dull
First Act, during which I kept telling myself that I was not
suffering from senile decay, I had to admit that the gods were in a
great measure justified of their elect. For one thing the authors,
taking a bold and original line (from the French), had produced a
coherent plot; and both dialogue and lyrics were above what I
understand to be the average in this kind. One expects, of course,
a little Cockney licence—”pyjamas” rhymed with “Palmer’s,”
and so on—and a certain amount of popular banality, as in the
song, “Some Day” (rapturously approved); but there were excellent
verses on the text, “A woman has no mercy on a man,” and, I doubt
not, much other good stuff which I missed because Mr. IVAN CARYLL,
who conducted (and was probably thinking more of his own pleasant
music than somebody else’s words), did not make enough allowance
for my slowness in the up-take of patter.

Mr. LESLIE HENSON was funny, and should be funnier still when
the book has been cut down by about an hour and space allowed him
for private developments. Miss PHYLLIS DARE was graceful and
confident. One easily understood her popularity; but Miss YVONNE
ARNAUD, who was a little slow for the general pace, must, I think,
be more of an acquired taste.

Mr. TOM WALLS (very svelte in his French uniform) did sound
work, and so did Mr. GEORGE BARRETT, a humourist by gift of nature.
Mr. GEORGE GROSSMITH, who with Mr. LAURILLARD has made out of the
old Middlesex a most attractive and spacious “Winter Garden,”
brought with him the traditions of the Gaiety, and had a warm
personal welcome. I could bear him to be funnier than he was; but
as I’m sure that he’s clever enough to be anything he likes I can
only assume that he wasn’t really trying.

I join everybody in wishing him good cheer in this “garden” of
his, where, if the auguries fulfil themselves, he is not likely,
even in the dog-days, to have to endure “the winter of our
discontent.”

O. S.

THE LAND OF MY DREAMS

“Quarrymen (experienced) Wanted, wages 1s. 5-1/2d.
per hour; constant employment for good men. No bankers need
apply.”—Country Paper.

Why this marked discrimination against bankers? We have known
several who were most respectable.

THE RENAISSANCE.

The unexampled rapidity with which, owing to the opportunities
of war-time, men in all walks of life have reached the top of the
tree in early manhood is leading on to strange but inevitable
results. Unable to rise any higher they are already contemplating
the heroic course of justifying their eminence by starting afresh
at the bottom of the ladder.

The crucial and classical example is, of course, furnished by
our Boy Chancellor. It is an open secret that, with that sagacious
foresight which has always characterised him, Lord BIRKENHEAD
recognises the impermanency of his exalted position and is resolved
when and if he leaves the Woolsack to resume practice as a Junior.
It is further rumoured that some of our judges intend to follow his
august example. The atmosphere of the Bench is not always
exhilarating, and the salary is fixed. But a self-effacing altruism
doubtless also enters into their motives.

The impending exodus from Whitehall is another factor in the
situation. Scores of demobilised “Ministerial angels” will soon be
released, and are meditating fresh outlets for their benevolent
energies. Many of them are young and some beautiful. The romance of
commerce and of the stage will prove a potent lure. Never has the
demand for an elegant deportment and urbane manners in our great
shops and stores been more clamant; never has the standard been
higher. Our ex-officials may have to stoop, but it will be to
conquer. We can confidently look forward to the day when no shop
will be without its DEMOSTHENES, ALCIBIADES or its CICERO.
Opportunities for employment on the stage are likely to be
multiplied by the alleged intention of several actor-managers to
enter Parliament, while others, nobly anxious to satisfy the claims
of youth, have expressed their resolve only to appear henceforth in
such subsidiary parts as dead bodies and outside shouts.

In the domain of letters some startling developments are also
threatened on similar lines. Mr. WELLS, always remarkable for his
refusal to commit himself to any finality in the formulation of his
opinions, has, it is said, decided to devote his talents in future
exclusively to the composition of educational works in words of one
syllable, and where possible of three letters. He is also
contemplating a revised and simplified edition of his novels,
beginning with Mr. Brit Sees It Thro’. Mr. SHAW’S fresh
start will be the greatest surprise of all. He intends to go to
Eton and Oxford, and, as a don, to combat the tide of Socialism at
our older Universities. Mr. BELLOC, it is reported, has re-enlisted
in the French Artillery, and Mr. ARNOLD BENNETT has accepted a
commission in the Dutch mercantile marine.

The future of Mr. ASQUITH has given rise to a good deal of
speculation in the Press, but we are in a position to state that he
does not intend to re-enter politics or to resume his practice at
the Bar, but has resolved to return to his first
love—journalism. Sport is the only department in which the
ornate and orotund style of which Mr. ASQUITH is a master is still
in vogue, and the description of classic events in classical
diction will furnish him with a congenial opening for the exercise
of his great literary talent.

The rumour that Mr. BALFOUR, on his retirement from the post of
Foreign Secretary, will take up the arduous duties of caddie-master
at St. Andrew’s is not yet fully confirmed. Meanwhile he is known
to be considering the alternative offer of the secretaryship to the
Handel Society. In this context it is interesting to hear that,
according to a Rotterdam agency, Sir EDWARD ELGAR has just
completed a series of pieces for the mouth-organ, dedicated to Sir
LEO CHIOZZA MONEY, which will, it is hoped, be shortly heard in the
luncheon interval at the Coal Commission.

“EXCUSE ME, OFFICER, BUT HAVE YOU SEEN ANY PICKPOCKETS ABOUT
HERE WITH A HANDKERCHIEF MARKED ‘SUSAN’?”

A SPORTING CHANCE.

DEAR ALEC,—Jolly glad to hear you’re coming home. I beat
you after all, though. I suppose I was looking particularly pivotal
when I saw the D.O., because he let me through at once.

Will you go back to the Governor’s office?

Yours
ever,      GARRY NORTON.

DEAR GARRY,—Haven’t the faintest; but before settling down
I’m going to have a week or two, either sailing or fishing, so as
to try to shed the army feeling, and I think you’d better come with
me. I’ve saved no end of shekels, and I’m going to give old Cox a
run for his money (the bit that’s mine, I mean, that he’s been
keeping for me).

If you can find a likely craft, mop her up for me, old bean, and
we’ll have a hairy time somewhere on the S.W. coast.

Yours in
haste,      ALEC RIDLEY.

DEAR ALEC,—I wish you’d be less vague. What sort of a boat
do you want—schooner, yawl, cutter or spoonbill? A
half-decker, or the full five quires to the ream? Give me definite
instructions and I’ll do my best to carry them out. I’m afraid I
can’t get off, so you’ll have to take someone else, or incarnadine
the seas by yourself.

Yours as
ever,      GARRY.

DEAR GARRY,—Sorry to hear you can’t come. Any kind of a
boat that will go without bouncing too high will do, and if it has
a rudder, a couple of starboard tacks, bath and butler’s pantry so
much the better. I mean to wash out the memory of those nine months
at Basra last year with the flies.

Yours,      ALEC.

DEAR ALEC,—What you want, my lad, is a houseboat, and I
doubt whether you’ll get one during this shortage of residential
property.

I should try fishing if I were you. In fact I have taken a bit
of water for you in Chamshire. I haven’t seen it, but am told it’s
very all right and only twenty pounds till the 10th of June.

Yours
ever,      GARRY NORTON.

DEAR GARRY,—This is a top-hole place. To have got this
water for so little you ‘re absolutely the Senior Wangler.

You might send me some mayflies, old dear; about half a pint I
shall want, judging from the infernal number of bushes on the river
banks here. Mr. MILLS’s bombs have put me right off my cast and I
can’t do the old Shimmy shake either somehow. I can hear the click
of croquet balls in the Vicarage garden as I write, so the hooping
season has begun.

There’s one other chap staying in the pub. Talks and dresses
like a War profiteer. Seems to be doing nothing but loafing about
at present.

Yours
ever,      ALEC.

Postcard.

Have ordered the mayflies and will send them soon as
poss.      G. N.

DEAR GARRY,—Thanks for yours. Not so anxious about
mayflies now, but should be glad if you would send me a pound or
two of the best chocolates. Having good sport.

In haste for post,

Yours,      ALEC.

DEAR ALEC,—I enclose a couple of pounds of extra special
chocolates, but didn’t know they were included in the Angler’s
Pharmacopoeia.

Glad you are having good sport and justifying my choice of
water.

Yours as
usual,      GARRY.

DEAR GARRY,—Thanks for chocs. The Vicar called the other
day, and I have caught several cups of tea on the recoil at the
Vicarage since. Miss Stevenson, his ewe-lamb, is A1, and we have
had some splendid sport together. We caught eleven beauties
yesterday; one was over 19-1/2 inches.

Post just going out.

Yours in
haste,      ALEC.

P.S.—Another couple of pounds of chocs would be
useful.

DEAR ALEC,—-Awfully glad to hear the fishing is so good. I
shall expect a brace of good long trout for breakfast one of these
days.

Yours,      GARRY.

DEAR GARRY,—Who said anything about fish? I sub-let the
water (at a profit) to the War-profiteer three days after
arriving.

Miss Stevenson, with a brace of bouncing terriers, is outside
whistling for me, so I must put the lid on.

Yours,      ALEC.

DEAR ALEC,—What’s the idea? You say you let the fishing a
fortnight ago; but last Wednesday you wrote about catching eleven
beauties, one over nineteen and a half inches long. Some
trout—what? But why the terriers?

Yours in darkness,

GARRY NORTON.

Postcard.
Rats.	ALEC.

“When Greek Joins Greek.”

“The Red Cross announces that the repatriation of Greeks
forcibly removed from their homes in Eastern Macedonia has been
virtually completed despite Bulgarian opposition. The reports says
the Greek Red Cross rendered invaluable aid in looting imprisoned
Greeks hidden remotely.”—Egyptian Gazette.

THE NAVY AT CAMBRIDGE.

From a club journal:—

“Members will look forward to the River Trip this year as a
change from a Trip to the River.”

This constant craving for variety is one of the most unhealthy
symptoms of the times in which we live.

From a report of the debate on the National
Shipyards:—

“‘The Mercantile Marine was our weakest front. If the sinking
increased our unbiblical cord would be cut’ (a graphic phrase
this).”—Provincial Paper.

Graphic, perhaps, but hardly stenographic.

Poacher (to gamekeeper who has been chasing him for twenty
minutes). “NOW, SONNY, IF YOU’VE ‘AD A GOOD REST WE’LL SET OFF
AGAIN.”

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

MR. E.F. BENSON, seizing occasion as it flies, has given us, in
Across the Stream (MURRAY), a story on the very topical
subject of spiritualism and communication with the dead. As a
practised novelist, with a touch so sure that it can hardly fail to
adorn, he has made a tale that is interesting throughout and here
and there aspires to real beauty of feeling; though not all the
writer’s skill can disguise a certain want of unity in the natural
and supernatural divisions of his theme. The early part of the
book, which tells of the boyhood of Archie and the attempts
of his dead brother Martin to “get through” to him, are
admirably done. As always in these studies of happy and guarded
childhood, Mr. BENSON is at his best, sympathetic, tender,
altogether winning. There was lung trouble in Archie’s
record—Martin indeed had died of it (sometimes I
wonder whether any of Mr. BENSON’S protagonists can ever be wholly
robust), and there is a genuine thrill in the scene at the Swiss
sanatorium, where the dead and living boys touch hands over the
little cache of childish treasure buried by the former
beneath a pine-tree in the garden. Later, when Archie had
recovered from his disease and grown to suitor’s estate, I could
not but feel, despite the sardonically observed figure of
Helena, the detestable girl who nearly ruins him, that the
whole affair had become conventional, and by so much lost interest
for its creator. Apart, however, from the bogie chapters of
Possession (which I shall not further indicate) the most moving
scenes in this latter part are those between Archie and his
father. I have seldom known a horrible situation handled with more
delicate art; it is for this, rather than for its slightly
unconvincing devilments, that I would give the book an honourable
place in the ranks of Bensonian romance.

I quite agree with Mr. HAROLD BEGBIE, whose Mr. Sterling
Sticks it Out (HEADLEY) is a generous attempt to put into the
form of a story the case of the conscientious objector of the
finest type, that, when we are able to think about this matter
calmly, we shall have considerable misgivings at least about
details in our treatment of this difficult problem. I also agree
that the officials of the Press Bureau don’t come at all well out
of the correspondence which he prints in his preface, and, further,
that the Government ought to have had the courage to alter the law
allowing absolute exemption rather than stretch it beyond the
breaking point. But I emphatically dispute his assumption that the
matter was a simple one. It was not the saintly, single-minded and
sweet-natured C.O.’s of Christopher Sterling’s type that
made the chief difficulty. There were few of this literal
interpretation and heroic texture. The real difficulty was created
by men of a very different character and in much greater numbers,
sincere in varying degrees, but deliberately, passionately and
unscrupulously obstructive, bent on baulking the national will and
making anything like reasonable treatment of them impossible. It
would require saints, not men, to deal without occasional lapses
from strict equity with such infuriating folk. Mr. BEGBIE’S book is
unfair in its emphasis, but it is not [pg 432]
fanatical or subversive, and I can see no decent reason why it
should have been banned. I certainly commend it to the
majority-minded as a wholesome corrective.

That the reviewer should finish his study of the assembled
biographies of twenty-four fallen heroes of this War with a feeling
of disappointment and some annoyance argues a fault in the
biographer or in the reviewer. I invite the reader to be the judge
between us, for The New Elizabethans (LANE) must certainly
be read, if only to understand clearly that there is no fault in
the heroes, at any rate. Mr. E.B. OSBORN describes them as “these
golden lads … who first conquered their easier selves and
secondly led the ancestral generations into a joyous captivity”
(whatever that may mean), and maintains, against the father of one
of them apparently, that he is apt in the title he has given to
them and to their countless peers. I agree with the father and
think they deserve a new name of their own; such men as the
GRENFELL brothers, HUGH and JOHN CHARLTON and DONALD HANKEY did
more than maintain a tradition. There is about DIXON SCOTT, “the
Joyous Critic,” something, I think, which will be recognised as
marking a production and a surprise of our own generation—the
“ink-slinger” who, when it came to the point, was found equally
reckless and brave in slinging more dangerous matter. Again, I feel
that there is needed a clearer motive than is apparent to warrant
“a selection of the lives of young men who have fallen in the great
war.” Selections in this instance are more odious than comparisons;
there should be one book for one hero. Thirdly, I disapprove the
dedication to the Americans; and, lastly, I found in the author’s
prose a certain affectation that is unworthy of the subject-matter.
An instance is the reference to HARRY BUTTERS’ “joyous” quotation
of the quatrain:—

I like the quatrain, of course; who, knowing the
“Incorrigibles,” doesn’t? But I did not like that reiterated word
“joyous.”

I should certainly have supposed that recent history had
discounted popular interest in the monarchies of make-believe; in
other words, that when real sovereigns have been behaving in so
sensational a manner one might expect a slump in counterfeits. But
it appears that Mr. H.B. MARRIOTT WATSON is by no means of this
opinion. His latest story, The Pester Finger (SKEFFINGTON),
shows him as Ruritanian as ever. As usual we find that distressful
country, here called Varavia, in the throes of dynastic
upheaval, which centres, in a manner also not without precedent, in
the figure of a young and beautiful Princess. This lady, the last
of her race, had been adopted as ward—on, I thought,
insufficient introduction—by the hero, Sir Francis
Vyse. The situation was further complicated by the fact that in
his youth he had been the officer of the guard who ought to have
prevented the murder of Sonia’s august parents, and didn’t.
Quite early I gave up counting how many times Sir Francis
and his fair ward were set upon, submerged, imprisoned and
generally knocked about. You never saw so convulsed a courtship;
for I will no longer conceal the fact that, when he was not more
strenuously engaged, he soon began to regard Sonia with a
softening eye. And as Sonia herself was growing up to
womanhood, or, in Mr. WATSON’S elegant phrase, “muliebrity claimed
her definitely”—well, he is an enviable reader for whom the
last page will hold any considerable surprise.

“ETIENNE,” in an introductory note to A Naval Lieutenant,
1914-1918 (METHUEN), gives an excellent reason for wishing to
record his impressions of the “sea affair.” He was in H.M.S.
Southampton during the earlier part of the War, and “on all the
four principal occasions when considerable German forces were
encountered in the North Sea, her guns were in action.” Very
naturally he desired to do honour to this gallant light cruiser,
and I admire prodigiously the modest way in which he has done it.
“ETIENNE” is not a stylist; a professor of syntax might conceivably
be distressed by his confusion of prepositions; but apart from this
detail all is plain sailing—and fighting. I have read no more
thrilling account of the Battle of Jutland than is to be found
here. The author does it so well because he tells his story with
great simplicity and without what I believe he would call
“windiness.” Best of all, he has a nice sense of humour, and would
even, I believe, have discovered the funny side of Scapa, if there
had been one. “ETIENNE,” whose short stories of naval life were
amusing, makes a distinct advance in this new work.

SONGS OF INNOCENCE.

GOLF IN SPRINGTIME.

BORROWED THUNDER.

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN BY HANGING ON BEHIND ME LIKE THAT?”

“I’VE BROKEN MY HORN, OLD TOFF, AND I THOUGHT YOU COULD TOOT FOR
TWO.”