By Author [ A  B  C  D  E  F  G  H  I  J  K  L  M  N  O  P  Q  R  S  T  U  V  W  X  Y  Z |  Other Symbols ]
  By Title [ A  B  C  D  E  F  G  H  I  J  K  L  M  N  O  P  Q  R  S  T  U  V  W  X  Y  Z |  Other Symbols ]
  By Language
all Classics books content using ISYS

Download this book: [ ASCII | HTML | PDF ]

Look for this book on Amazon

We have new books nearly every day.
If you would like a news letter once a week or once a month
fill out this form and we will give you a summary of the books for that week or month by email.

Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 148, February 3, 1915
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. 148, February 3, 1915" ***

This book is indexed by ISYS Web Indexing system to allow the reader find any word or number within the document.

VOL. 148, FEBRUARY 3, 1915***


VOL. 148

FEBRUARY 3, 1915.


"Celerity," said the German CHANCELLOR to our representative
at Berlin on the eve of the War, "is essential lo us." It has, however,
taken him over five months to discover what he meant by his "scrap of
paper" speech.

* * *

As a substitute for the International Railway Time Table Conference,
Germany has invited Norway, Sweden, Denmark, Austria, Switzerland and
Italy to a joint conference to be held on February 3rd. Certainly
something will have to be done for the KAISER'S Time Tables.
They have been most unsatisfactory ever since the outbreak of the War.

* * *

A German paper reports that the KAISER is in excellent health
now, and that his girth has distinctly increased during the War. His
patriotic countrymen must be delighted at this fresh extension of

* * *

The omission of the GERMAN EMPEROR to send a telegram
of condolence to KING VICTOR EMMANUEL on the occasion
of the earthquake has called forth severe comments in Italy. The
KAISER is said to have been anxious to create the impression
that he sent the earthquake himself as a caution.

* * *

ENVER PASHA is said to have now returned to Constantinople.
His place in the Egyptian Expeditionary Force will, it is thought, be
taken by REVERS PASHA.

* * *

The EX-KHEDIVE'S war-cry: "Geneva for the Egyptians!"

* * *

the other day, in a speech to Turkish officers and men, "is a sincere
father to Islam." This statement was very necessary as many Turkish
soldiers, judging by their experience of German officers, had imagined
that the KAISER was Islam's stepfather.

* * *

Articles entitled "_Unser Hass gegen England_," Mr. VALENTINE
WILLIAMS tells us, continue to appear in the German Press, and a
dear old lady writes to say that she presumes the Hass in question is

* * *

We are sorry to hear that a Scotch prisoner in Germany got into serious
trouble for referring in a letter to the fact that he was a member of
the Burns Society. The authorities imagined this to be an incendiary

* * *

Those wideawake Germans have discovered further evidence of a shortage
of arms in our country. Attention is being drawn in Berlin to the fact
that the London County Council has decided to defer the proposal to
have a coat-of-arms until the conclusion of the War.

* * *

We hear that Mr. WINSTON CHURCHILL is delighted at the
success of his expression, "the baby-killers," which has taken on
so wonderfully and promises to have a greater run even than Mr.
ASQUITH'S "Wait and see." Fortunately in these times there is
no jealousy between politicians.

* * *

_The Observer_ is wondering whether, in view of the threat of Zeppelin
raids, we are taking sufficient precautions in regard to our national
treasures. It may relieve our contemporary to know that at least one
post-impressionist has removed all his works to a secret destination in
the country.

* * *

During a recent aerial attack on Dunkirk some bombs, we are told, set
fire to a woollen warehouse. This just shows the danger of constructing
a warehouse of such inflammable material.

* * *

The War Office, _The Express_ tells us, recently requested the borough
of Sunderland to raise a brigade of field artillery. The Mayor,
however, is reported to be a Quaker and opposed to War on principle,
and it is stated that the local recruiting committee has decided to
respect the Mayor's conscientious scruples. Suggested motto for the
town, "Let Sunderland Quake."

* * *

Speaking of the new Lord of Appeal, a contemporary says, "Mr. Justice
Bankes is noted for his pleasant appearance, and for the fact that he
has never been known to raise his voice." He does not, in fact, belong
to the firm of Bankes and Brays.

* * *

As a result of the War there is a famine in glass, and prices are
up nearly 100 per cent. Here surely is a Heaven-sent chance for the
Crystal Palace to turn itself into a financial success.

* * *

The strike of Billingsgate fish porters was, we hear, settled in the
nick of time. The men were just beginning to brush up their language.

       *       *       *       *       *

_The Chicago Tribune_ as quoted in _The Sunday Times_:--

 "'C'est incredible!' remarked the thorough Parisian."

"Pas demi," we retort in our best London accent.

       *       *       *       *       *

 "The Secretary of the Admiralty makes the following announcement:--

 Goods for his Majesty's ships which have hitherto been sent by mail,
 addressed 'Care of Naval Store Officer, Dingwall,' should in future be
 addressed 'Care of Naval Store Officer, Dngwall.'"

  _Scarborough Daily Post._

We obey reluctantly.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: HOCH AYE!

SCENE: _A lonely part of the Scottish Coast._

_German Spy_ (_who has been signalling and suddenly notices that he is

       *       *       *       *       *


            A thousand strong,
            With laugh and song,
  To charge the guns or line a trench,
            We marched away
            One August day,
  And fought beside the gallant French.

            A thousand strong,
            But not for long;
  Some lie entombed in Belgian clay;
            Some torn by shell
            Lie, where they fell,
  Beneath the turf of La Bassée.

            But yet at night,
            When to the fight
  Eager from camp and trench we throng,
            Our comrades dead
            March at our head,
  And still we charge, a thousand strong!

       *       *       *       *       *


(_To the New Lord of Islam._)

  He led the Chosen People forth;
    Over the Red Sea tramped their legions;
  They wandered East, they wandered North
    Through very vague and tedious regions,
  Ploughing a lot of desolating sand
  Before they struck the Promised Land.

  And you, who play so many parts,
    And figure in such fancy poses,
  Now, poring over Syrian charts,
    Dressed for the character of MOSES,
  In spirit lead your Turks, a happy band,
  Bound for another Promised Land.

  Promises you have made before;
    And doubtless your adopted Bosches
  Deemed the Canal would lend its floor
    To pass them through without goloshes,
  As though it were a segment of the dry
  Peninsula of Sinaï.

  And when they feared to lose their way
    You answered them with ready wit: "Oh!
  You'll have a pillar of cloud by day,
    And through the night a fiery ditto,
  But never said that these would be supplied
  By airmen on the other side."

  Nor did you mention how the sun
    Promotes a thirst in desert places,
  Nor how their route was like to run
    A little short of green oases,
  Because the wells that glad the wanderer's sight
  Have been removed by dynamite.

  Nor did you let the Faithful guess
    That, on the Pentateuch's own showing,
  Israel found the wilderness
    Took forty years of steady going;
  And after two-score summers, one would think,
  Even a camel wants a drink.

  And you yourself, if still alive
    And not transferred (we'll say?) to heaven,
  Would by the date when they arrive
    Have touched the age of 97,
  And scarcely be in quite the best condition
  To share their labour's full fruition.

  Come down, O fool, from Pisgah's heights,
    Where, stung by Furies misbegotten,
  You counterfeit Mosaic flights,
    Aching for Egypt's corn and cotton;
  Think how it makes the local fellah smile
  To hear your _Watch upon the Nile!_

  O. S.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Scramble.

 "Near Bir Muhadata a British hydroplane dropped a bob on a Turkish
 column, inflicting loss."--_Manchester Guardian._

In the mad rush made by the always unpaid Turkish troops to secure this
godsend, there were many casualties.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Journalistic Touch.

 "This was on the morning of January 2, and Grall had had no food and
 only a little water since the morning of December 31 _of the previous
 year_.--Reuter."--_Daily Chronicle._

The italics represent our own endeavour to assist the picture.

       *       *       *       *       *


Dear _Mr. Punch_,--I cannot for the life of me understand why your
contemporaries should be in such difficulties over the above question
or how it is that they arrive at such diverse estimates. The elements
of the problem are perfectly straightforward. I worked it out on the
back of my ticket in the Tube last night, and as there can be no doubt
whatever about my conclusions I think they ought to be published.

The present population of Germany for popular purposes (as they always
say) is 70,000,000. All the evidence goes to show that the war is still
popular in Germany, or parts of it, so we may accept that figure. Very
well. Of these, 33,000,000 are males. It seems a good many, but we
shall soon begin to whittle it down. By examining the figures of the
different "age groups" we find that fully five million of these are
under the age of seven and as quite a number are over sixty and others
are incapacitated--we have no space to enter into all these complicated
calculations here--we shall not be far wrong if we deduct at the outset
about 21,175,000 under these heads. This leaves us in round figures
twelve million.

We now come to the question of losses up to date; and here we must
proceed with caution, for it is above all important to be on the safe
side. The present German losses are computed by the best authorities
at about two million, from all causes, up to 3 P.M. on the
13th ult. From this we must deduct, however, all those who, after being
wounded, have returned to the firing-line--say, half a million. Also
all those who, having been wounded a second time, have returned to the
front,--say, three hundred thousand. Also all those who have been three
times wounded and have still gone back to fight--say, fifty thousand.

Then again we must remember those who have been invalided home and
recovered, and those who have been missing and are found again. And
there are the men who have been erroneously reported as prisoners,
owing to the Germans' incorrigible habit of exaggerating the number of
their own troops who have fallen into the enemy's hands.

After all these deductions we may safely put the revised German losses
at 750,000. This should be taken off the twelve million eligible; but
it would, I think, be wise (in order to keep always on the safe side)
to add it on. This gives us 12,750,000. Very well.

But the industries of the country must be carried on. There are the
railways, agriculture, mining. Let us say five million for these. There
are those great industries without which a nation cannot wage war;
for instance, the makers of Iron Crosses (100,000), the custodians of
ships retained in harbour (50,000), the printers of picture-postcards
(50,000), the writers of Hate-hymns, besides sundry makers of armaments
and things.

Counting all those in and keeping on the safe side and dealing only
with round figures for popular purposes we may conclude that anything
from one to nine million must be deducted from our last figure to
arrive at a final estimate.

To sum up, Germany's war strength cannot be more than three million or
less than eleven. This gives us a clear idea of what we have to face.

I enclose my card in case you should think me an amateur, and have the
honour to remain,

  Yours faithfully,

       *       *       *       *       *

_Men we do not introduce to the Duke of WESTMINSTER_ I.--The
German Minister of Finance: Dr. HELFFERICH.

       *       *       *       *       *




       *       *       *       *       *


       *       *       *       *       *


"I suppose we can't motor over to Potwick, lunch at 'The George,' and
play a round of golf?" said the Reverend Henry.

"Not without feeling rather--well, rotters and outsiders," said
Sinclair regretfully.

"At least we couldn't of course go in the big car," said I, "and we
should be almost bound to have lunch at that little tea-shop, and it
wouldn't do to play a whole round of golf."

"It is rather a nice point," said Henry, "what one can do in War
time without feeling that one is stamping oneself. Sinclair here was
shooting pheasants a fortnight ago."

"Well, the birds were _there_, you know," said Sinclair, "and it's a
rotten slow business catching them in traps. Besides, we sent them all
to the Red Cross people."

"The weak spot about golf," said the Reverend Henry, "is that there's
no way of sending the results to the Red Cross. There's really no other
earthly reason why one shouldn't play. There's every reason why one
should, but----"

"I haven't played since the War began," said I.

"Nor I. But I have a notion that if one played without caddies and with
old balls----"

"Or got a refugee for a caddy and grossly overpaid him," Henry put in

"I know what you want, Sinclair," said I. "I know perfectly well
what you want. You would like to play golf, but you wouldn't feel
comfortable unless you had a notice pinned to your back in some such
you would feel all right."

"Yes, in your case, Sinclair, it is merely moral cowardice," said
Henry. "But it's queer about golf. Every one admits that billiards is
all right, and--I think--Badminton."

"Well, perhaps I am a bit over-sensitive," said I, "but I'm bound to
say that even if I were playing billiards in a public place at present
I should feel happier if I used the butt end of the cue."

"The problem seems to be closely allied," said the Reverend Henry, "to
the problem of Sabbath observance when I was a child. We were very
strict in our household. We were not allowed to play games of any sort
on Sunday so long as they were played according to the accepted rules;
but we discovered after a time that if we played them _wrong_ no one
objected. We should certainly have been punished for playing tennis
with a tennis racquet, but if we played with a walking-stick or the
flat side of a pair of bellows there was not the slightest objection."

"That's what I feel like," said Sinclair. "I don't want to do the old
things in the old ways."

"We never have people to dinner now," said I, "but we have shoals to

"It is all deplorably illogical," said the Reverend Henry. "But so long
as one has a sense of decency it seems impossible to scorch about in a
motor bulging with golf clubs."

"Quite impossible. I propose that we get Mrs. Henry to make us some
sandwiches and go for a long walk."

It was at this juncture that the morning papers came in with the news
of the battle cruiser victory in the North Sea.... We had a fine run
across the moor in the big car, an excellent lunch at "The George," and
managed to get in two rounds before it was dark.

       *       *       *       *       *



       *       *       *       *       *



People don't always know that Jimmy's dog is a bloodhound. One man
said it was a Great Scott--at least that is what he said when he saw
it. You see, when it is pensive, it sometimes looks like a spaniel and
sometimes like an Airedale--or it would if it hadn't got smooth hair
and a bushy tail which curls. Jimmy was undecided for a long time what
to call it.

The milkman said Jimmy ought to call it "For instance," and then people
would know what it was for. The milkman thought of a lot more names
before a week was over, for Jimmy's bloodhound tracked down a can of
his milk and lapped it up. It is a very good lapper. It lapped so hard
that Jimmy had to pull the can off its head. Jimmy said it was the
suction and that all good bloodhounds were like that.

A man stopped Jimmy in the street and asked him if that was the dog
that tracked down the German spy to his lair. Jimmy said it was, and
the man was very pleased: he patted the bloodhound on the head and
said, "Good old Faithful!"--just like that.

Jimmy showed him the pork-butcher's shop where he did it, and the
man said if Jimmy would wait a minute he would go and buy the dog
some German fruit. Jimmy said the man bought a large kind of sausage
which had a red husk. He then stooped down and said, "Good old chap,
I confer upon you the Order of the Faithful Sausage, 1st class, and
if you catch another German spy I'll give you a season ticket." When
Jimmy's bloodhound saw the red sausage he began to bay, and he hurled
himself upon it with much vigour, Jimmy says. The man watched Jimmy's
bloodhound working, and he said, "_Magna est fidelitas et prevalebit_,"
which he said meant that "Old Faithful would down the Germans every

Jimmy calls his bloodhound Faithful now, and he is keener than ever on
catching another German spy.

Jimmy says he thought he was on the track of one the other day. He
was walking down a road when suddenly Faithful began straining at the
leash, as if he scented one. But it wasn't a German after all; it was a
goat. It was in a field. Jimmy said he made sure it was a German until
he saw it.

The goat was having its tea on the far side of the field. Jimmy hadn't
seen the goat before, so he loosed Faithful at it. Faithful bounded
towards the goat very hard at first, and then stopped and began to

Jimmy said the goat was very surprised when it saw Faithful and jumped
three feet into the air all at once. Jimmy says Faithful makes things
do like that. You see Faithful was crawling hand over hand towards it
on the grass, and the goat looked as if it expected Faithful to go off

Then the goat said "Yes! Yes!" several times with its head and began to

Jimmy said the goat must have been winding up the starting handle, for
it suddenly slipped in the clutch and got into top gear in five yards.
It was a flexible goat, Jimmy says. Faithful is a good runner; it has a
kind of side-stroke action when it runs fast, and this puzzled the goat
and made it skid a bit on the grass.

Jimmy sat on the gate and watched them. After five times round the
field the goat sat down and looked nonplussed.

Jimmy knows all about goats; he knows what to do with them, and he
showed me. He got it so tame that it would feed out of your hand. It
ate half a newspaper one day and it made it very fiery. Jimmy said it
was the War news. We were trying to harness it to a perambulator Jimmy
had borrowed. Jimmy said it had to have a bell on its neck so that
people would know it was coming, just like the Alps.

Jimmy said goats could jump from one Alp to the other, and they always
did that in Switzerland and it sounded very pretty in the evening.

I hadn't got a little bell that tinkled so I brought the dinner bell,
and we tied it on to the goat's neck with a rope. Jimmy said it would
make the goat feel glad.

It took us a long time to harness the goat properly because it was
so fidgety. There wasn't much room in the cart, but we both managed
to squeeze in, and Faithful ran on in front. The goat doesn't like
Faithful; it has an aversion to him when he bays. Faithful knew the
goat was coming after him because he could hear the bell.

There was more room for Jimmy when I fell out, but Faithful kept
straight in the middle of the road doing the side-stroke as hard as he
could with both hands. I could hear the bell. Jimmy said a horse and
trap climbed over the hedge to let them pass. The man in the trap said
something to Jimmy, but Jimmy couldn't catch what he said; it was such
a long sentence. Jimmy said they went into an ironmonger's shop, all
of them. Faithful got there first. He deployed amongst some buckets
which were outside the shop. So did the goat. The noise disturbed the
ironmonger. He took his wife and children into the cellar. Jimmy said
it was the noise that did it, and the goat's face.

The ironmonger's wife told Jimmy she had had a shock; she spoke to him
out of the cellar window. Jimmy says she had a catch in her breath.

The goat didn't go back to the field very quickly; it was because one
of the wheels was bent and the goat seemed to have caught a hiccough.
That was because it ran so fast after eating the newspaper, Jimmy says.
He says all goats are like that.

The goat won't eat out of Jimmy's hand now; whenever it sees Jimmy it
tries to climb a tree. A boy told Jimmy that the man who owns the goat
is concerned about it, so Jimmy goes hunting German spies with Faithful
down another road now.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Two Blüchers.

  A century since, joy filled our cup
  To hear of BLÜCHER "coming up";
  To-day joy echoes round the town
  To hear of _Blücher_ going down.

       *       *       *       *       *


       *       *       *       *       *


I had often seen the little lady at No. 4, but it is only lately that I
have discovered that there is in her the makings of a General.

We found out about her strategic dispositions in a roundabout way. Her
maid told the milkman, and in the course of nature the news came to us.
Every night her maid carries into her room a fur coat, a large pair of
boots and a coal-scuttle.

It is, of course, her preparation to meet a Zeppelin attack.

Everybody is getting ready. Bulpitt's wife's mother, for
example--Bulpitt is my next-door neighbour--is making him dig a
bomb-proof hole in the garden. Bulpitt thought there might be some
difficulty about getting her into it. I pointed out that there would be
more difficulty in getting her out--the hole is very deep. He said he
didn't worry about that.

Two nights later we had a scare. Every light went out along the
road and people were doing all kinds of safe things. It turned out
afterwards that Stewart was testing his family Zeppelin drill, and
fired three shots to make it realistic. His wife then put the baby
in the copper with the lid one inch open. She herself stood beside a
certain wall which, according to Stewart, could not be knocked down
because of the stresses and strains that would be set up.

That was all very well for him; the only thing that went wrong was
that a little water had been left in the copper. But what about poor
Johnson, who had to pile all the mattresses in the coal-cellar? He was
awfully black and angry when he found out.

And what about Carruthers, who emptied a fire-pail on the drawing-room
fire, and had to explain a long muddy pool to his wife, who is rather
deaf and hadn't heard the shots?

As for Bulpitt's wife's mother, she was in the pit for over an hour
before we hauled her out. The first time we got her to the surface
she gasped out, quite smilingly, "Now I know what it's like in the
tren----" and then she slipped back with an oozy thud. The second time
she said, "I don't think they'll come ag----" The third time she said,
"I don't care if the Zeppel----" And when we did get her out she said
nothing at all, and I was sorry for Bulpitt.

Amidst all these scenes of confusion little Miss Agatha at No. 4 stood
at attention in a fur overcoat and a big pair of boots that would
easily slip on, with a coal-scuttle on her head to keep off bombs. She
stood there warm, safe, and respectably clad, waiting till the house
crashed about her and the time came to save herself.

I hate to think of the Zeppelins coming; but if they do come I
hope--how I hope!--I shall be near No. 4 to see the indomitable little
lady emerge.

       *       *       *       *       *


  In WALPOLE'S time, not over nice,
  Each man was said to have his price;
      We've changed since then;
  For, if my daughter's word is fact,
  The world to-day is simply packed
      With "priceless" men.

       *       *       *       *       *

Journalistic Candour.

 "When a court-martial was opened for the trial of two sergeants at
 Woolwich yesterday one of the officers questioned the right of a
 reporter to be present.... The reporter was told to leave, which he
 did, after protesting that an official shorthand note was an entirely
 different thing from a newspaper report."--_Daily Chronicle._

       *       *       *       *       *


Mrs. Jeremy looked up from her knitting. "I want you to do something
for me," she said to her husband.

"Anything except sing," said Jeremy lazily.

"It's just to write a letter."

"My dear, of course. _The Complete Letter-writer_, by J. P. Smith.
Chapter V--'Stiff Notes to Landlords'--shows Mr. Smith at his best.
'Gossipy Budgets, and should they be crossed?'--see Chapter VI. Bless
you, I can write to _anybody._"

"This is to a man you've never met. He's a private at the Front and his
name is Mackinnon."

"'Dear Mr. Mackinnon'--that's how I should begin. Do we want to say
anything particular, or are we just trying the new notepaper?"

Mrs. Jeremy put down her work and gave herself up to explanation.
Private Mackinnon was in a school friend's husband's regiment, and he
never got any letters or parcels from anybody, and the friend's husband
had asked his wife to ask her friends----

"Wait a bit," said Jeremy. "We shall want the College of Heralds in
this directly." He took out his pencil and drew up a pedigree:--

         |              |
  J.P.S.=Mrs. J.     Friend=Officer.
                     | | | | | | | | |

"There you are. Now _you_ think it's J. P. S.'s turn to write to
Mackinnon." He drew a line from one to the other. "Very well; I shall
tell him about the old school."

"You do see, don't you?" said Mrs. Jeremy. "All the others get letters
and things from their friends, and poor Mr. Mackinnon gets nothing.
Katharine wants to get up a surprise for him, and she's asking
half-a-dozen of her friends to send him things and write him jolly
letters." She picked up the muffler she had been knitting. "This is for
him, and I said you'd do the letter. You write such jolly ones."

Jeremy threw away the end of his cigar and got up.

"Yes, but what about?" he said, running his hand through his hair.
"This is going to be very difficult."

"Oh, just one of your nice funny letters like you write to me."

"Quite like that?" said Jeremy earnestly.

"Well, not quite like that," smiled Mrs. Jeremy; "but you know what I
mean. He'd love it."

"Very well," said Jeremy, "we'll see what we can do."

He withdrew to his library and got to work.

"_My dear Mr. Mackinnon_," he wrote, "_the weather here is perfectly

He looked at it thoughtfully and then put it on one side. "We won't
destroy it," he said to himself, "because we may have to come back to
it, but at present we don't like it."

He began another sheet of paper.

"_My dear Mackinnon, who do you think it is? Your old friend Jeremy

He murmured it to himself three or four times, crossed out "old" and
put "new," and then placed this sheet on the top of the other.

"_My dear Mackinnon, yesterday the Vicar_----"

"I knew it would be difficult," he said, and took a fourth sheet.
Absently he began to jot down a few possible openings:--

"_I am a Special Constable ..._"

"_Have you read Mrs. Humphry Ward's latest ..._"

"_I hope the War won't last long ..._"

"Yes," he said, "but we're not being really funny enough."

He collected his letters as far as they had gone and took them to his

"You see what will happen, darling," he said. "Mr. Mackinnon will read
them, and he will say to himself, 'There's a man called Jeremy P. Smith
who is a fool.' The news will travel down the line. They will tell
themselves in Alsace that J. P. Smith, the Treasurer of the Little
Blessington Cricket Club, is lacking in grey matter. The story will get
across to the Germans in some garbled form; 'Smith off crumpet,' or
something of that sort. It will reach the Grand Duke NICHOLAS;
it will traverse the neutral countries; everywhere the word will be
spread that your husband is, as they say, barmy. I ask you, dear--is it
fair to Baby?"

Mrs. Jeremy crumpled up the sheets and threw them in the fire.

"Oh, Jeremy," she said, "you could do it so easily if you wanted to. If
you only said, 'Thank you for being so brave,' it would be something."

"But you said it had to be a 'jolly' one."

"Yes, that was silly of me. I didn't mean that. Just write what you
want to write--never mind about what I said."

"Oh, but that's easy," said Jeremy with great relief; "I can do that on
my head."

And this was the letter (whether he wrote it on his head or not I
cannot say):--

"MY DEAR MR. MACKINNON,--You are not married, I believe, but
perhaps you will be some day when the War is over. You will then get
to know of a very maddening trick which wives have. You hand them a
letter over the coffee-pot beginning, 'Dear Smith, I saw a little
water-colour of yours in the Academy and admired it very much. The
what-do-you-call-it is so well done, and I like that broad effect.
Please accept an earldom,'--but, before they read any of it at all,
they turn to the signature at the end and say, 'Why, Jeremy, it's from
the KING!' And then all your beautiful surprise is gone.

"Now I don't mention this in order to put you off marriage, because
there is a lot more in it than letters over the coffee-pot, and all the
rest is delightful. But I want to tell you that, if (as I expect) you
are keeping the signature of this letter for the surprise, you will be
disappointed. I am sorry about it. I tried various signatures with a
surprise to them (you would have liked my 'Hall Caine,' I think), but I
decided that I had best stick to the one I have used for so many years,
'J. P. Smith.' It will make you ask that always depressing question,
'Who is J. P. Smith?' but this I cannot help. Besides, I want to tell
you who he is.

"An hour ago he was sitting in front of a fire of logs, smoking a
cigar. He had just finished dinner, so good a dinner that he was
congratulating his wife on it as she sat knitting on the other side of
the fire. If he had a complaint to make at all, it was perhaps that the
fire was a little too hot; perhaps when he went upstairs he would find
that a little too hot also was the bottle in his bed. One has these
hardships to face. To complete the picture, I ask you to imagine a door
closed rather noisily kitchenwards, and an exclamation of annoyance
from Mr. Smith. He passes it off by explaining that he was thinking of
the baby rather than of himself.

"Well, there you have this J. P. Smith person ... and at the same hour
what was this man Mackinnon doing? I don't know; you do. But perhaps
you will understand now why I want to say 'Thank you.' I know what you
will answer: 'Good Lord, I'm only doing my job, I don't want to be
_kissed_ for it.' My dear Mackinnon, you don't understand. I am not
very kindly writing to you; you are very kindly letting me write. This
is _my_ birthday, not yours. I give myself the pleasure of thanking
you; as a gentleman you cannot refuse it to me.

"Yours gratefully, J. P. SMITH."

"You dear," said Mrs. Jeremy. "He'll simply love it."

Jeremy grunted.

"If I were Mackinnon," he said, "I should prefer the muffler."


       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE "KULTUR" CUT.


       *       *       *       *       *


 [_A German zoologist has discovered in German New Guinea a new kind
 of opossum to which he proposes to give the name of_ Dactylopsila

  At the Annual Convention of the Fishes, Birds and Beasts,
  Which opened with the usual invigorating feasts,
  The attention of the delegates of feather, fur and fin
  Was focussed on a wonderful proposal from Berlin.

  The document suggested that, to signalise the feats
  Of the noble German armies and the splendid German fleets,
  Certain highly honoured species, in virtue of their claims,
  Should be privileged in future to adopt Germanic names.

  To judge by the resultant din, the screams and roars and cries,
  The birds were most ungrateful and the quadrupeds likewise;
  And the violence with which they "voiced" their angry discontent
  Was worthy of a thoroughbred Hungarian Parliament.

  The centipede declared he'd sooner lose a dozen legs
  Than wear a patronymic defiled by human dregs;
  And sentiments identical, in voices hoarse with woe,
  Were emitted by the polecat and by the carrion crow.

  The rattlesnake predicted that his rattle would be cracked
  Before the name _Bernhardii_ on to his tail was tacked;
  And an elderly hyæna, famed for gluttony and greed,
  Denounced the suffix _Klucki_ as an insult to its breed.

  Most impressive and pathetic was the anguish of the toad
  When he found the name _Lissaueri_ had on him been bestowed;
  And a fine man-eating tiger said he'd sooner feed with SHAW
  Than allow the title _Treitschkei_ to desecrate his jaw.

  But this memorable meeting was not destined to disperse
  Without a tragedy too great for humble human verse;
  For, on hearing that _Wilhelmi_ had to his name been tied,
  The skunk, in desperation, committed suicide.

       *       *       *       *       *

Count REVENTLOW in the _Deutsche Tageszeitung_:--

 "It is an established fact that when our airships were, in order
 to fly to the fortified place of Great Yarmouth, merely flying
 over other places or cities, they were shot at from these places.
 It may be assumed with certainty that these shots, which were
 aimed at the airships from below, hit them, and probably they
 wounded or even killed occupants of the airships. This involves an
 English franc-tireur attack, ruthlessly carried out in defiance of
 International Law and in the darkness of the night, upon the German
 airships, which, without the smallest hostile action, wanted to fly
 away over these places....

 The airship is a recognised weapon of war, and yet people in England
 seem to demand that it shall regard itself as fair game for the
 murders performed by a fanatical civil population, and shall not have
 the right to defend itself."

By the offer of a princely salary, _Mr. Punch_ has tried to tempt Count
REVENTLOW to join the staff in Bouverie Street. In vain. As
the chief humorist of Central Europe he feels that his services are
indispensable to the Fatherland.

       *       *       *       *       *




       *       *       *       *       *


The poets having indicated that they were going to take a few moments
off, the words were free to stand at ease also. They did so with a
great sigh of relief, especially one whom I recognised by his intense
weariness and also by the martial glow on his features, his muddied and
torn clothes and the bandage round his head.

"You're 'war,'" I said, crossing over to speak to him.

"Yes," he replied, "I'm 'war,' and I'm very tired."

"They're sweating you?" I asked.

"Horribly," he replied. "In whatever they're writing about just now,
both poets and song-writers, they drag me in, and they will end lines
with me. Just to occur somewhere and be done with I shouldn't so much
mind; but they feel in honour bound to provide me with a rhyme. Still,"
he added meditatively, "there are compensations."

"How?" I asked.

"Well," he said, "I find myself with more congenial companions than I
used to have. In the old days, when I wasn't sung at all, but was used
more or less academically, I often found myself arm-in-arm with 'star'
or 'far' or 'scar,' and I never really got on with them. We didn't
agree. There was something wrong. But now I get better associates;
'roar,' for example, is a certainty in one verse. In fact I don't mind
admitting I'm rather tired of 'roar,' true friends as we are.

"But I can see the poor young poetical fellows' difficulty; and, after
all, I do roar, don't I? Just as my old friend 'battle' here"--I bowed
to his companion--"is attached to 'rattle.'

"Of course," he went on, "I'm luckier than 'battle' really, because
I do get a few other fellows to walk with, such as 'corps'--very
often--and 'before' and--far too often--'gore'; but 'battle' is tied up
to 'rattle' for the rest of his life. They're inseparable--'battle' and
'rattle.' Directly you see one you know that the other is only a few
words away. We call them the Siamese Twins."

I laughed sympathetically.

"There's 'cattle,'" I said, remembering 'The War-song of Dinas Vawr.'

"No use just now," said 'war.' "'Rattle' is the only rhyme at the
moment; just as General FRENCH has his favourite one, and
that's 'trench.' If 'battle' and 'rattle' are like the Siamese Twins,
'FRENCH' and 'trench' are like Castor and Pollux. Now and
then the COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF makes the enemy 'blench,' but for
one 'blench' you get a thousand 'trenches.' No, I feel very sorry, I
can tell you, for some of these words condemned to such a monotony of
conjunction; and really I oughtn't to complain. And to have got rid of
'star' is something."

I shook him by the hand.

"But there's one thing," he added, "I do object to, which not even
poor old 'battle' has to bear, and that's being forced to march with a
rhyme that isn't all there. I have to do that far too often; and it's

I asked him to explain.

"Well," he said, "those poets who look forward are too fond of linking
me to 'o'er'--'when it's 'o'er,' don't you know (they mean 'over').
That's a little humiliating, I always think. You wouldn't like
constantly going about with a man who'd lost his collar, would you?"

I said that I shouldn't.

"Well, it's like that," he said, "I am not sure that I would not prefer
'star' to that, or 'scar,' after all. They, at any rate, meant well and
were gentlemanly. But 'o'er'? No.

       *       *       *       *       *

The new book for schools: "Kaiser: De Bello Jellicoe."

       *       *       *       *       *


["A band revives memories, it quickens association, it opens and unites
the hearts of men more surely than any other appeal can, and in this
respect it aids recruiting perhaps more than any other agency."--_Mr.
RUDYARD KIPLING at the Mansion House meeting promoted by the
Recruiting Bands Committee._]]

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Recruit_ (_speaking of his late employer_). "AN' 'E

_Friend._ "DID 'E SAY THAT?"


       *       *       *       *       *


  Friend Robert, if mere imitation
    Expresses one's deepest regard,
  How oft has such dumb adoration
    Been shown on his beat by your bard;
  In dress, though the semblance seems hollow,
    How oft since my duties began
  Have I striven, poor "special," to follow
        The modes of the Man.

  I have aped till my muscles grew rigid
    Your air of Olympian calm;
  Have sought, when my framework was frigid,
    To "stand" it _sans_ quiver or qualm;
  I have also endeavoured to copy
    The stealthiest thud of your boot;
  And, with features as pink as a poppy,
        Your solemn salute.

  In vain. Every effort is futile,
    And, while I am "doing my share"
  To guard (after midnight) a mute isle,
    Or the bit of it close by my lair,
  'Tis perfectly plain that, although it
    Is easy to offer one's aid,
  The P.C., alas! like the poet,
        Is born and not made.

       *       *       *       *       *


The proposal, made the other day at the annual meeting of Lloyds Bank
at Birmingham, that a dukedom should be conferred upon Mr. LLOYD
GEORGE, in recognition of his skilful handling of the financial
crisis, has aroused intense interest both in Park Lane and in the Welsh

Even among certain of the right honourable gentleman's colleagues in
the Cabinet the idea meets with warm approval.

There has not yet been a meeting of Dukes to consider how to deal with
any situation that may arise; but there is little doubt that their
Graces are keeping a keen look-out, and it may be expected that when
the time comes their plans will be found to be more or less complete.

Down in Wales there is considerable rivalry already concerning the
title the CHANCELLOR should take. A strong local committee
is being formed at Criccieth to urge the claims of that delightful
resort; but it may expect to receive strenuous opposition from the
people of Llanpwllwynbrynogrhos, who argue that, while Mr. LLOYD
GEORGE'S connection with their village may be slight, it would be
highly desirable that there should exist the obstacle of such a name
whenever the new Duke's fellow Dukes wished to refer to him.

Since it was at the annual meeting of Lloyds Bank that the idea was put
forward, we are inclined to think that whenever a title is required the
CHANCELLOR might select the "Duke of Lloyds;" and on the other
hand, of course, a bank professing such admiration for Mr. LLOYD
GEORGE could not pay a prettier compliment than by styling itself

We profoundly hope that there may be no truth in the ugly rumour that
one of the CHANCELLOR'S servants, who has been in the family
for many years and imbibed its principles, has declared emphatically
that it would be against her principles to serve in a ducal household.

Needless to say there has been a flutter among estate agents. Already
vast tracts of deer-forest in Scotland have been offered at astonishing
terms to the proposed Duke, and these not only comprise some of the
finest scenery in the British Isles, but afford opportunity for
thoroughly interesting agricultural development.

Mr. LLOYD GEORGE'S own views on the whole subject were uttered
in Welsh, and we have no doubt our readers will quite understand that
they cannot be printed here.

       *       *       *       *       *

Our Dumb Friends.

The tradition of strong language established by our armies in Flanders
seems to be well kept up to-day, if we may judge by the following Army
Order issued at the Front:--

 "Though on occasion it is necessary to tie horses to trees, this
 should be avoided whenever possible, as they are sure to bark and thus
 destroy the trees."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Patriotic Old Person_ (_to individual bespattered by
passing motor-bus_). "THERE, YOUNG FELLER! IT'D NEVER 'AVE BIN

       *       *       *       *       *



My dear _Mr. Punch_,--Although, being no longer a soldier in anything
but name (and pay), I pursue in India the inglorious vocation of a
clerk, I am nevertheless still in a position to perceive the splendid
qualities of the British Officer. Always a humble admirer of his skill
and bravery in the field, I have now in addition a keen appreciation of
his imperturbable _sangfroid_ when confronted with conditions of great
difficulty in the office.

I am working in the Banana (to circumvent the Censor I am giving it an
obviously fictitious name) Divisional Area Headquarters Staff Office,
which is situated in the town of ----. Suppose we call it Mango. There
are four brigades in the Banana Divisional Area, one of which is the
Mango Brigade. Now it so happens that the General Officer Commanding
the Banana Divisional Area is at present also the General Officer
Commanding the Mango Brigade; consequently this is the sort of thing
which is always happening. The G.O.C. of the Mango Brigade writes to
himself as G.O.C. of the Banana Divisional Area: "May I request the
favour of a reply to my Memorandum No. 25731/24/Mobn., dated the 3rd
January, 1915, relating to paragraph 5 of Army Department letter No.
S.M.--43822/19 (A.B.C.), dated the 12th December, 1914, which amplifies
the Annexure to Clause 271, Section 18 (c), of A.R.I., Vol. XXIII.?"
Next morning he goes into the Divisional Office and finds himself
confronted by this letter. A mere civilian might be tempted to take a
mean advantage of his unusual situation. Not so the British Officer.
The dignified traditions of the Indian Army must not lightly be set
aside. The G.O.C. of the Brigade and the G.O.C. of the Divisional Area
must be as strangers for the purposes of official correspondence.

So he writes back to himself:--"Your reference to Army Department
letter No. S.M.--43822/19 (A.B.C.), dated the 12th December, 1914,
is not understood. May I presume that you allude to Army Department
letter No. P.T. 58401/364 (P.O.P.), dated the 5th November, 1914, which
deals with the Annexure to Clause 271, Section 18 (c), of A.R.I., Vol.

Later on he goes to the Brigade Office and writes--"... I would
respectfully point out that Army Department letter No. S.M.--43822/19
(A.B.C.), dated the 12th December, 1914, cancels Army Department letter
No. P.T. 58401/364 (P.O.P.), dated the 5th November, 1914."

At his next visit to the Divisional Office he writes back again:--"...
Army Department letter No. S.M.--43822/19 (A.B.C.), dated the 12th
December, 1914, does not appear to have been received in this office.
Will you be so good as to favour me with a copy?"

So it goes on, and our dual G.O.C., like the gallant soldier he is,
never flinches from his duty, never swerves by a hair's-breadth from
his difficult course. This surely is the spirit which has made the

But I expect you are weary of this subject. Still, you must please not
forget that we are officially on active service, and active service
means perhaps more than you people at home imagine. Last Sunday, after
tiffin, I came upon one of my colleagues lounging in an easy-chair, one
of those with practical extensions upon which you can stretch your legs
luxuriously. With a cigarette between his lips and an iced drink beside
him, he sat reading a magazine--a striking illustration of the fine
resourcefulness of the Territorials in adapting themselves to novel

"What I object to about active service," he said, as I came up, "is the
awful hardship we have to put up with. When we were mobilised I didn't
anticipate that our path would be exactly strewn with roses, but I
confess I never expected this. I shall write to _The Times_. The public
ought to know about it;" and he settled himself more deeply into his
chair, blew out a cloud of smoke, and with a resolute expression sipped
his iced lemonade.

_Mr. Punch_, you will be pained to hear that I have lost my hard-earned
reputation for sobriety through no fault of my own. A few days ago I
went up to the barracks to draw my regimental pay, and found that a
number of articles of clothing, issued by the Army authorities, had
accumulated for me during my absence--a pair of khaki shorts, a grey
flannel shirt with steel buttons the size of sixpences, a pair of
worsted socks and three sheets (yes, sheets for the bed; so luxuriously
do we fare in India). Perhaps you can guess what happened.

"Oh, by the way, have you drawn your clothing?" asked the Lieutenant,
when he had paid me.

"Yes, Sir," I replied.

"What have you got?"

"Sheets, shirt, shorts and shocks--shots, sheeks and shirks----"

"That will do," he interrupted sternly. "You had better come to me
again when you are in a condition to express yourself clearly."

Thus easily is a reputation acquired by years of self-control destroyed
by the pitfalls of our native tongue.

On the other hand, some people have enviable reputations thrust upon
them. This is the case with my friend, Private Walls. The other night,
half of what remains of the Battalion were called out to repel an
expected attack on the barracks by the other half. Walls chanced to be
placed in a rather isolated position, and, armed with six rounds of
blank, he took cover behind a large boulder, after receiving whispered
orders from his officer not to fire if he suspected the approach of the
enemy, but to low like an ox, when assistance would immediately be sent
to him.

Though a little diffident of his powers of lowing, Walls determined to
do his best, and fell sound asleep.

Now, if you or I had been in his position, an officer would certainly
have discovered us in no time, and dire punishment would have
followed. But Walls slumbered on undisturbed, until a terrific roar in
his ear caused him to wake with a start. What had happened? He seized
his rifle and peered into the darkness. Then, to his amazement, he saw
the boulder before him rise to its feet and shamble off into the night.
It was an ox, and it had lowed!

You might think his luck finished there. But no. The officer and his
men came stealthily up, and Walls unblushingly declared that he had
heard the foe approaching. It may sound incredible, but it is a fact
that a few minutes later the enemy did actually appear, and were, of
course, driven back after the customary decimation.

And Walls unhesitatingly accepted the congratulations of his superior
on his vigilance, and did not even blench when assured that his was the
finest imitation ever heard of the lowing of an ox.

  Yours ever,

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Officer._ "DIDN'T I TELL YER 'E WAS NO GOOD? LOOK

       *       *       *       *       *

 "The German resistance is formidable but the allies' artillery has
 forced the enemy to retire from some trenches abandinging prisoners,
 dead, and wounded."--_Buenos Aires Standard._

This gives the lie to the many stories of German callousness that we

       *       *       *       *       *


 [_A fifteen-minutes' speech on affairs by a public man has been added
 to the programme of the Empire music-hall._]

There is no truth that the late Viceroy of IRELAND is to
appear at the Alhambra in a brief address, explaining why he chose the
title of "Tara."

All efforts to induce Mr. MASTERMAN to appear at the Holborn
Empire next week in a burlesque of _The Seats of the Mighty_ have

Great pressure is being brought to bear upon Mr. BERNARD SHAW
to induce him to add gaiety to the Palladium programme next week by a
twenty-minutes' exposure of England's folly, hypocrisy, fatuity and
crime, a subject on which he knows even more than is to be known.

Up to the present moment Mr. H. G. WELLS has refused all
offers to appear at the Palace in the song from _Patience_, "When I
first put this uniform on."

Any statement that Mr. EDMUND GOSSE is to appear at the
Coliseum at every performance next week, in a little sketch entitled
_Swinging the Censor_, is to be taken with salt.

A similar incredulity should probably be adopted in regard to the
alluring rumour that Mr. COMPTON MACKENZIE will also contribute at
the same house a nightly telephonic sketch from Capri, "_What Tiberius
thinks of 'Sinister Street.'_"

Negotiations are still pending, though with little chance of success,
between the management of the Hippodrome and Canon RAWNSLEY,
with a view to his giving a brief address nightly on the subject "How
to write a War sonnet in ten minutes."

We have good reason to fear that, in spite of reiterated announcements
of their engagement, Mr. MAX PEMBERTON and Mr. MAX BEERBOHM will not
appear on Valentine's Day, and subsequently, at the Chiswick Empire
in a topical War duologue as "The Two Max."

       *       *       *       *       *

Omar Khayyam on the North Sea battle.

  They say the _Lion_ and the _Tiger_ sweep
  Where once the Huns shelled babies from the deep,
    And _Blücher_, that great cruiser--12-inch guns
  Roar o'er his head but cannot break his sleep.

       *       *       *       *       *


"Look here," exclaimed the latest subaltern, hurling himself at the
remains of the breakfast, "those rotters have sent me a putrid sword!"

"A putrid sword, dear?" his mother repeated.

"Yes, confound them!"

"I don't see why you want a sword at all," Dolly chipped in. "Captain
Jones says the big guns are the only weapons that count."

"And how will Archie toast his crumpets?" retorted Henry.

"Oh, shut up, you kids! I say, do you mind having a look at it?" The
latest subaltern was actually appealing to me. I stifled a blush, and
thought I should like to, very much.

After breakfast Archibald and myself retired to the armoury.

"There!" he exclaimed indignantly. "What do you think of that?" It was
lying on the bed with a black-and-gold hilt and a wonderful nickel
scabbard with gilt blobs at the top. I looked at it.

"Well," I ventured, "it's a sword."

Archibald sniffed.

"And," I continued hastily, "it's very nice. Perhaps they've run out of
the ordinary ones. Does it cut?"

He drew it, and I, assuming the air of a barber's assistant, felt its

"Of course," I remarked, "I don't know much about it, but if there _is_
anything left to cut when you go out I think it should be stropped a
bit first."

"Well," said the proud owner, "I ordered it at Slashers', and they
ought to know. Suppose we rub it up on young Henry's emery wheel?"

"Wait a minute," I cried; "I should like to see it on."

Archibald buckled on the scabbard and I slapped the trusty blade home.

It certainly looked a bit odd. I surveyed it in profile.

"No!" I exclaimed, "there is something about it ... a Yussuf air ...
that little bend at the tip is reminiscent of Turkestan."

We found Henry in the workshop.

"My fairy godmother," he shouted, "did you pinch it from the pantomime?"

We did not deign to reply. Gingerly, very gingerly, we applied Yussuf
to the emery wheel.... Little flakes came off him--just little flakes.

It was very distressing.

The gardener joined us and advised some oil; then the coachman brought
us some polishing sand; bath-brick and whitening we got from the cook.

It was no good. Nothing could restore those little flakes. So we went
indoors to have a look at the Encyclopædia. But there was nothing there
to help us. Yussuf was suffering from an absolutely unknown disease.

We put him to bed again.

       *       *       *       *       *

After lunch Archibald received the following letter:--

"DEAR SIR,--We learn with regret that, by an inadvertence,
the wrong sword has been despatched to you. We now hasten to forward
yours, trusting that the delay has not inconvenienced you. At the same
time our representative will, with your permission, collect the sword
now in your possession as it is of exceptional value, and also has to
be inscribed immediately for presentation.

  Your obedient Servants,

"For presentation," I repeated; "then it's not meant to cut with, and
those blobs really are gold." I touched one respectfully.

The latest subaltern pulled himself together and rang the bell.
"When a man calls here for a sword," he told the servant, "give him
this"--pointing dramatically at Yussuf. "And Jenkins!"

"Yes, Sir."

"Tell him that I have just sailed for ... er--for the Front."

       *       *       *       *       *



_Hallo! Hallo! Hallo! Polly-olly-wolly! Scratch a poll!_ It isn't that
I shout the loudest, though I fancy I _could_ keep my end up in the
monkey-house if it came to that. Many a parrot wastes all his energy
in wind. It's brains, not lungs, that make a full crop. Extend your
vocabulary. Another thing--don't make yourself too cheap. The parrot
that always gives his show free lives the whole of his life on official
rations--and nothing else. _Half-a-pint o' mild-an'-bitter! Pom! Pom!_

I'm the oldest inhabitant, and I've the biggest waist measurement for
my height in Regent's Park. That's my reward. I'll admit I've a bad
memory; most parrots have, except the one that used to sing "Rule
Britannia" and knew the name of every keeper in the Zoo--and _he_ went
into hospital with something-on-the-brain. But _I_'ve moved with the
times. There aren't many catch-phrases I haven't caught. "Walker,"
"Who's Griffiths?" and drawing corks in the old "Champagne Charlie"
days; and "You're another," "Get your hair cut," "Does your mother know
you're out?" "My word, if I catch you bending!" "After you with the
cruet." But I've a bad memory. _Have a banana? I don't think!..._

I'm never quite sure of myself, and so just have to say what comes
uppermost. _Shun! Stanterteeze! Form-forz, you two! Half-a-pint o'...._

I've found it doesn't do to repeat _everything_ the sergeant says.
We had a Naval parrot once.... Why, take for instance that young man
with his greasy feathers brushed back like a parrakeet's. He looked
good for a few grapes any day, but when, just to encourage him, I
chortled, "KITCHENER wants yer!" he frowned and walked away. I
did good business later, though. Pulled up a bunch of Khaki people by
just shouting "'Alt!" I admired their taste in oranges. _Down with the
KAISER!_ By the way, I've shouted "Down with" almost everybody
in my time. _Johnny, get your gun; Goobye, Tipperlairlee._

But the best is "_Veeve la Fronce_." Last week one of those foreign
officers heard me "veeving" softly to myself. In half a minute he'd
collected a dozen of his friends and relatives, and I could see more
coming in the distance. The excitement! My tail! "Marie! Alphonse!" he
shouted. "_Regarday dong ce brave wozzo!_" They gave me butterscotch;
they gave me muscatels; they gave me a meringue, and lots of little
sweet biscuits (I don't take monkey-nuts these days, thank you!) and
they all talked at once. Then a lovely creature with a cockatoo's crest
on her head bent forward and coaxed me in a voice like ripe bananas.
And there was I sitting like a fool, my mouth crammed and my mind a
blank! The crowd was growing every minute. The cockatoo girl ran to the
kiosk and bought me French nougat; I ate it. Then I made a desperate
effort--"Has anybody here seen Kelly?"

Bless the camel-keeper! At that very moment I heard him ringing the
"all-out" bell.

       *       *       *       *       *

_The Times_ says that the _Blücher_ was the reply of the German
Admiralty to the first British _Dreadnought_.

Admiral Sir DAVID BEATTY begs to state that he has forwarded
this reply to the proper quarter.

       *       *       *       *       *

We have pleasure in culling the following extract from the account of a
wedding, as set forth in _The Silver Leaf_ (published at Somerset West,
Cape Province):--

 "Whilst the register was being signed, Mme. Wortley, of Cape Town,
 sang 'Entreat me not to leave thee' with great feeling."

It seems perhaps a little early to discuss the question of marital

       *       *       *       *       *








       *       *       *       *       *


 _Time_: 7.30 P.M. _Scene: A large disused barn, where forty
 members of the local Volunteer Training Corps are assembled for
 drill. They are mostly men well over thirty-eight years of age, but
 there is a sprinkling of lads of under nineteen, while a few are men
 of "military age" who for some good and sufficient reason have been
 unable to join the army. They are all full of enthusiasm, but at
 present they possess neither uniform nor arms. Please note that in the
 following dialogue the Sergeant alone speaks aloud; the other person_
 thinks, _but gives no utterance to his words_.

  _The Sergeant._ Fall in! Fall in! Come smartly there, fall in
  And recollect that when you've fallen in
  You stand at ease, a ten-inch space between
  Your feet--like this; your hands behind your back--
  Like this; your head and body both erect;
  Your weight well poised on both feet, not on one.
  Dress by the right, and let each rear rank man
  Quick cover off his special front rank man.
  That's it; that's good. Now when I say, "Squad, 'shun,"
  Let every left heel swiftly join the right
  Without a shuffling or a scraping sound
  And let the angle of your two feet be
  Just forty-five, the while you smartly drop
  Hands to your sides, the fingers lightly bent,
  Thumbs to the front, but every careful thumb
  Kept well behind your trouser-seams. Squad, 'shun!

  _The Volunteer._ Ha! Though I cannot find my trouser-seams,
  I rather think I did that pretty well.
  Thomas, my footman, who is on my left,
  And Batts, the draper, drilling on my right,
  And e'en the very Sergeant must have seen
  The lithe precision of my rapid spring.

  _The Sergeant._ When next I call you to attention, note
  You need not slap your hands against your thighs.
  It is not right to slap your thighs at all.

  _The Volunteer._ He's looking at me; I am half afraid
  I used unnecessary violence
  And slapped my thighs unduly. It is bad
  That Thomas should have cause to grin at me
  And lose his proper feeling of respect,
  Being a flighty fellow at the best;
  And Batts the draper must not----

  _The Sergeant._                   Stand at ease!

  _The Volunteer._ Aha! He wants to catch me, but he----

  _The Sergeant._                                        'Shun!

  _The Volunteer._ Bravo, myself! I did not slap them then.
  I am indubitably getting on.
  I wonder if the Germans do these things,
  And what they sound like in the German tongue.
  The Germans are a----

  _The Sergeant._       Sharply number off
  From right to left, and do not jerk your heads.

 [_They number off._

  _The Volunteer._ I'm six, an even number, and must do
  The lion's share in forming fours. What luck
  For Batts, who's five, and Thomas, who is seven.
  They also serve, but only stand and wait,
  While I behind the portly form of Batts
  Insert myself and then slip out again
  Clear to the front, observing at the word
  The ordered sequence of my moving feet.
  Come let me brace myself and dare----

  _The Sergeant._                       Form fours!

  _The Volunteer._ I cannot see the Sergeant; I'm obscured
  Behind the acreage of Batts's back.
  Indeed it is a very noble back
  And would protect me if we charged in fours
  Against the Germans, but I rather think
  We charge two deep, and therefore----

  _The Sergeant._                       Form two deep!

  _The Volunteer._ Thank Heaven I'm there, although I mixed my feet!
  I am oblivious of the little things
  That mark the due observance of a drill;
  And Thomas sees my faults and grins again.
  Let him grin on; my time will come once more
  At dinner, when he hands the Brussels sprouts.

 [_The drill proceeds._

  Now we're in fours and marching like the wind.
  This is more like it; this is what we need
  To make us quit ourselves like regulars.
  Left, right, left, right! The Sergeant gives it out
  As if he meant it. Stepping out like this
  We should breed terror in the German hordes
  And drive them off. The Sergeant has a gleam
  In either eye; I think he's proud of us.
  Or does he meditate some stratagem
  To spoil our marching?

  _The Sergeant._        On the left form squad!

  _The Volunteer._ There! He has done it! He has ruined us!
  I'm lost past hope, and Thomas, too, is lost;
  And in a press of lost and tangled men
  The great broad back of Batts heaves miles away.

 [_The Sergeant explains and the drill proceeds._

  _The Volunteer._ No matter; we shall some day learn it all,
  The standing difference 'twixt our left and right,
  The bayonet exercise, the musketry,
  And all the things a soldier does with ease.
  I must remember it's a long, long way
  To Tipperary, but my heart's----

  _The Sergeant._                  Dismiss!

  R. C. L.

       *       *       *       *       *


AT long last the War Office is waking up to the value of bands for
military purposes, and a good deal of interest will be aroused by the
discussion now proceeding as to the best airs for use on the march.

The following suggestions have been hastily collected by wireless and
other means:--

From the Trenches: "Why not try 'Come into the garden mud'?"

From a very new Subaltern: "I had thought of 'John Brown's Body,' but
personally I am more concerned just now with Sam Browne's Belt."

From a Zeppelin-driver: "There's an old Scotch song that I have tried
successfully on one of our naval lieutenants. It runs like this:--

  O, I'll tak the high road and you'll tak' the low road,
  An' I'll be in Yarmouth afore ye."

From the Captain of the _Sydney_: "What's the matter with 'The Jolly

From President WILSON: "Have you thought of 'The little rift
within the lute,' as played by our Contra-band?"

From Admiral VON TIRPITZ: "A familiar air with me is 'Crocked
in the cradle of the deep.'"

From Sir EDWARD GREY: "If it could be done diplomatically, I
should like to see recommended, 'Dacia, Dacia, give me your answer,

From the Crew of the _Lion_: "For England, Home, and Beatty."

From an East Coast Mayor: "Begone, dull scare!"

From the King of RUMANIA: "Now we shan't be long."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Old Farmer_ (_to village Military Critic_).

       *       *       *       *       *


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

_The German War Book_ (MURRAY) is a work in whose authenticity
many of us would have refused to believe this time last year. It is a
pity indeed that it was not then in the hands of all those who still
clung to the theory that the Prussian was a civilised and humane being.
However, now that everyone can read it, translated and with a wholly
admirable preface by Professor J. H. MORGAN, it is to be hoped
that the detestable little volume will have a wide publicity. True, it
can add little to our recent knowledge of the enemy of mankind; but it
is something to have his guiding principles set down upon the authority
of his own hand. Cynical is hardly an adequate epithet for them;
indeed I do not know that the word exists that could do full justice
to the compound of hypocrisy and calculated brutishness that makes up
this manual. It may at first strike the reader as surprising to find
himself confronted by sentiments almost, one might say, of moderation
and benevolence. He will ask with astonishment if the writer has not,
after all, been maligned. Before long, however, he will discover that
all this morality is very carefully made conditional, and that the
conditions are wide. In short, as the Preface puts it, the peculiar
logic of the book consists in "ostentatiously laying down unimpeachable
rules, and then quietly destroying them by debilitating exceptions."
For example, on the question of exposing the inhabitants of occupied
territory to the fire of their own troops--the now notorious Prussian
method of "women and children first"--the _War Book_, while admitting
pious distaste for such practice, blandly argues that its "main
justification" lies in its success. Thus, with sobs and tears, like
the walrus, the Great General Staff enumerates its suggested list of
serviceable infamies. At the day of reckoning what a witness will this
little book be! Out of their own mouths they stand here condemned
through all the ages.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mrs. HUMPHRY WARD, chief of novelists-with-a-purpose,
vehemently eschews the detachment of the Art-for-Art's-Saker, while
a long and honourable practice has enabled her to make her stories
bear the burden of her theses much more comfortably than would seem
theoretically possible. _Delia Blanchflower_ (WARD, LOCK)
is a suffrage novel, dedicated with wholesome intent to the younger
generation, and if one compares the talented author's previous
record of uncompromising, and indeed rather truculent, anti-suffrage
utterances one may note (with approval or dismay) a considerable
broadening of view on the vexed question. For her attack here is
delivered exclusively on the militant position. Quite a number of
decent folk in her pages are suffragistically inclined, and there is
a general admission that the eager feet that throng the hill of the
Vote are not by any means uniformly shod in elastic-sided boots, if
one may speak a parable. It is a very notable admission and does the
writer honour; for such revisions are rare with veteran and committed
campaigners. The story is laid in the far-away era of the burnings of
cricket pavilions and the lesser country houses. _Delia_ is a beautiful
goddess-heiress of twenty-two, with eyes of flame and a will of steel,
a very agreeable and winning heroine. Her tutor, _Gertrude Marvell_,
the desperate villain of the piece, a brilliant fanatic (crossed in
love in early youth), wins the younger girl's affections and inspires
and accepts her dedication of self and fortune to the grim purposes of
the "Daughters of Revolt." _Mark Winnington_, her guardian, appointed
by her father to counteract the tutor's baleful influence, finds both
women a tough proposition. For _Gertrude_ has brains to back her
fanaticism, and _Delia_ is a spirited handful of a ward. Loyalty to her
consecration and to her friend outlast her belief in the methods of the
revolting ones. Her defences are finally ruined by Cupid, for _Mark_ is
a handsome athletic man of forty or so, a paragon of knightly courtesy
and persuasive speech and silences, and compares very favourably with
the policemen in Parliament Square. Poor _Gertrude_ makes a tragic
end in a fire of her own kindling, so that the moral for the younger
generation cannot be said to be set forth in ambiguous terms.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Arundel_ (FISHER UNWIN) is one of those stories that begins
with a Prologue; and as this was only mildly interesting I began to
wonder whether I was going to be as richly entertained as one has by
now a right to expect from Mr. E. F. BENSON. But it appeared
that, like a cunning dramatist, he was only waiting till the audience
had settled into their seats; when this was done, up went the curtain
upon the play proper, and we were introduced to Arundel itself, an
abode of such unmixed and giddy joy that I have been chortling over the
memory of it ever since. Arundel was the house at Heathmoor where lived
_Mrs. Hancock_ and her daughter _Edith_; and _Mrs. Hancock_ herself,
and her house and her neighbourhood and her car and her servants and
her friends--all, in fact, that is hers, epitomize the Higher Suburbia
with a delicate and merciless satire that is beyond praise. I shall
hurry over the actual story, because that, though well and absorbingly
told, is of less value than the setting. Next door to the _Hancocks_
lived a blameless young man called _Edward_, whom for many reasons,
not least because their croquet-lawns, so to speak, "marched," _Mrs.
Hancock_ had chosen as her daughter's husband. So blamelessly, almost
without emotion, these were betrothed, walking among the asparagus beds
on a suitable May afternoon "ventilated by a breath of south-west wind
and warmed by a summer sun," and the course of their placid affection
would have run smooth enough but for the sudden arrival, out of the
Prologue, of _Elizabeth_, fiercely alive and compelling, the ideal
of poor _Edward's_ dreams. Naturally, therefore, there is the devil
to pay. But, good as all this is, it is _Mrs. Hancock_ who makes the
book, first, last and all the time. She is a gem of purest ray serene,
and my words that would praise her are impotent things. Only unlimited
quotation could do justice to her sleek self-deception and little
comfortable meannesses. In short, as a contemporary portrait, the
mistress of Arundel seems to be the best thing that Mr. BENSON
has yet given us; worth--if he will allow me to say so--a whole
race of _Dodos_. For comparison one turns instinctively to JANE
AUSTEN; and I can sound no higher praise.

Love never seems to run a smooth course for girls of the name of
_Joan_; their affairs of heart, whatever the final issue may be, have
complex beginnings and make difficult, at times dismal, progress. I
attribute the rejection of the great novel of my youth to the fact
that the heroine, a rosy-cheeked girl with no more serious problems in
life than the organisation of mixed hockey matches, was ineptly given
that unhappy name. Miss MARY AGNES HAMILTON'S _Joan Traquair_
is true to the type. From the start she is handicapped by a bullying
father, an invalid sister, a lack of means and an excess of artistic
temperament, the last of these being not just a casual tendency to
picture galleries and the opera, but the kind of restless passion
which causes people to prefer sunsets to meals and to neglect their
dress. In due course she falls in love with a man called _Sebastian_,
another name which, if less familiar, is yet a sufficient warning to
the world that its owner is bound to be a nuisance on the hearth. This
_Sebastian_ was an artist, ambitious and of course poor; worse, he had
a touch of genius and--worst of all--he knew it. Nevertheless _Joan_
became his wife, supposing that this was just the sort of man to make
her happy. Instead, he made her thoroughly miserable, at any rate for
a good long time; but I doubt if any reader, even with all the facts
before him, will anticipate exactly how he did it. I certainly didn't
myself, although I feel now that I ought to have done. The point of
_Yes_ (HEINEMANN) is both new and true; I recommend the book
with confidence to all interested in the Joans and Sebastians of this

       *       *       *       *       *


       *       *       *       *       *

Our Cheery Allies.

A letter from a Japanese firm:--

 "DEAR SIRS,--Since writing you last we have no favours to
 acknowledge, however, we are pleased to enter into business relation
 with your respectable firm. We were delighted that the Allies
 always behaved bravely in the recent battle and now are in the very
 favourable condition. Our army took the possetion of Tsingtau and our
 only hope remaindered is to hear the annihiration of the enemy force.
 We trust the Allies will beat the Enemy in near future though we
 cannot assert the time. If there are any samples of Japanese goods as
 substitute of German's, kindly let us know, and we shall send the same
 as soon as possible."

       *       *       *       *       *


  Their Aviatiks and Zeppelins from dark aerial heights
  Pick out the peaceful places while people sleep o' nights.

  Their Aviatiks and Zeppelins steer clear of fort and gun;
  Such things of dreadful menace repel the flying Hun.

  Their Aviatiks and Zeppelins show Science at the call
  Of all the savage instincts that hold them tight in thrall.

  Their Aviatiks and Zeppelins--_our_ women lying dead--
  The whole of German "Kultur" is there from A to Z.

*** End of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 148, February 3, 1915" ***

Doctrine Publishing Corporation provides digitized public domain materials.
Public domain books belong to the public and we are merely their custodians.
This effort is time consuming and expensive, so in order to keep providing
this resource, we have taken steps to prevent abuse by commercial parties,
including placing technical restrictions on automated querying.

We also ask that you:

+ Make non-commercial use of the files We designed Doctrine Publishing
Corporation's ISYS search for use by individuals, and we request that you
use these files for personal, non-commercial purposes.

+ Refrain from automated querying Do not send automated queries of any sort
to Doctrine Publishing's system: If you are conducting research on machine
translation, optical character recognition or other areas where access to a
large amount of text is helpful, please contact us. We encourage the use of
public domain materials for these purposes and may be able to help.

+ Keep it legal -  Whatever your use, remember that you are responsible for
ensuring that what you are doing is legal. Do not assume that just because
we believe a book is in the public domain for users in the United States,
that the work is also in the public domain for users in other countries.
Whether a book is still in copyright varies from country to country, and we
can't offer guidance on whether any specific use of any specific book is
allowed. Please do not assume that a book's appearance in Doctrine Publishing
ISYS search  means it can be used in any manner anywhere in the world.
Copyright infringement liability can be quite severe.

About ISYS® Search Software
Established in 1988, ISYS Search Software is a global supplier of enterprise
search solutions for business and government.  The company's award-winning
software suite offers a broad range of search, navigation and discovery
solutions for desktop search, intranet search, SharePoint search and embedded
search applications.  ISYS has been deployed by thousands of organizations
operating in a variety of industries, including government, legal, law
enforcement, financial services, healthcare and recruitment.