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Title: Punch or the London Charivari, Vol. 147, December 23, 1914
Author: Various
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Punch or the London Charivari, Vol. 147, December 23, 1914" ***

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  VOLUME 147.

  DECEMBER 23, 1914.

       *       *       *       *       *


An exceptionally well-informed Berlin newspaper has discovered that,
owing to the war, Ireland is suffering from a horse famine, and many of
the natives are now to be seen driving cattle.

       * * *

An appeal is being made in Germany for cat-skins for the troops. In
their Navy, on the other hand, they often get the cat itself.

       * * *

In offering congratulations to the "Green Howards" on the work they have
been doing at the Front, Major-General CAPPER said, "I knew it was a
regiment I could hang my hat on at any time of the day or night." The
expression is perhaps a little unfortunate; it sounds as if they had
been pegging out.

       * * *

Private F. NAILOR, of the Royal Berkshires, was at his home at Sandhurst
last week when the postman brought a letter from the War Office
reporting that he had been killed in action. While his being alive is,
of course, in these circumstances an act of gross insubordination, the
Army Council will, we understand, content itself with an intimation that
it must not happen again.

       * * *

A cigar presented by the KAISER to Lord LONSDALE has been sold at Henley
in aid of the local Red Cross Hospital, and has become the property of a
butcher at the price of £14 10s. Will it, we wonder, now be inscribed,
"From a brother butcher"?

       * * *

According to the _Berliner Tageblatt_ Western Australia is interning her
alien enemies on "Rottnest Island." If there is anything in a name, this
does seem a rather unhappy choice, in view of the well-known
sensitiveness of the German.

       * * *

It is curious how in war time really important occurrences are apt to
escape one's notice. For example, it was not until we read an article in
a contemporary last week on "The Demise of the Slim Skirt" that we
realised that Fat Skirts were now the vogue.

       * * *

Of all forms of cruelty the most hideous is that which is perpetrated on
defenceless little children, and we hear with regret that the Register
of Births in Liverpool now includes the following names:--Kitchener
Ernest Pickles, Jellicoe Jardine, French Donaldson, and Joffre Venmore.

       * * *

With reference to our recent remarks about Mr. J. WARD'S so-called mixed
metaphor of a horse bolting with money, a gentlemen writes to us from
Epsom to say that he has personally put money on more than one horse
which bolted.

       * * *

The War would certainly seem to have led to better feeling in the Labour
world between masters and men, and from a recent paragraph in _The Daily
Mail_ we learn that there is now a London Association of Master
Decorators. The idea is a pretty one. Iron Crosses, perhaps?

       * * *

The War has worked other wonders. Not the least of these, a Stock
Exchange friend points out, is that lots of Bulls and Bears are now
comrades in arms.

       * * *


_Daily Mail._

We are glad to hear this, for they used to have simply beastly ones.

       *       *       *       *       *



_Wilhelm_.----! ----!!

       *       *       *       *       *

Another secret revealed by Mr. HAMILTON FYFE:--

    "As usual when they take the initiative, the Russian troops swept
    the enemy before them. They first cleared out the trenches and then
    pursued the Germans."--_Daily Mail._

In the West we still cling to the old-fashioned method of first clearing
out the Germans and then pursuing the trenches.

       *       *       *       *       *


MESSRS. HARRAP have just brought out _William the Silent_. This is not a
biography of the KAISER.

       *       *       *       *       *

Nor is _The Hound of Heaven_, a new edition of which is announced by

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. EDWARD CRESSY'S _Discoveries and Inventions of the Twentieth
Century_ makes no mention, curiously enough, of the WOLFF Bureau. We
look in vain, too, among the Yuletide publications for a book of Fairy
Tales by WILLIAM HOHENZOLLERN. This does not speak well for the
alertness of our publishers.

       *       *       *       *       *

Messrs. JACK, we see, have produced a _Life of Nelson_. It is now, we
consider, up to Messrs. NELSON to produce a volume with some such title
as _We All Love Jack_.

       *       *       *       *       *

At last the Germans are reported to have scored a little success in the
United States. An American coon is said to have been so much impressed
by the achievements of the Germans that he has sent a song to the
KAISER, the opening words of which are "My Hunny!"

       *       *       *       *       *

The War is responsible for a splendid boom in the study of geography. An
English lady who visited some of the Belgian wounded at a certain London
hospital the other day asked one of them where he was hit, and on
receiving the reply, "_Au pied_," is said to have spent hours trying to
find the place on the map.

       *       *       *       *       *

Which reminds us that, owing to the new names which the various
belligerents are giving to towns which they have conquered (like
Lemberg) or temporarily occupied (like Ostend), several map-makers are
reported to be suffering from nervous breakdown.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Kaiser's Thanks.

    "The Archbishop of York and Germany."

    _Heading in "Edinburgh Evening Despatch."_

Other pluralists, like the Bishop of SODOR AND MAN, are not at all
jealous, nor are we at all surprised.

       *       *       *       *       *

    "They drank the full-flavoured soup with scarcely a sound."--_The

Another example of true British refinement.

       *       *       *       *       *


    [Referring to our victory off the Falkland Islands, the _Tägliche
    Rundschau_ remarks: "On board our North Sea ships our sailors will
    clench their teeth and all hearts will burn with the feeling,
    'England the enemy! Up and at the enemy!'" The gallant bombardment
    of defenceless towns on our East Coast would appear to be the
    immediate outcome of this intelligent attitude.]

  Behind your lock-gates stowed away,
    Out of the great tides' ebb and flow,
  How could you guess, this many a day,
    Who was your leading naval foe?
  But now you learn, a little late--
    So loud the rumours from the sea grow--
  England's the thing you have to hate,
    And not (for instance) Montenegro.

  The facts are just as you've been told;
    Further disguise would be but vain;
  We have a _penchant_ from of old
    For being masters on the main;
  It is a custom which we caught
    From certain sea-kings who begat us,
  And that is why we like the thought
    That you propose to "up and at" us.

  Come where you will--the seas are wide;
    And choose your Day--they're all alike;
  You'll find us ready where we ride
    In calm or storm and wait to strike;
  But--if of shame your shameless Huns
    Can yet retrieve some casual traces--
  Please fight our men and ships and guns,
    Not women-folk and watering-places.

  O. S.

       *       *       *       *       *


No. XI.


MOST INTERNALLY (_INNIGST_) BELOVED FATHER,--Here in my headquarters we
learnt with sorrow that you have been suffering from a bronchial
catarrh. Anxious as we were at first, our minds were relieved when we
heard that you had behaved very violently to those about you, for in
that we recognised our good old father as we knew him from long since,
and we said to ourselves that you could not fail soon to be in the
saddle again with all your accustomed energy. And now comes the report
that you are indeed yourself again, like _Richard III_, in our great

Now that all danger is past I cannot forbear giving you from my heart a
word of warning, begging you not with rashness to risk your so valuable
life. Do not laugh and imagine that I am pulling your leg (_dass ich Dir
das Bein ziehe_). Nothing is further from my thoughts; I am quite
serious. You must remember that you are not so young as you were and
that this rushing to and fro between France and Poland, which to a man
of my age would be a mere trifle, bringing with it only enjoyment, must
be for a man who is between fifty and sixty a task well calculated to
search out and expose his corporeally weak points so as to bring
satisfaction, not to us, but to the enemy. Such a burden must no longer
be placed only upon your back, for there are others whose bones are
young and who are willing to share it with you. Why should we be
compelled to sit still or merely to beat our back with fists while you,
dear Father, undergo these too terrible fatigues? I myself, for
instance, if I may say so with the most humble respect, am ready to
represent you in all departments whenever you call upon me. I can
scatter any number of Iron Crosses, and am willing to make speeches
which will prove to our hated enemies, as well as to America and Italy,
that God is the good old friend of our HOHENZOLLERN family and that He
will pay no attention (why should He?) to anything that the English, the
French, the Russians, the Servians and the Belgians may say. Is it not
lucky for the Austrians and the Turks that they are on our side and can
share in the high protection that we enjoy? To save you trouble I would
even go so far as to open a session of the _Reichstag_, though for my
own part I never could see much use in that absurd institution. Still we
have it now under our thumb (_unter unserem Daumen_), and even the
Socialists are ready to feed out of our hands and to allow us to kick
them about the floor. He who says that war is barbarous and useless can
learn by this example that it is not so. If you wish me to invite one or
two Socialists (not more) to a State dinner I will even go so far as
that. You see how deeply prepared I am to oblige you. And if you want to
finish your cure by taking a complete rest from the serious work of
being Commander-in-Chief, even in that point I am not unwilling to
sacrifice myself to the highest interests of the Fatherland by replacing
your august person both in the field and in the council chamber. You
have only to say the word and I shall be there.

May I now add a few words about the War? Somehow it does not seem that
we are getting on as we have been led to expect. Mind, I am not blaming
anybody, certainly not your most gracious fatherly Majesty, but I must
say that all the books which we were told to read showed us quite a
different war, a war laid out on the system of 1870. At this stage, in
1870, everything was over except the siege of Paris and the shouting,
but now we do not appear to be making progress anywhere. Why do these
degenerate races hold back our holy and with-love-of-Fatherland-inspired
troops? Perhaps the new MOLTKE has not been quite so sure in his touch
or so triumphant in his plans as the old one--but then that ought not to
have made much difference, because you and I have been there to keep him
straight. FALKENHAYN, no doubt, might have been expected to do better,
for you had opened your whole mind to him, but he too seems only able to
knock his head against a stone wall (_seinen Kopf gegen eine Mauer
stossen_) and the result is that we are everywhere getting it in the
neck (_dass wir es überall in dem Hals kriegen_), and that process is
not pleasant for a true Hohenzollern. It is possible that RUPERT OF
BAVARIA has been allowed to talk too much. One CROWN PRINCE is enough
even for a German army. Have you any idea what we ought to do to secure
victory somewhere?

I am sending you a box of lozenges, which I have always found excellent
for a cough. I beg also that you will not forget how efficacious is
flannel when worn next to the skin.

  Your most devoted Son,

       *       *       *       *       *



A new and ingenious development of the old-fashioned hot-water bottle.
The ordinary hot-water bottle warms but a small portion of the bed. The
Mottle, possessing a motor attachment, can be wound up and it will then
travel all over the bed, diffusing an agreeable warmth everywhere. May
be used as an engine in the nursery by day. _33s. 6d._ The CHESTERTON,
for large-size beds, _44s. 11d._ This kind also makes an excellent gift
for soldiers in the trenches. It will travel half-a-mile before
requiring further petrol.

       *       *       *       *       *

Illustration: FULFILMENT.


       *       *       *       *       *





       *       *       *       *       *



I was sitting grimly in my sentry-box guarding a power station and a
sausage factory. The latter is considered to be a likely point of attack
on the part of the Huns. Should it be destroyed, a vital source of food
supply for our army (they would reason) would be cut off.

Incidentally, the sausage factory is much more exciting to guard than
the electric light works. One sees the raw material arriving and being
unloaded. One sees the sausage king swishing up in his richly-appointed
limousine, giving porkly orders to his deferential subordinates, and
then whisking off--no doubt to confer with the War Office.

An old lady with a million wrinkles approached me and seemed desirous of
entering into conversation. We are strictly forbidden to talk with
civilians unless first accosted. After that it is a matter for
individual discretion.

I therefore left it to her to make the first advance. She began: "'Ave
you got to sit there the 'ole of the afternoon, dearie?"

I confirmed that apprehension.

"Well, I do call it a shame; and you looking so blue with the cold."

With that I was in cordial agreement.

"Are they going to bring you tea, dearie, at 'arf-time?"

Alas, no. Under sergeant's sanction we might be permitted to buy a
pork-pie from opposite, but this must be taken as unofficial and in

"What are you waiting for?" she asked.

"Zeppelins, Madam," I replied.

"Zeppelins--what would they be?"

She nodded a vigorous understanding of my explanation.

"And when they drop their nasty bombs, what will you do then, dearie?"

Our orders were to draw our truncheons, arrest them and convey them to
the nearest police-station. I made this very clear.

"And what do you think they will do to them?"

I considered that they would get at least a month with hard labour, and
no option of a fine.

"I should think so! The brutes--trying to take away the poor man's food!
And as for that CROWN PRINCE, when you get 'im, just you 'it 'im right
over the 'ead with your truncheon!"

We are not allowed to hit over the head on ordinary occasions, but in
the case of the CROWN PRINCE attacking (and conceivably looting) our
sausage factory, no doubt the rule would be relaxed. I undertook to
follow her advice, and she left greatly relieved.

       *       *       *       *       *


Even without his khaki I should have known the wee lieutenant for an
infant in arms, and I began to hope, directly I had been detached by our
hostess to cover his left wing, that he was that happy warrior for whom
I was seeking. He saw me looking at the red ribbon which adorned the
left wing in question and which our gardener's wife told me the other
day was "a poor trumpery sort of thing if KITCHENER meant it as an
honour to them."

"I'm not a kicker," he assured me, and I let him talk inoculation
happily until we commenced to move forward in files.

"You live here, don't you?" he said as soon as Maria (not black) had
served us with soup, and when I assented his next remark made me

"And you know all the people round here, I suppose?"

"Nearly everyone I should think within five miles of the village."

"I've been here a fortnight and this is the first time I have been
out--not out-of-doors, of course--I mean meeting people."

At that moment my neighbour upon the left commenced a bombardment which
interrupted us but, when a pause came at last, the wee lieutenant broke
it in a low and solemn voice.

"I suppose you couldn't tell me why a deaf man can't tickle nine

So suddenly had matters come to a head that I sat staring, and the wee
lieutenant, misunderstanding my interest, grew red.

"I'm not mad, really and truly, but that thing is positively getting on
my brain. I'm not very keen on riddles and so forth, but I happened to
hear someone ask that one the other day, and I didn't catch the answer.
Somehow it has worried me ever since. Why can't he tickle them?"

I shook my head. "I never saw anybody attempt it, deaf or otherwise.
Hadn't you better ask the person who propounded the question?"

"I--I can't very well--I wish I could. I thought, if you knew the answer
to the riddle, you might know the person who asked it. It's very hard to
get to know people by yourself, isn't it?"

I lured him into the open. "How did you come to hear it?"

He pondered in silence for a moment with his frank eyes bent upon his

"I don't mind telling you, but I shouldn't like everyone to know; they
might think me a bit of a fool."

I promised discretion.

"Well, the other morning I was up on the common kicking a football about
with some of the men--it's good for them and keeps them from getting too
much beer, and I like it myself--football, I mean, not beer--and some
people came and sat down to watch on the roller, and there was a Yellow
Jersey among them."

"But what a curious place for a cow--on a roller."

The wee lieutenant twinkled. "And she was rather nice, you know."

I nodded, thinking to myself that this young man would never make "an
Eye-Witness with Headquarters," whatever else the fortunes of war might
bring him.

"Well, that evening we were out scouting, trying to find out where a
party of cavalry had got to that had been reported coming out from
King's Langley to take us by surprise, and when I got to a cottage with
its blinds down and a light inside I peeped in, and there were two or
three people, and she was there, and, of course, I had to knock to ask
if any cavalry had gone by."

"And she didn't come to the door!"

"No, you're right there; somebody else did, but I heard my one--I mean
the Jersey one--I mean the Yellow one--ask somebody that riddle; but the
person--the sister or whatever she was who came to the door--finished me
off before I heard the answer, and somehow or other it's been running
through my head ever since. It isn't the girl, you know, it's--it's the
aggravation of it. I asked our sergeant the other day and he doesn't
know. One of these days I shall be giving it as an order--'Deaf section!
Tickle nine children!' Do you--do you know who lives in that cottage?"


"But she--they were there that night."

"Yes, but they don't really live there. We call them the Swallows
because they migrate so much. Baby Swallow is very pretty, isn't she?
and, by-the-by, she's rather afraid that you may be worrying about that


This was the moment for which I had been waiting, but the wee lieutenant
took cover, hunting his dessert fork on the floor long after Maria had
brought up reinforcements.

"Why, yes, she ought to have said, 'dumb,' not 'deaf.' I've forgotten
the answer--something about 'gesticulate.' She's coming to tea with me
to-morrow. Would you like me to ask her what the answer is, and write it
down for you?"

Our hostess gave the signal for our half company to retire, the other
half to stay down in the smoke, and I added, as I went out, "That will
lay the riddle nicely, won't it? If it had been the girl and not the
aggravation, I should have asked you to tea too."

The wee lieutenant surrendered at that, blushing above the door-handle.

"I--I--I say, I should like to get the answer first-hand. Won't you ask
me to tea, please?"

I don't yet know what it feels like to capture a prisoner of war, but
that's how I assisted at the taking of a prisoner of love.

       *       *       *       *       *




       *       *       *       *       *


It was a grand meeting of the literary gents. They had all heard about
the War from their publishers, and there had been one or two suggestive
allusions in _The Author_. The question of the moment was, "How can we
help?" The chairman was the President of the Society of Authors, who
knew everybody by sight.

The first to rise was Mr. HAROLD BEGBIE, but he failed to catch the
Chairman's eye, which had been secured by Mr. H. G. WELLS. This
well-known strategist rose to point out that what England wanted in the
event of an invasion was the man, the gun and the trench. When he said
man he meant an adult male of the human species. A gun was a firearm
from which bullets were discharged by an explosion of gunpowder. A
trench, he averred, amid loud protests from the ex-Manager of the
Haymarket Theatre, was a long narrow cut in the earth. He had already
pointed out these facts to the War Office, but had received no reply.
Apparently Earl KITCHENER required time for the information to soak in.
Was it or was it not a national scandal? His new nov---- (Deleted by

After a little coaxing, Mr. EDEN PHILLPOTTS was persuaded to rise to his
feet. He said deferentially in the first place that he was not a savage.
(General cheering, in which might be detected a note of sincere relief.)
He lived at Torquay. (Oh, oh.) He had never been to London before, and
was surprised to find it such a large place. (General silence.) He had
been a pacifist--(Hear, hear)--but he now thought the GERMAN EMPEROR was
a humbug. He wished it to be known that his attitude was now one of
great 'umbleness. The war could go on as far as he was concerned.
(Applause.) Although he had given up writing about Dartmoor he had that
morning applied for the post of Military Member of the Invasion
Committee of the Torquay Division of Devonshire. (Profound sensation.)
He didn't know if he should get it, but his friend, Mr. ARNOLD BENNETT,
with whom he used once to collab---- (Deleted by Chairman).

Mr. HAROLD BEGBIE then took the floor, but was interrupted by the
arrival of the Military Member of the Invasion Committee of the
Thorpe-le-Soken Division of Essex.

Hanging his feathered helmet on the door-peg and thrusting his sword and
scabbard into the umbrella-stand, Mr. ARNOLD BENNETT took a seat at the
table, afterwards putting out his chest. Mr. WELLS was observed to sink
into an elaborately assumed apathy. But in his eyes was a bitter envy.

Mr. BENNETT, after clearing his throat, said that he had settled the
War. Everybody was to do what they were told and what that was would be
told them in due course. He and the War Office had had it out. He had
insisted on something being done, and the War Office, which wasn't such
a fool as some authors thought (with a meaning look at Mr. WELLS), had
been most affable. Everything now was all right. His next book was to be
a war nov---- (Deleted by Chairman).

Mr. HAROLD BEGBIE then rose to his feet simultaneously with Mr. WM. LE

Mr. WM. LE QUEUX said that he owned an autograph portrait of the KAISER.
It was signed "Yours with the belt, BILL." The speaker would sell it on
behalf of the War Funds and humbly apologised to his brother authors for
having knocked about so much in his youth with emperors and persons of
that kind. It should not occur again. He pointed out that he had
foretold this War, and that his famous book, _The Great War_
of--whenever it was--was to be brought up to date in the form of ----
(Deleted by Chairman).

At this juncture it was brought to the Chairman's notice that Mr. H. G.
WELLS was missing. An anxious search revealed the fact that the
ornamental sword and plumed casque of the Military Member of the
Invasion Committee of the Thorpe-le-Soken Division of Essex had
disappeared at the same time, and the meeting broke up in disorder.

       *       *       *       *       *

Illustration: THE SUPREME TEST.



       *       *       *       *       *

    Our Sporting Press Again. "Sporting rifles have been bought in Paris
    for pheasant-shooting."--_Daily News._

       *       *       *       *       *


I was sitting in front of the fire--dozing, I daresay--when he was

"Father Christmas."

He came in awkwardly and shook me by the hand.

"Forgive my unceremonious entry," he said. "I know I ought to have come
down the chimney, but--well, _you_ understand."

"Things are different this year," I suggested.

"Very different," he said gloomily. He put his sack down and took a seat
on the other side of the fire-place.

"Anything for me?" I wondered, with an eye on the sack between us.

"Ah, there's no difference _there_," he said, brightening up as he drew
out a big flat parcel. "The blotter from Aunt Emily. You needn't open it
now; it's exactly the same as last year's."

I had been prepared for it. I took a letter from my pocket and dropped
it in the sack.

"My letter of thanks for it," I explained. "Exactly the same as last
year's too."

Father Christmas sighed and gazed into the fire.

"All the same," he said at last, "it's different, even with your Aunt

"Tell me all about it. To begin with, why didn't you come down the

"The reindeer." He threw up his hands in despair. "Gone!"



I looked at him in surprise.

"Or do I mean 'billeted'?" he said. "Anyway, the War Office did it."

"Requisitioned, perhaps."

"That's it. They requisitioned 'em. What you and I would call taking

"I see. So you have to walk. But you could still come down the chimney."

"Well, I _could_; but it would mean climbing up there first. And that
wouldn't seem so natural. It would make it more like a practical joke,
and I haven't the heart for practical jokes this year, when nobody
really wants me at all."

"Not want you?" I protested. "What rubbish!"

Father Christmas dipped his hand into his sack and brought out a card of
greeting. Carefully adjusting a pair of horn spectacles to his nose he
prepared to read.

"Listen to this," he said. "It's from Alfred to Eliza." He looked at me
over his glasses. "I don't know if you know them at all?"

"I don't think so."

"An ordinary printed card with robins and snow and so forth on it. And
it says"--his voice trembled with indignation--"it says, 'Wishing you a
very happy ----' Censored, Sir! Censored, at _my_ time of life. There's
your War Office again."

"I think that's a joke of the publisher's," I said soothingly.

"Oh, if it's humour, I don't mind. Nobody is more partial to mirth and
jollity than I am." He began to chuckle to himself. "There's my joke
about the 'rain, dear'; I don't know if you know that?"

I said I didn't; he wanted cheering up. But though he was happy while he
was telling it to me he soon became depressed again.

"Look here," I said sternly, "this is absurd of you. Christmas is
chiefly a children's festival. Grown-ups won't give each other so many
presents this year, but we shall still remember the children, and we
shall give you plenty to do seeing after _them_. Why," I went on
boastfully, "you've got four of my presents in there at this moment. The
book for Margery, and the box of soldiers, and the Jumping Tiger

Father Christmas held up his hand and stopped me.

"It's no good," he said, "you can't deceive _me_. After a good many
years at the business I'm rather sensitive to impressions." He wagged a
finger at me. "Now then, uncle. Was your whole heart in it when you
bought that box of soldiers, or did you do it with an effort, telling
yourself that the children mustn't be forgotten--and knowing quite well
that you _had_ forgotten them?"

"One has a--a good deal to think about just now," I said uneasily.

"Oh, I'm not blaming you; everybody's the same; but it makes it much
less jolly for _me_, that's all. You see, I can't help knowing. Why,
even your Aunt Emily, when she bought you that delightful blotter ...
which you have your foot on ... even _she_ bought it in a different way
from last year's. Last year she gave a lot of happy thought to it, and
decided in the middle of the night that a blotter was the one thing you
wanted. This year she said, 'I suppose he'd better have his usual
blotter, or he'll think I've forgotten him.' Kind of her, of course (as,
no doubt, you've said in your letter), but not the jolly Christmas

"I suppose not," I said.

Father Christmas sighed again and got up.

"Well, I must be trotting along. Perhaps next year they'll want me
again. Good-bye."

"Good-bye. You're quite sure there's nothing else for me?"

"Quite sure," he said, glancing into his bag. "Hallo, what's this?"

He drew out a letter. It had O.H.M.S. on it, and was addressed to
"Father Christmas."

"For me? Fancy my not seeing that before. Whatever can it be?" He fixed
his spectacles again and began to read.

"A commission, perhaps," I said humorously.

"It _is_ a commission!" he cried excitedly. "To go to the Front and
deliver Christmas presents to the troops! They've got hundreds of
thousands all ready for them!"

"And given in what spirit?" I smiled.

"Ah, my boy! No doubt about the spirit of _that_." He slung his sack on
to his shoulder and faced me--his old jolly self again. "This will be
something like. I suppose I shall have the reindeer again for this. Did
I ever tell you the joke--ah! so I did, so I did. Well, good night to

He hurried out of the room chuckling to himself. I sat down in front of
the fire again, but in a moment he was back.

"Just thought of something very funny," he said, "Simply had to come
back and tell you. The troops--hee-hee-hee--won't have any stockings to
hang up, so--ha-ha-ha--they'll have to hang up their puttees! Ha-ha!
Ha-ha-ha! Ha-ha-ha-ha!"

He passed through the door again, and his laughter came rolling down the

  A. A. M.

       *       *       *       *       *

Illustration: FOR ALL PERSONS.







       *       *       *       *       *


"What are you reading, Arthur?" I said.

"NIETZSCHE," said Arthur.

I sneezed in response. "Isn't that the chap," I said, "who's really
responsible for the war?"

"People like you think so," he said.

"The reading of philosophy," I said, "was never in my line. Give me the
exact sciences; EUCLID for me every time."

"Hopelessly moth-eaten," said he. "Most of the schools have dropped him
in favour of geometry."

"Bah," I said, "a quibble. But tell me, wasn't it NIETZSCHE who taught
the Germans to think they were supermen or whatever you call 'em?"

"Contrary to the opinion of the man in the street," said Arthur, looking
at me rather meaningly, "NIETZSCHE did not write merely for the benefit
of German people, nor did he approve, I should say, of the German idea
of culture. You've been reading the evening papers; you're a wallower,
that's what you are."

"I'm afraid," I said, "you also consider yourself a bit of a superman."

"I admit," he said, "that I've gone a long way."

"Towards Tipperary?"

"Beyond you," he said, tapping the page of NIETZSCHE he was reading;
"we're not on the same plane."

"You can always get out and change," I said.

"Such flippancy," said Arthur, "is unbecoming in a lance corporal. What
you want is a course of philosophy."

"What you want," I said, "is a course of musketry." Arthur, who, like
me, is rising forty-six, is sound enough for home defence, but isn't in
any Force yet. So, being a lance corporal in the "United Arts" myself, I
feel I can throw advice of this sort at him freely.

"I'm going to give you a mental prescription," he said, taking out a
pencil and scribbling on an envelope. "Have you read this--LUDOVICI'S
_Who is to be Master of the World_?"

"No, I haven't," I said; "but I can tell you who isn't going to be--in

"The Japanese," said Arthur, "think a lot of it."

"I've got a pal," I said, "who'd dearly enjoy a few rounds of mental
jiu-jitsu with you. He's got rather advanced ideas."

"Advanced!" said Arthur contemptuously. "We Nietzscheans speak only of
being 'complete' or 'nearer completion.'"

It was at this point that Alfred joined in. He was sitting in uniform on
the other side of the fire, reading _Ruff's Guide_.

"Who's that talking about poor old LUDOVICI?" he asked.

For a moment I was afraid Alfred thought that LUDOVICI was a horse.

"I was recommending him to this shining light of the Burlington House
brigade," said Arthur.

Alfred laughed. "Look here, young fellow," he said, "everybody knows
that he (pointing to me) is an antediluvian; but you've gone a bit off
the boil yourself, haven't you?"

"What do you mean?" said Arthur, looking rather pained.

"Many Continental theories," said Alfred, "when they die, go to Oxford.
I'm afraid your friend LUDOVICI'S theory has been sent down even from
there. Have you read Barrow's _Fallacy of the Nietzschean doctrine_?"

"N-no," said Arthur.

"Or Erichsen's _Completion of Self?_ You can get the paper edition for a

"I'm sorry to say I haven't," said Arthur, who looked sadly chap-fallen.
"But I will. However, for the moment I've got a meeting on--our literary
club, you know."

"I'm coming round to raid you one night," I said, "to see if you're all

For reply Arthur slammed the door behind him.

"Alfred," I said, when Arthur had left the house, "you astound me. Who
are these new friends and their philosophies, Barrow and the Danish
fellow, what's his name?"

"Mere inventions," said Alfred, "but they served."

"Then the fat's in the fire," I said; "he'll find out that you've been
pulling his leg before lunch-time to-morrow."

"That's all right," said Alfred. "Our lot's booked for Pirbright
to-morrow morning, and we shan't meet again till the other side of

       *       *       *       *       *


_Sentry_ (_until lately behind the counter in Nairobi, to person

       *       *       *       *       *



       *       *       *       *       *


  With ivy wreathed, a hundred lights
    Shone out; the Convent play was finished;
  The waning term this night of nights
    To a few golden hours diminished.

  Again the curtain rose. Outshone
    The childish frocks and childish tresses
  Of the late cast that had put on
    Demureness and its party dresses.

  Rustled a-row upon the stage
    Big girls and little, ranged in sizes,
  All waiting for the Personage
    To make the speech and give the prizes.

  And there, all rosy from her _rôle_,
    Betsey with sturdy valiance bore her,
  Nor did she recognize a soul
    But braved the buzzing room before her

  With such resolve that guest on guest,
    And many a smiling nun behind them,
  Met her eyes obviously addressed
    To proving that she did not mind them.

  (So might a kitchen-kitten see--
    Whose thoughts round housemaids' heels are centred--
  The awful drawing-room's company
    He inadvertently has entered.)

  Swift from her side the girlish crowd,
    With lovely smiles and limber graces,
  Went singly, took their prizes, bowed,
    Returning sweetly to their places.

  Then "Betsey-Jane!" and all the rout
    (Her hidden mother grown romantic)
  Beheld that little craft put out
    Upon the polished floor's Atlantic.

  The Personage bestowed her prize,
    And Betsey, lowly as the others,
  Bowed o'er her sandals, raised her eyes
    Alight with pride--and met her mother's!

  She thrust between the honoured row
    Before her in her glad elation;
  Her school-mates gasped to see her go;
    The nuns divined her destination;

  The guests made way. Clap following clap
    Acclaimed Convention's overleaping
  As Betsey gained her mother's lap
    And gave the prize into her keeping.

       *       *       *       *       *

Royalties We Have Never Met.


    "The Emperor Williams, who was reported to have been at Breslau ...
    seems to have returned to Berlin."--_Evening Despatch._

       *       *       *       *       *


_At the "Spotted Dog."_ "I 'EAR THERE BE TWO HUNDRED

       *       *       *       *       *


  Judge of the passionate hearts of men,
    God of the wintry wind and snow,
  Take back the blood-stained year again,
    Give us the Christmas that we know!

  No stir of wings sweeps softly by;
    No angel comes with blinding light;
  Beneath the wild and wintry sky
    No shepherds watch their flocks tonight.

  In the dull thunder of the wind
    We hear the cruel guns afar,
  But in the glowering heavens we find
    No guiding, solitary star.

       * * *

  But lo! on this our Lord's birthday,
    Lit by the glory whence she came,
  Peace, like a warrior, stands at bay,
    A swift, defiant, living flame!

  Full-armed she stands in shining mail,
    Erect, serene, unfaltering still,
  Shod with a strength that cannot fail,
    Strong with a fierce o'ermastering will.

  Where shattered homes and ruins be
    She fights through dark and desperate days;
  Beside the watchers on the sea
    She guards the Channel's narrow ways.

  Through iron hail and shattering shell,
    Where the dull earth is stained with red,
  Fearless she fronts the gates of Hell
    And shields the unforgotten dead.

  So stands she, with her all at stake,
    And battles for her own dear life,
  That by one victory she may make
    For evermore an end of strife.

       *       *       *       *       *

Illustration: THE CHRISTMAS GHOST, 1914.

_The Spectral Duke_ (_to guest in haunted room_). "HA, HA! BEHOLD, I AM


       *       *       *       *       *




As Christmas draws nearer, the problem of what gifts to send to our
brave men at the Front becomes more acute. For of course they must all
have presents, no matter what decision is come to as to the manner of
spending the dear old festival at home.

As an aid to the generous there is nothing like a walk down Bongent
Street, where will be found many ingenious novelties designed especially
for the mirthful anniversary which will so soon be on us with all its
associations of peace and goodwill to men.

It is no part of my duty to recommend shops and their wares, but it is a
pleasure to put on record some of the things on which my roving eyes
settled as I traversed London's most luxurious thoroughfare. Every taste
is there considered, but for the moment my interest is solely in gifts
for our brave officers--and privates too, if they have wealthy enough

At Messrs. Baskerville's, for example, I perceived a host of captivating
articles calculated to make glad the heart of any fighting man. In one
window was a Service Smoker's Companion which cannot be too highly
extolled, especially as this War is, as everyone knows, being waged very
largely on the beneficent Indian weed. The equipment consists of four
delightful gold-mounted pipes, each guaranteed to be made of briar over
eighty years old; a gold-mounted pencil; a gold cigar-case and fifty
cigars; a gold cigarette-case and 1,000 cigarettes; a gold cigar-cutter;
a gold mechanical lighter; a gold and amber cigar-holder; a gold and
amber cigarette-holder; a smoker's knife and two gold ash-trays--the
whole neatly packed in a leather case and weighing only nine pounds. No
soldier--at any rate, no officer--should be without it. Cheered by its
presence he would fight twice as well, and any horrid old pipe that he
might possess and, however tired of it, be forced still to smoke for
want of a new one, he would be able to give to a Tommy. The same set is
obtainable in silver at a lower cost; but my advice to everyone is to
take the gold one.

Many of our brave fellows are supplied with helmets, belts and mufflers
by the loving hands of their friends; but for those who cannot knit,
Messrs. Tyke and Taylor have a most attractive show of all the woollen
articles with which it has been decreed that our warriors shall cover
their bodies. Their ten-guinea Campaign Abdominal Belt could not be
improved upon, little strands of real gold thread being woven into the
ordinary fabric. I foretell an enormous sale for this fascinating
article, and also for the Service Muffler at seven guineas, which has
real gold tassels at each end.

Messrs. Cartersons are concentrating their energies on letter-paper for
the Front. In a compact and very tasteful morocco case is a sufficient
supply of paper, envelopes and blotting-paper for a considerable

A gold ink-pot, a gold pen and a gold pencil are also included, together
with sealing-wax and nibs, and a very clever little rubber-stamp with
the words, "Somewhere at the Front." A writing pad for the knee when in
action completes this timely budget. Those interesting letters from
officers and men, which now form so popular a section of each paper, are
likely soon to be noticeably increased in numbers. Fortunate indeed is
the man who gets one of Messrs. Cartersons' Front Correspondence
Companions! The total weight is only a little over two pounds, which is,
of course, nothing.

In another of Cartersons' windows I noticed a very delightful Field
Tantalus, which can easily be attached to a shoulder-strap or, better
still, be carried by an orderly.

The moment the threshold of Mr. Luke Jones' establishment is crossed,
both eye and mind are in a state of ecstasy in the presence of so much
Christmas enterprise. Here, as elsewhere, the first thought has been for
our brave soldiers at the Front, and particularly the gallant officers.
Wrist watches of every shape are to be seen, each thoughtfully provided
with its strap--for Mr. Jones forgets nothing. In addition to wrist
watches are wrist compasses for the other arm, and for the ankles a
speedometer and barometer. Thus fitted, the officer knows practically
all that can be learned. I need not say that all are in gold; but a few
special sets in radium can be obtained. Even these, however, are not
ruinous, for with Mr. Luke Jones reasonable prices are a fetish.

The full assurance of securing the best possible value at the lowest
possible price adds yet another reason for visiting the charming
premises of Messrs. Slimmer and Bang. Their Service knick-knacks cannot
be overpraised. Glancing hastily around, I noticed several with devices
all calculated not only to be useful but to amuse at the Front, wherever
our stalwart representatives are gathered.

One of the most practical is a boot-cleaning set in strong pigskin with
gold clasps, including, very ingeniously, a bottle of patent-leather
reviver. Another pigskin, indispensable at the Front, holds a complete
tea-set. It resembles the old tea-basket, but weighs at least five
ounces less (no small matter on the march, I am told) and is more
compact. With such a gift as this, no officer need ever again go without
tea in the trenches. Messrs. Slimmer and Bang are to be congratulated.

Anything more charming than the Service card-cases at Messrs. Slosson
and Kay's I have never seen. One side is intended for paper notes, of
which every officer at the Front is in constant need; the other half is
reserved for his visiting-cards, which it is _de rigueur_, I am told, to
leave on the enemy after every visit to their trenches. Some officers go
so far as to place their cards on the point of their bayonet--a
characteristic British touch. Messrs. Slosson and Kay also have charming
combinations of drinking-flask and ear-syringe in all the more precious
metals, and field-glasses studded with diamonds. For home use the same
firm has a most delightful Special Constable's gold-mounted truncheon,
which unscrews for liquid refreshment, of which our S. C.'s are often in

Messrs. Kyte and Kyte have a really dinky little Game Book especially
prepared for the War and as a Christmas gift. It differs at first sight
very little from the ordinary game book of an English shoot, but on
examination we find that the game is of larger size. The divisions
include all ranks of the German army, so that an exact analysis of one's
bag can be kept. Messrs. Kyte and Kyte also make a Service Fountain Pen
which not only acts as a pen but also as a clinical thermometer and
pipe-cleaner. It has furthermore an attachment for removing stones from
horses' feet. Made in gold, it is a most becoming Yuletide gift.

       *       *       *       *       *

Illustration: "AND WHAT CAN I GET FOR YOU, SIR?"


       *       *       *       *       *


"This Poland business is still rather hard to follow," said my wife
plaintively, after consulting the latest newspaper map pinned over the
mantelpiece, "and I know it's tremendously important. I wish they
wouldn't keep fighting in small villages that aren't marked; and really
beyond the bare fact that both armies repeatedly surround one another
simultaneously it is not at all easy to gather just what they are at."

"The whole thing would be as clear as day," said my sister-in-law, who
likes to be regarded as an authority on land operations--I am myself our
Naval Expert--"if only one knew what to believe. Have the Germans
occupied Przsczwow or have they not?"

"I think they must have done. Last night's paper said that it was
believed that Przsczwow was officially occupied, and it says here that
it is officially stated that Przsczwow is believed to be occupied."

"It's only partially official," said I, who had carefully collated the
reports on the point. "It was semi-official from Amsterdam, official
from Berlin, considered to emanate from a good source in Rome, and
unofficially denied in Petrograd."

"It _must_ be true," said my wife.

"You were always a good believer, dear," said I. "I doubt if I know any
one who has believed as much in sheer quantity as you have since the war
began. You know you swallowed that yarn about----"

"Don't you think," my wife broke in hastily (for she simply hates to be
reminded of the Russians in England), "that we ought to have a sort of
index to judge these rumours by?"

"I see," said I. "One hundred for absolute reliability. _Nil_ for the
perfect and utter lie."

The table which resulted was hung up beside the map for reference; I
recommend it for general use.

  London, Paris or Petrograd (official)............... 100
     "      "          "     (semi-official)..........  50
  Berlin (official)...................................  25
  It is believed in military circles here that----....  24
  A correspondent who has just returned from the
  firing-line tells me that----.......................  18
  It is freely stated in Brussels that----............  17
  Our correspondent at Amsterdam wires that----.......  13
  Our correspondent at Rome announces that----........  11
  Berlin (unofficial).................................  10
  I learn from a neutral merchant that----............   7
  A story is current in Venice to the effect that----.   5
  It is rumoured that----.............................   4
  I have heard to-day from a reliable source that----.   3
  I learn on unassailable authority that----..........   2
  It is rumoured in Rotterdam that----................   1
  Wolff's Bureau states that----......................   0

We didn't put in my wife's other sister who lives on the East coast,
because I don't like to hurt people's feelings. My wife hears from her
frequently. Her average is about nineteen to one against, so that her
proper place on the list would be bracketed with the story from Venice.

       *       *       *       *       *


He is a great man in the Pantomime world. As he rose from his roll-top
desk with the evident intention of kicking me, I hastened to explain
that I was only a harmless reporter come to look at some of the new

"Ah," said he, "that alters the case. I thought you were another topical
songster. Now here's a clever little piece about the Navy."

I stretched out my hand for it.

"No," he said. "So much depends on intelligent expression and emphasis
that I'd better read it to you. I think of calling this one 'The Battle
of the Brine.'

  "The seas roll high, and the smoke around does hang,
    And the Dreadnoughts steam along in line;
  The big guns boom and the little fellows bang,
    And the shells go bumping in the brine!
  The flags run up, and the Admiral says, '_Now_, Sirs,
    Buck up and send the Huns to Davy Jones!'
  Then the Captain cheers, and the men hitch up their trousers,
    And they all give Hohenzollern three groans!

"There it is;" and the Great Man fairly purred with satisfaction. "_Une
petite pièce de tout droit_, isn't it?" he said. "I gave you a hint of
the tune. It needs a stirring one."

"It does," said I, delighted to be able to agree with him on one point.
"And you have other songs equally topical?"

He pointed to a bale in the corner that I had taken for a new carpet.
"I've had a good few to choose from," he said. "I fancy this one is
about the best. My leading low-comedian writes all his own
lyrics--extraordinarily adequate little man. He opens briskly:--

          "Pip-pip, girls!
  As I was walking down the street,
    Because it couldn't walk down me,
  One day last week I chanced to meet
    A German en-ee-mee.
  He had a notebook in his hand (not a sausage)
    And I said, ''Ere's a spy! Wot O!'
  So I gripped him by the collar and--
  For he (ha! ha! he! he!)
    Was bigger than me, you see,
  So I thought it well to run and tell
    The speshul constabularee!

"Yes," he gasped, "I thought that 'ud hit you. That's what I call a real
live piece of work. Here's another--in the old-fashioned style. Not
quite so much snap about it. But my fourth low-comedian thinks he can
make it go. It's called, 'When Father Threw his Wages at the Cat.'

  "We're not a happy family, we're always on the nag,
  Our miseries are dreadful to relate;
  I've got two little sisters who are both a mass of blisters
  From settling disagreements in the grate;

  This afternoon my Uncle Charlie kicked me down the stairs
  And walloped me for crumpling up the mat;
  But this, though far from nice, is simply nothing to the crisis
  When father threw his wages at the cat!

  There _have_ been other ructions, and especially the day
  That mother lent our dicky to the sweep,
  When all of us were weeping and the baby gave up sleeping
  Because it was impossible to sleep;
  But all the rows that ever raged in any British home
  Were never half so horrible as that
  Which made the coppers rally to the storming of our alley
  When father threw his wages at the cat!"

"Is that out of date?" said I. "If so, I like the old style best.'

He grunted. "It'll pass," he said; "but the other's the business."

"Well, give me pleasure first," said I. "As a true Briton I can always
take it sadly."

       *       *       *       *       *


  Barbara's birthday comes once a year,
    And Barbara's age you may surely know
  If into the toy-box depths you'll peer
    And count the Teddy-bears all in a row.

  For by Barbara's law, which we all obey,
    She claims each year, as the birthday-due
  That her loyal subjects must cheerfully pay,
    A new Teddy-bear for the toy-box Zoo.

  Some of them growl and some of them squeak,
    And one can play on a rub-a-dub drum,
  But till Barbara's birthday last Wednesday week
    Not one of the Teddy-bears was dumb.

  The latest addition to Barbara's bears
    Was a splendid fellow when well displayed
  In one of the smallest of nursery chairs,
    And his label declared he was "English made."

  Barbara called him her "bestest bear,"
    But he tumbled soon from this place of pride;
  For she squeezed him here and she pounded him there,
    And "Daddy, he doesn't growl," she cried.

  Barbara shook him and flung him down;
    She turned her back and refused to play;
  And to every argument said with a frown,
    "He's my worstest bear; he can go away."

  We took him back, and we asked instead
  For "A bear like this, that can growl, you see;"
  But the shopman smiled and he darkly said,
  "All growls are made, Sir, in Germany."[1]

Footnote 1: No doubt this defect in the British industry has by now
been made good.

       *       *       *       *       *



    (_A Rugby Match reported after the style of the German General
    Staff. The passages in brackets are the work of a neutral

Our brave Tonburians kicked off against the wind and immediately assumed
a strong offensive along the whole line, forcing the enemy to evacuate
his positions. When we reached their Twenty-five it became clear, after
a furious struggle, that a decision was inevitably about to be postponed
on account of the unexpected strength of their defence. (One try to
Haileybridge which was converted.)

After some fierce scrummaging in mid-field, in which we had all the best
of it, it was found necessary, owing to strategic reasons, for our
forces to occupy entirely new positions some thirty yards nearer to our
own touchline. Thereafter there was nothing whatever to report. (Try to

When the game was resumed it soon became evident that the situation was
developing according to our expectations. (A dropped goal to

Fighting continued, but there was no new development to report. (Two

At half-time the head-master heartily congratulated the Tonbury Fifteen
upon the magnificent victories they were gaining against superior
forces, and assured them that it would soon be over, and they would all
be back in time for tea. He then conferred their caps upon the whole
Fifteen and an extra tassel upon the Captain. It is understood that the
school-house will be decorated with bunting.

The second half was largely a repetition of the first. We continued to
keep up a powerful pressure all along the line, varied only by frequent
occupation of new strategic lines, occasional postponements of decision,
several stages of development according to anticipation, and some rapid
re-grouping of our forces. The whistle found us pressing heavily, just
outside the goal-line (the Tonbury one).

(Result: Haileybridge, 43 points; Tonbury, _nil._)

       *       *       *       *       *


_Time, 6 A.M._


       *       *       *       *       *



Made from the finest Belgian church carved oak. A Prussian General
writes: "This wood burns admirably. I speak from personal observation of
experiments carried out under my orders."

An admirably suitable present for this year is a


Those we offer are calculated to be particularly popular, the little
Imperial flags _not being detachable but painted on to the map_--at
Paris, London, Petersburg, etc. Thus, whatever may be happening in the
field, you may continue cheerful.


As many of our most exalted customers complain of the quality of these
goods, considering them too crude and glaring in their effect, we have
prepared, with the help of our Ambassador at Washington, a special glass
which provides a less realistic reflection. Sold in various shapes--the
Kaiser mirror, the Dernburg reflector, etc. Try one.



(We regret to announce that at the last moment our buyer writes that he
is unable to procure the last-named article.)

       *       *       *       *       *



    ["Though the Falkland Islands are dreary and uninviting enough, they
    have added their quota to the gaiety of the world. It should not be
    forgotten that Miss Ellaline Terris is a native of Stanley, the
    capital of the islands."--_Pall Mall Gazette._]

The town of Bonn, in Rhenish Prussia, which has recently been in
evidence owing to the enterprise of French aviators, is the seat of a
university, of an Old Catholic bishopric and a school of agriculture.
But it owes its chief title to fame to the fact that it was the
birthplace of BEETHOVEN, the eminent composer. BEETHOVEN was a man of a
serious character, but thanks to the genius of Sir HERBERT BEERBOHM
TREE, who impersonated the illustrious symphonist in one of his notable
productions, he has contributed substantially to the general gaiety.

Scarborough's unhappy plight under the shells of the German Navy will
not soon be forgotten, and the sympathies of us all are with the
unfortunate townsfolk of the Northern resort. Brighton, however, which
shares with Scarborough the claim to be called the Queen of Watering
Places, is unharmed and no doubt will remain a favourite recreation
ground for tired Londoners on Sunday, among whom that mirth-provoking
comedian, Mr. GEORGE GRAVES, is often to be seen.

The strategical and political importance of Egypt has of late somewhat
overshadowed its picturesque aspect. But Memphis, Luxor, the Pyramids
are still names to conjure with, as anyone will readily admit who
recalls the wonderful stage pictures in _Bella Donna_, in which the
_rôle_ of good genius was sustained with such consummate skill and
sympathy by Sir GEORGE ALEXANDER, whose smile is as irresistible as the
sword of his Macedonian namesake.

Tokio, the capital of the Japanese Empire, has re-emerged into
prominence owing to the celebrations over the fall of Tsingtau. But it
must never be forgotten that Miss GERTIE MILLAR'S _espièglerie_ has
caused many critics to compare her with the famous Japanese actress,
Madame SADA YACCO, who, so far as we know, was born at Tokio and is one
of its brightest jewels.

All eyes have recently been turned towards Ypres, and every one not of
Teutonic caste must regret the damage that has been wrought there by the
War. The word Ypres, however, to many persons, is chiefly interesting as
giving its name to the old tower at Rye, in Sussex, where Mr. HENRY
JAMES, whose sprightly and fertile pen has added so much to the dubiety
of nations, has long resided.

       *       *       *       *       *

    "Il verso di Shaeckspeare 'Rules, Britain, on the
    suaves.'"--_Corriere delle Puglie._

Not KIPLING'S after all, you see.

       *       *       *       *       *


I decided to go home by bus. My season-ticket had expired painlessly the
previous day, and twice already that morning I had had to satisfy the
curiosity of the railway officials as to my name and address. Although I
had explained to them that I was on half-salary and promised to renew
business relations with the company as soon as the War was over or Uncle
Peter died--whichever event happened first--they simply would not listen
to me, and hence my decision to adopt some other means of transport. I
signalled to a bus to stop, and, as the driver, seeing my signal, at
once put on his top speed, I just managed to fling myself on to the
spring-board as the vehicle tore past.

I ran up to the first storey, and sat down in the front seat. Then I
took out my cigarette-case and was about to light a cigarette when a
printed notice caught my eye--


If the notice had been put a little less politely I should have ignored
it; but I can refuse nothing to those who are kind to me, so I refrained
from lighting up, and contented myself with looking round to see if
there was a rear seat vacant. There wasn't. A cluster of happy, smoking
faces confronted me. I turned round again, and wished I had learnt to
take snuff.

"Cheer-o, Bert!" said a refined voice just behind my ear, and at the
same moment a walking-stick playfully tapped the head of the young
fellow sitting next to me. My neighbour faced about, kicked me on the
shin, dug the point of his umbrella into my calf, knocked off my
_pince-nez_ with his newspaper, and spread himself over the back of the

"'Allo, Alf!" he said. "Thought it must 've been you. Look 'ere, I want
to see you----"

"Perhaps," I interrupted, "your friend would like to change places with
me. Then you can scrutinise him at your ease--and mine."

"You're a sport," remarked Bert.

He spoke truly. Little did he guess he was addressing a
Double-Blue--bowls and quoits. Alf and I changed places, and my
attention at once became absorbed by a notice headed


I had just reached the exciting part when two girls arrived on the

"There aren't two together; we shall have to divide," I heard one say.

"Excuse me," I said, rising. "Don't divide. I'll get into a single seat
if you care to take this double one."

I was rewarded with the now almost obsolete formula of "Thank you," and
moved a seat further back. Here I found some fresh reading material
provided for me in the shape of a notice to the effect that


When I had probed its beauties to the utmost depth I again turned round
to see if there was a vacant seat among the smokers. To my joy I saw
one. Quickly I rose and hastened to secure it, but at the same moment
the bus turned a sharp corner and I sustained a violent blow on the back
of my head which left me half-stunned.

The conductor, who had just appeared on deck to collect fares, helped me
to my feet. Then he rounded on me.

"Why don't you read the notices?" he said by way of peroration. "Then it
wouldn't've 'appened."

"The notices?" I repeated, handing him my fare. "I've done nothing else
but read notices ever since I got on this wretched reading-room. I know
where I may smoke and where I may not. I know that I must beware of
pickpockets, and I know that I mustn't waggle my arms over the
side-rails. Further, I have read Mr. Pinkerton's personal assurance that
his Pills are the Best. If I'd had more time I daresay I should have
worked my passage to the notice you refer to. I haven't reached it yet."

"Look 'ere," said the conductor, thrusting me into the vacant smoker's
seat and pointing with what I at first took to be a saveloy, but which
upon closer inspection proved to be his fore-finger, "what does that


There nar. Some of you blokes never look any farther than the end of
your noses."

"Then if I had your nose," I retorted, "I should need a telescope to see
even as far as that."

I was much disappointed that, just as I got to the caustic part, the
exigencies of his profession demanded that he should punch six tickets
in rapid succession. My repartee was consequently drowned amid a perfect
_carillon_ of bells. But meanwhile I had found another notice--


It was a friendly and sensible notice, for, to tell the truth, I was
beginning to feel afraid of a bus that carried so much free literature.
It could not hope to be a thoroughly reliable bus and a library at the
same time. I therefore determined to forfeit several divisions of my
ticket, and give my "season" one more chance. I got up and struck the
bell once. As the driver didn't know it was just an ordinary passenger
that struck it he pulled up immediately. I had got halfway down the
staircase when somebody--it must have been that offensive
conductor--gave the game away, for the bus jerked badly and started off
again at a rare pace. So did I. But as I flew through the air I could
not help catching a fleeting glimpse of a final advisory notice--


       *       *       *       *       *



       *       *       *       *       *

From _The Evening Standard's_ racing news:

    "That's Enough, 19st 2lb (Mr. R. Cavello)

    _J. Killalee O_"

We agree with the horse.

       *       *       *       *       *

Illustration: _General._ "GLAD TO SEE YOU WALKING, MY LAD. I ALWAYS



_Recruit_ (_after some consideration_). "BUT I'D BE SITTIN' WRONG WAY

       *       *       *       *       *


(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks._)

I am sorry that I cannot now be the first to call _King Albert's Book_
(HODDER AND STOUGHTON) The Golden Book. But, since this term has already
been applied, I can only applaud it. I suppose never in the history of
books has such a one as this been put together, just as never in the
line of kings has monarch received, under such circumstances, so rare a
tribute. If in the Belgian heart, from ruler to refugee, there is room
for more pride than should of right be there already, surely these
pages, voicing the homage of all that counts in the world to-day, will
bring it. We are all KING ALBERT'S men now, and in this book we have a
welcome chance of proving our fealty. You will observe that I say
nothing about the volume as commercial value for the three shillings
that it costs to buy. One glance at the list of those who contribute (a
kind of international supplement to _Who's Who_) is all that is needed
to satisfy you on this point. _The Daily Telegraph_ is primarily
responsible for gathering together a greater assembly of the names that
matter than was ever collected between covers. To the proprietors, to
Mr. HALL CAINE, who edits the book, and to the printers (especially for
the illustrations in colour, which are triumphs of reproduction) I can
only offer my thanks and congratulatory good wishes. Certainly, _The
Daily Telegraph_ Belgian Fund, to which will go the entire proceeds of
the sale, deserves well the shillings that this splendid effort will
bring to it. _King Albert's Book_ is indeed a noble tribute to
nobility--one that for every sake will become an historic souvenir of
the Great Days. And (if I may confess the secret wickedness of my heart
as I read) how I should love to see the Berlin Press notices!

       * * *

When Mr. THEODORE ROOSEVELT stated on page 25 of _Through the Brazilian
Wilderness_ (MURRAY) that his was not a hunting-trip, but a scientific
expedition, I winked solemnly, so often have I read books in which
science is used as an excuse for a slaughter that to the unbloodthirsty
seems to be more than a little indiscriminate. Now, however, there is
nothing to do but to withdraw that wink and to say that Mr. ROOSEVELT
and his companions killed only for the sake of food and specimens,
though on one very exciting occasion a man called JULIO displayed a most
unwholesome desire to slay anybody or anything. This renegade's lust for
murder was merely a side-show, but it serves vividly to illustrate the
dangers and risks that the travellers took as they fought their way
along the River of Doubt. No escape is possible from the buoyancy of Mr.
ROOSEVELT'S style; as frankly as any schoolboy enjoying a holiday he
revelled in the ups and downs of his adventures; and if his enthusiasm
for the important work that he was helping to accomplish occasionally
leads him to relate trivialities, and also prevents him from advancing a
few kilometres without adding up the total number he has travelled, the
essential fact remains that his tale of exploit and exploration is told
with a _joie de vivre_ that carries everything before it. Among the many
discoveries that he made is one from which time has taken away any cause
for surprise. "There was," he says, "a German lieutenant with the
Paraguayan officers--one of several German officers who are now engaged
in helping the Paraguayans with their army." _Through the Brazilian
Wilderness_ is packed with wonderfully good photographs, two of which
introduce us to a game played by the Parecis Indians, of which the
initial rule requires the "kicker-off" to lie flat on the ground and
butt the ball with his head. One wonders if Brazil's future battles will
be won in the playing fields of the Parecis.

       * * *

The opening lines of the Preface to Sir CHARLES VILLIERS STANFORD'S book
of reminiscences contain so good a story that I cannot forbear to quote
them. The tale concerns the famous conductor HANS VON BUELOW, who (says
Sir CHARLES) was once taking the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra through a
rehearsal at which some ladies had been invited to be present. They
indulged in whisperings and chatterings which greatly disturbed the
players. BUELOW turned round and said, "Ladies, we are not here to save
the Capitol, but to make music." Pretty neat that for a Prussian! It is
an example of the many excellent tales to be found in _Pages from an
Unwritten Diary_ (ARNOLD). Some of the best of them concern this same
BUELOW, and have done much to disprove my personal belief in the
non-existence of German humour. But throughout his book Sir CHARLES is
the best of good company. Whether he is chatting about Royalty--there is
a rather moving little anecdote of QUEEN VICTORIA and TENNYSON that was
new to me--or telling again the often-told history of the Cambridge
Greek Plays and the A.D.C., he has a happy pen for a point, and even the
chestnuts inevitable in such a collection are served with a flavour of
originality. I must be allowed to quote one more of VON BUELOW'S good
things. A gushing lady at a musical party begged for an introduction to
the great man. Which being given, "_Oh, Monsieur von Bülow_," she said,
"_vous connaissez Monsieur Wagner, n'est-ce pas?_" Bowing, and without a
shade of surprise, BUELOW answered at once, "_Mais oui, Madame; c'est le
mari de ma femme!_" A great man!

       * * *

I am quite prepared to accept Mr. LINDSAY BASHFORD'S _Cupid in the Car_
(CHAPMAN AND HALL) as a nice unpretentious diary of a motor-tour on and
about the Franco-German Frontier, ingeniously done into novel form and
wholesomely seasoned with adventure and the arrangement of marriages
shortly to take place. And I distinctly like his taciturn paragon of a
chauffeur, _Eugene_--a nephew of _Enery Straker_ the voluble, as I
should judge from a certain family resemblance and, by the way, much too
intelligent to murder his French phrases in the hopeless manner which
the author, none too scrupulous in these little touches, suggests. But
whether Mr. BASHFORD hasn't spoilt an enthusiastic travel book without
producing quite a plausible novel--a defect of tactics rather than of
capacity--and whether the book doesn't show too many signs of the hustle
and vibration of the car are questions that intrude themselves; and
certainly one has a right to jib at the Preface, which seems to suggest
that the novel, written before war broke out, was to enlighten the
public, by a sugar-coated method, as to the general terrain of the
conflict inevitable at some future date, so that we might "better
picture the work our loved ones were doing at the Front." If this were
indeed so, then it was distinctly untactful that the only British
officer who appears should be a tosh-talking General obviously too fond
of his food. The fact is that the topical preface is being overdone
these days.

       * * *

My only complaint against _The Flute of Arcady_ (STANLEY PAUL) is that
Miss KATE HORN, who wrote it, seems somewhat to have disregarded the
classic advice of _Mr. Curdle_ to _Nicholas Nickleby_ in the matter of
observing the unities. It struck me, indeed, that she had begun it as a
Cinderella-tale and then found that there wasn't enough of this to go
round. Thus the early chapters roused my sympathetic interest for
_Charlotte Clairvaux_ (the bullied companion of the hateful cat, _Mrs.
Menzies_) and her admiring suitor, _Dr. Shuckford_. I felt deeply for
poor _Charlotte_, and longed for the moment when the doctor, who was
eminently desirable, would fold her in his manly arms. But this moment
came confusingly early, in the third chapter, and left us with
three-quarters of the book to fill up. So _Charlotte_, for no
reason--that I could see--but this of space, refuses her _Shuckford_,
and off go she and _Mrs. Menzies_ to Versailles, where they meet a good
number of pleasantly-drawn people, and encounter a variety of
adventures, some amusing, some merely farcical. Without doubt Miss HORN
has a pretty wit, but I admired its exercise far more in character than
incident. There is, for example, a delightful new version of _Mrs.
Malaprop_ in the lady whose ambition it was "to live in a mayonnaise in
a good part of London." I loved her, and the terrible French infant, and
the nuns, and the old countess and the other Versailles folk. But of the
incidents, fantastic adventures with elephants and such, one sometimes
feels that their humour is, as the author says of _M. de Lafontaine's_
smile, a thing that seemed to be jerked out by machinery. Yet I am bound
to confess that it made me laugh. So why grumble?

       *       *       *       *       *



       *       *       *       *       *

_The Times_, describing the attempted escape of a German officer in the
disguise of 'Safety Matches,' says: "There was nothing in the box to
excite suspicion." Except, of course, the officer.

       *       *       *       *       *

    "Never again will one rigid form of civilisation prevail.... The
    world has grown too big to rest content with one standard."

    _Evening Standard._

Hence _The Evening Standard_.

       *       *       *       *       *

*** End of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Punch or the London Charivari, Vol. 147, December 23, 1914" ***

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