PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOLUME 147.

December 30, 1914.

CHARIVARIA.

Abdul the D—d is said to feel it keenly that, when the British decided to appoint a Sultan in Egypt, they did not remember that he was out of a job.

Meanwhile Abbas Pasha is reported to have had a presentiment that he would one day be replaced by Kamel Pasha. It is said that for some time past he would start nervously whenever he heard the band of a Highland regiment playing "The Kamel's a-coming."

We have very little doubt that the German newspapers are publishing photographs of Whitby Abbey, and claiming the entire credit for its ruined condition.

It remained for The Times to chronicle the Germans' most astounding feat. It happened at Hartlepool. "A chimney nearly 200 feet in height, on the North-Eastern Railway hydraulic power-station, was," our contemporary tells us, "grazed by a projectile about 100 yards above its base."

The Archbishop of York, who was one of the Kaiser's few apologists, is said to feel keenly that potentate's ingratitude in selecting for bombardment two unprotected bathing-places in his Grace's diocese.

It is widely rumoured that Wilhelm is conferring a special medal on the perpetrators of this and similar outrages, to be called the Kaiser-ye-Hun medal.

Some of the German newspapers have been organising a symposium on the subject of how to spend the coming Christmas. Herr Arthur von Gwinner, director of the Deutsche Bank, is evidently something of a humourist. "More than ever," he says, "in the exercise of works of love and charity." We rather doubt whether the Herr Direktor's irony will be appreciated in high quarters.

A message from Amsterdam says that there are signs in Berlin of discontent with the German Chancellor and his staff, and patriots are calling for a "clean sweep." The difficulty, of course, is that, while there are plenty of sweeps in Germany, it is not easy to find a clean one.

"Immediately after his arrival at Rome," says The Liverpool Echo, "Prince Buelow proceeded to the Villa Malte, his usual residence at Rome, where he will stay until he takes up his quarters at the Caffarelli police." Our alleged harsh treatment of aliens fades into insignificance by the side of this!

General Baron von Bissing, the Governor-General of Belgium, has informed a German journal that the Kaiser has "very specially commanded him to help the weak and oppressed in Belgium." By whom, we wonder, are the Belgians being oppressed?

The same journal announces that General von Diedenhofen, the commander at Karlsruhe, has issued a proclamation expressing his "indignation at the dishonourable conduct" of three German Red-Cross Nurses who have married wounded French prisoners. It certainly does look like taking advantage of the poor fellows when they were more or less helpless.

We hear that considerable ill-feeling has been caused in certain quarters of Paris by a thoughtless English newspaper calling the Germans "the Apaches of Europe."

A German critic has been expatiating on the trouble we must have in feeding an Army with so many different tastes and creeds. Commenting on this, The Evening Standard says: "This is not a surprising matter from our point of view, but the German cast-iron system does not lend itself either in thought or practice to adaptability." Some people, we believe, imagine the Germans feed, without exception, on Pickelhauben.

A little while ago the Germans were claiming our Shakspeare. We now hear that a forthcoming production at His Majesty's Theatre has set them longing, in view of the scarcity of the metal, for our Copperfield.

Mr. Thomas Burt, M.P., Father of the House of Commons, has decided to resign his seat in Parliament. This does not however mean that the House will be left an orphan. Another father will be found at once.

It is rumoured that, after the War is over, a statue is to be erected to the Censor at Blankenberghe, in Belgium.

A tale from the Front. "The enemy are continuing to fortify the coast, Sir," said the subaltern. "I don't care if they fiftify it," roared his commanding officer; "it'll make no difference." This shows the British spirit.

"But you aren't tall enough."

"Well, can I go as a drummer-boy?"

"I'm afraid you're too old for that."

"Well, then—dash it all! I'll go as a mascot."

A Sensational Statement.

"General Smuts stated that there were in the field at the present time, not including those training, more than —— men."—Daily Telegraph.

This is headed "South Africa's Forces," and may have been an actual piece of news until it reached the Censor.

Another Impending Apology.

We read beneath a photograph in The Graphic:—

"Miss Pauline Prim—the cat in the Aldwych Pantomime, as she is in real life."

The Troubles of Neutrality.

From a recent Geography Examination paper:—

"Holland is a low country: in fact it is such a very low country that it is no wonder that it is damned all round."

A correspondent writes:—

"It is to be hoped that nothing further will be heard of these various proposals to intern the Kaiser at St. Helena. One would have thought that there had been quite sufficient desecration already of places of historic interest."

THE WAR-LORD'S NEW YEAR'S EVE.

Kaiser, what vigil will you keep to-night?

Before the altar will you lay again

Your "shining armour," and renew your plight

To wear it ever clean of stain?

Or, while your priesthood chants the Hymn of Hate,

Like incense will you lift to God your breath

In praise that you are privileged by fate

To do His little ones to death?

Will Brother Henry, knowing well the scene

That saw your cruisers' latest gallant feat,

Kneel at your side, and ask with pious mien

A special blessing on the fleet?

Will you make "resolutions?"—saying, "Lo!

I will be humble. Though my own bright sword

Has shattered Belgium, yet will I bestow

The credit on a higher Lord.

"What am I but His minister of doom?

The smoke of burning temples shall ascend,

With none to intercept the savoury fume,

Straight upward to my honoured Friend."

Or does your heart admit, in hours like these,

God is not mocked with words; His judgment stands;

Nor all the waters of His cleansing seas

Can wash the blood-guilt from your hands?

Make your account with Him as best you can.

What other hope has this New Year to give?

For outraged earth has laid on you a ban

Not to be lifted while you live.

O. S.

UNWRITTEN LETTERS TO THE KAISER.

NO. XII.

(From the Ex-Sultan Of Turkey.)

My Brother,—There are many who in these days gnash their teeth against you and pursue with malice and reproach the words you utter and the deeds you perform, so that verily the tempests of the world beat about your head. It may please you, therefore, to know that there is one man at least whose affectionate admiration for you has suffered no decrease, nay, has rather been augmented a hundredfold by the events of the past half-year. Need I say that I am that man?

It is true that I have been shorn of my honours and privileges, that I live in exile as a prisoner and that the vile insulters of fallen majesty compass me about. I who once dwelt in splendour and issued my commands to the legions of the faithful am treated with contumely by a filthy pack of time-servers, and have nothing that I can call my own except, for the moment, the air that I breathe. Oh, for an hour of the old liberty and power! It would amuse me to see the faces of Enver and of my wretched brother Mohammed as I ordered them to execution—them and their gang of villainous parasites. By the bowstring of my fathers, but that would be a great and worthy killing! Pardon the fond day-dreams of a poor and lonely old man whose only crime has been that he loved his country too well and treated his enemies with a kindness not to be understood by those black and revengeful hearts.

I remember that in the old days there were not wanting those who warned me against you. "Beware," they said, "of the German Emperor. He will use you for his own purposes, and will then cast you aside like an orange that has been squeezed." But I paid no heed to their jealous imaginings, and I had my reward. Not, indeed, that you were able to save me when the wicked burst upon me and cast me down. The stroke was too sudden, and you, alas, were too far. But the memory of our delightful friendship is still with me to sustain and comfort me in my tribulations. I still have some of the letters in which you poured out your heart to me, and when melancholy oppresses me I take them from my breast and read them over and over again.

It is a joy to me to know that there is a firm alliance between my brave Turks and your magnanimous soldiers. I doubt not that Allah, the good old friend of the Turks, will continue to bless you and give you victory after victory over your enemies. It is no less a joy to learn how gloriously and how sagaciously you are conducting this war. They tell me that your ships have bombarded the coast towns of England, and that five or six hundred of the inhabitants have fallen before your avenging shells. What matters it that these towns were not fortified in the strict and stupid sense, and that there were many women and children amongst those you slew? The towns were fortified in the sense that they were hostile to your high benevolence, and as for women and children you need not even dream of excusing yourself to me. These English are no better than Armenians. It is necessary to extirpate them, and the younger you catch them the less time they have for devising wickedness against the Chosen of Allah. As for women, they need hardly be taken into account. In all these matters I know by your actions that you agree. You must proceed on your noble course until the last of these infidels is swept away to perdition.

May I condole with you on the loss of your four ships of war by the guns of the British Admiral Sturdee? That was, indeed, a cowardly blow, and it is hard to understand why it was allowed.

Farewell then, my Brother. Be assured again of the undying friendship and admiration of the poor exile,

Abdul Hamid.

KILL OR CURE.

[Reports continue to reach us from our brave troops in the field that they "never felt fitter," are "in the best of spirits," and so forth.]

Have you a bronchial cough, or cold,

And is your ailment chronic

Past every sort of cure that's sold?

We'll tell you of a tonic.

Just wing our agents here a wire

And book "A Fortnight Under Teuton Fire."

Do you admit with anxious mind

Your liver's loss of movement,

And that in consequence you find

Your temper needs improvement?

Then leave awhile your stool or bench

And try our "Month Inside a Flooded Trench."

Are you a broken nervous wreck,

Run short of red corpuscles,

Painfully scraggy in the neck,

And much in need of muscles?

Come to us now—for now's your chance—

And take our "Lively Tour Through Northern France."

DISHONOURED

Captain of the Emden. "DIRTY WORK!"

THE REAL HERO OF THE WAR.

There is an impression about that among the candidates for the position of real hero of the war King Albert might have a chance; or even Lord Kitchener or Sir John French. But I have my doubts, after all that I have heard—and I love to hear it and to watch the different ways in which the tellers narrate it: some so frankly proud, some just as proud, but trying to conceal their pride. After all that I have heard I am bound to believe that for the real hero of the war we must look elsewhere. Not much is printed of this young fellow's deeds; one gets them chiefly by word of mouth and very largely in club smoking-rooms. In railway carriages too, and at dinner-parties. These are the places where the champions most do congregate and hold forth. And from what they say he is a most gallant and worthy warrior. Versatile as well, for not only does he fight and bag his Bosch, but he is wounded and imprisoned. Sometimes he rides a motor cycle, sometimes he flies, sometimes he has charge of a gun, sometimes he is doing Red Cross work, and again he helps to bring up the supplies with the A.S.C. He has been everywhere. He was at Mons and he was at Cambrai. He marched into Ypres and is rather angry when the Germans are blamed for shelling the Cloth Hall, because he tells you that there was a big French gun firmly established behind it, and only by shelling the building could the enemy hope to destroy that dangerous piece of ordnance. He saw something of the bombardment of Rheims and he watched the monitors at work on the Belgian coast.

And not only does he perform some of the best deeds and often get rewarded for them, but he is a good medium for news too. He hears things. He's somewhere about when General —— says something of the deepest significance to General ——. He knows men high up in the War Office. He refers lightly to Kitchener, and staff officers apparently tell him many of their secrets. He speaks quite casually and familiarly of Winston and what Winston said yesterday, for he often has the latest Admiralty news too. It was he who had the luck to be in the passage when Lord Fisher and another Sea Lord executed their historic waltz on the receipt of the news of Sturdee's coup. I don't pretend that he is always as worthy of credence as he was then; for he has spread some false rumours too. He was, in fact, one of the busiest eye-witnesses (once or twice removed) of the triumphant progress of millions of Russians through Scotland and England some months ago. He is not unaware of the loss of battleships of which nothing has yet been officially stated. In fact, his unofficial news is terrific and sometimes must be taken with salt. But denials do not much abash him. He was prepared for them and can explain them.

His letters are interesting and cover a vast amount of ground. They are sometimes very well written, and in differing moods he abuses the enemy and pities them. He never grumbles but is sometimes perplexed by overwork in the trenches. He hates having to stand long in water and has lost more comrades than he likes to think about. One day he was quite close to General Joffre, whom he regards as a sagacious leader, cautious and far-sighted; another day he was close to Sir John French, and nothing could exceed the confidence which his appearance kindled in him. On the morning of the King's arrival at the Front he was puzzled by the evolutions of our air scouts, who seemed to have gone mad; but it turned out that they were saluting His Majesty. Some of his last letters were from the neighbourhood of Auchy and described the fighting for the canal. He is a little inconsistent now and then, and one day says he has more cigarettes than he can smoke, and the next bewails the steady shortage of tobacco. As to his heroic actions he is reticent; but we know that many of the finest deeds have been performed by him. He has saved lives and guns and is in sight of the V.C.

And what is his name? Well, I can't say what his name is, because it is not always the same; but I can tell you how he is always described by those who relate his adventures, his prowess, his news, his suspicions and his fears. He is always referred to as "My son."

"My son," when all is said, is the real hero of the war.

It is all very well to warn the British public (naturalised or otherwise) against supporting and comforting the enemy, but it might have more effect if those in authority set the example.

"The British Government declares that in the event of the Austrian Government being in need of funds, Great Britain is ready to provide them."—Japan Chronicle.

"King George has sent a warmly-worded telegram of congratulation to the new Sultan of Turkey."—Sunday Chronicle.

Paragraphs such as these, for instance, do not provide the proper inspiration.

"There are increasing rumours of serious fiction between the Austrians and the Germans."—Natal Times.

Their forte, however, is humorous fiction.

R. G. A.

Over the hills where the grey hills rise

Smoke wreaths climb to the cloudless skies,

White in the glare of the noonday sun,

Climbing in companies, one by one,

From the strong guns,

The long guns,

That wake with break of day

And dutifully drop their shells a dozen miles away.

Far beneath where our airmen fly,

Slowly the Garrison guns go by,

Breaking through bramble and thorn and gorse,

Towed by engines or dragged by horse,

The great guns,

The late guns,

That slowly rumble up

To enable Messrs. Vickers to converse with Messrs. Krupp.

Garrison cannon is never swift

(Shells are a deuce of a weight to lift);

When they are ready to open shop,

Where they are planted, there they stop,

The grey guns,

The gay guns,

That know what they're about,

To wait at fifteen hundred yards and clear the trenches out.

4.7's and 9.4's,

Taking to camping out of doors;

Out of the shelter of steel-built sheds,

Sleeping out in their concrete beds—

The proud guns,

The loud guns,

Whose echo wakes the hills,

And shakes the tiles and scatters glass on distant window-sills.

Little cannon of envious mind

May mock at the gunners who come behind;

Let them wait till we've lined our pets

On to the forts and the walls of Metz;

The siege guns,

The liege guns,

The guns to batter down

The barricades and bastions of any German town.

Though there be others who do good work,

Harassing German, trouncing Turk,

Let us but honour one toast to-day—

The men and the guns of the R.G.A.!

The vast guns,

The last guns,

When Spring is coming in,

To roll down every Eastern road a-booming to Berlin!

THE TEMPTATIONS OF A SOLDIER.

Fond Mother (who has just seen her son, a very youthful subaltern, off to the front). "I got him away from his father for a moment and said to him, 'Darling, don't go too near the firing-line, will you?'"

NEW YEAR NOVELTIES.

The Strategist's Muzzle.—For use in the Home—the Club—the Railway Train. Fitted with best calf leather gag—easily attached—efficiency guaranteed, 4s. 11d. With chloroform attachment for violent cases, 8s. 11d. Belloc size, 22s. 6d.

Recommended by the Censor.

The Allies' Musical Box.—Beautifully decorated in all the national colours. A boon to organizers of war concerts. Plays all the National Anthems of the Allies simultaneously, thus allowing the audience to keep their seats for the bulk of the evening. A blessing to wounded soldiers and rheumatic subjects. 10s. 11d. carriage paid.

The Coin Detector.—This ingenious little contrivance rings a bell once when brought within a yard of silver coins and twice when in the proximity of gold coins. Absolutely indispensable to collectors for Relief Funds. 2s. 11½d. post free.

Testimonial from Lady Isobel Tompkins:—

"Since using your invaluable detector in my collecting work I understand that there has been quite a run on the banks and post-offices in this neighbourhood for postal orders and the new notes. With the addition of an indicator of paper-money your machine would be perfection."

Happy Families.—The game of the season—with portraits of all our political leaders. Any four assorted leaders of different views make a happy family. 10½d.

Mr. Keir Hardie says:—"I never knew a more aggravating game."

German Happy Families.—Intensely amusing; peals of laughter come from the table when one asks for Mr. Kayser, the butcher; Mr. Prince, the looter; Mr. Tirpitz, the pirate, 10½d.

Burke's Norman Blood.—The presentation book of the season. Invaluable to the newly naturalised. 3s. 6d. net.

From certain Regimental Orders we extract the following:—

"There is no objection to the following being written on the Field Service Post Card: 'A merry Christmas and a happy New Year.'"

All the same, the danger of conveying news to the enemy must not be overlooked. Many German soldiers, we hear, are under the impression that it is still August, and that they will be in Paris by the beginning of September.

"In the early hours of Wednesday morning, what is supposed to have been a traction engine when proceeding southward, struck the west side of the parapet with great force."—Alnwick Gazette.

When proceeding northward it has more the appearance of a sewing-machine.

THE WATCH DOGS.

X.

My dear Charles,—I write on Christmas Day from a second-grade Infants' School, the grade referring obviously to the school and not to the infants. We sit round the old Yule hot-water pipe, and from the next classroom come the heavenly strains of the gramophone, one of those veteran but sturdy machines which none of life's rough usages can completely silence or even shake in its loyal determination to go on and keep on going on at all costs. Having duly impressed "Good King Wenceslas" upon us, it is now rendering an emotional waltz, of which, though now and then it may drop a note or two, it mislays none of the pathos.

It was a present to the Mess; intended for our entertainment in the trenches, though I cannot think who was going to carry it there. The tune serves to recall the distant past, when we used to wear silk socks and shining pumps, to glide hither and thither on hard floors, and talk in the intervals, talk, talk, talk with all the desperate resource of exhausted heroes who know that they have only to hang on five more minutes and they are saved. Suppose we had by now been in those trenches and had been listening to this obstinate old box slowly but confidently assuring and reassuring us that there is and was and always will be our one-two-three home in the one-two-three, one-two-three West! I can see the picture; I can see the tears of happiness coursing down our weather-beaten cheeks as we say to ourselves, "Goodness knows, it's uncomfortable enough here, but thank heaven we aren't in that ball-room anyway."

In a corner of this room is a bridge-four. The C.O. is sitting in an authoritative, relentless silence. His tactical dispositions have been made and they are going to be pushed through to the end, cost what it may to the enemy or his own side. His partner is Second-Lieutenant Combes, deviously thinking to himself with all the superior knowledge of youth, "What rotten dispositions these C.O.'s do make!" but endeavouring to conceal his feelings by the manipulation of his face and a more than usually heavy interspersion of "Sirs" in his conversation. The enemy are ill-assorted allies: Captain Parr, a dashing player of great courage and very ready tongue, and Lieutenant Sumners, one of those grim, earnest fighters whom no event however sudden or stupendous can surprise into speech. This latter is a real soldier whose life is conducted in every particular on the lines laid down in military text-books. He asks himself always, "Is it soldierly?" and never "Is it common-sense?" He is at present in trouble with his superior officer for having frozen on to his ace of trumps long after he should have parted with it. But those text-books say, "Keep your best forces in reserve," and so the little trumps must needs be put in the firing line first.

As to the other officers of your acquaintance, each is making merry, as the season demands, in his own fashion. One is studying, not for the first time, a map on the wall showing the inner truth of the currents in the Pacific; another is observing, for his information and further guidance, the process of manufacture of lead pencils as illustrated by samples in a glass-case. Others are being more jovial still; having exhausted the pictures and advertisements of the sixpenny Society papers, they are now actually reading the letter-press. The machine-gun officer, as I gather from his occasional remarks, is asleep as usual.

And now the gramophone has ceased; but, alas! Captain d'Arcy has begun—on the piano. As I write, the scheme of communication between his right and his left flanks has broken down. Like a prudent officer, he suspends operations, gives the "stand-fast!" and sends out a cautious patrol to reconnoitre the position. He even cedes a little of the ground he has gained. Glancing at his music, I must admit that he is in a dangerous situation, heavily wooded in the treble, with sudden and sharp elevations and depressions in the bass, and the possibility of an ambush at every turn. His reconnoitring party returns; he starts to move forward again with scouts always in advance. He halts; he advances again and proceeds (for he too is a trained soldier) by short rushes about five bars at a time.... At last the situation develops and he pauses to collect all his available forces and get them well in hand. I can almost hear the order being passed along the line—"Prepare to charge"—almost catch the bugle-call as his ten fingers rush forth to the assault, forth to death or glory, to triumph or utter confusion.... As to what follows, I have always thought the rally after a charge was an anticlimax, even when it consists of a rapid "Rule Britannia!" passing off evenly, without a hitch.

I find, looking round my fellow-officers, that I have omitted the final touch, the last stirring detail to complete the picture of the soldier's hard but eventful life. In the one easy, or easy-ish, chair sits the Major, that gallant gentleman whose sole but exacting business in life it is to gallop like the devil into the far distance when it is rumoured that the battalion will deploy. He sits now at leisure, but even at leisure he is not at ease: silent, with every nerve and fibre strained to the utmost tension, he crouches over his work. He is at his darning; ay, with real wool and a real needle he is darning his socks. The colour of his work may not be harmonious, but it is a thorough job; he has done what even few women would do, he has darned not only the hole in his hosiery but his left hand also.

As for the men, they have been dealt with by a select body under the formidable title of the Christmas Festivities Committee. It has provided each man with a little beer, a lot of turkey and much too much plum pudding. Having disengaged the birds into their separate units, it has then left the man to himself for the day, thus showing, in my opinion, a wise discretion rarely found in committees, even military committees.

Yours ever,

Henry.

Visitor. "Could you tell me what time the tide is up?"

Odd job man. "Well, Sir, they do expeck 'igh water at six; but then you know wot these 'ere rumours are nowadays."

"Exchange, charming country parish, North Yorks. Easy distance sea. Income safe."—Advt. in "Guardian."

Yes, but what about the rectory?

GREAT EXPECTATIONS.

How Mabel pictured her big brother's arrival for week-end leave from the Front.

THE RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL.

I rode into Pincher River on an August afternoon,

The pinto's hoofs on the prairie drumming a drowsy tune,

By the shacks and the Chinks' truck-gardens to the Athabasca saloon.

And a bunch of the boys was standing around by the old Scotch store,

Standing and spitting and swearing by old Macallister's door—

And the name on their lips was Britain—the word that they spoke was War.

War!... Do you think I waited to talk about wrong or right

When I knew my own old country was up to the neck in a fight?

I said, "So long!"—and I beat it—"I'm hitting the trail to-night."

I wasn't long at my packing. I hadn't much time to dress,

And the cash I had at disposal was a ten-spot—more or less;

So I didn't wait for my ticket; I booked by the Hoboes' Express.

I rode the bumpers at night-time; I beat the ties in the day;

Stealing a ride and bumming a ride all of the blooming way,

And—I left the First Contingent drilling at Valcartier!

I didn't cross in a liner (I hadn't my passage by me!);

I spotted a Liverpool cargo tramp, smelly and greasy and grimy,

And they wanted hands for the voyage, and the old man guessed he'd try me.

She kicked like a ballet-dancer or a range-bred bronco mare;

She rolled till her engines rattled; she wallowed, but what did I care?

It was "Go it, my bucking beauty, if only you take me there!"

Then came an autumn morning, grey-blue, windy and clear,

And the fields—the little white houses—green and peaceful and dear,

And the heart inside of me saying, "Take me, Mother, I'm here!

"Here, for I thought you'd want me; I've brought you all that I own—

A lean long lump of a carcass that's mostly muscle and bone,

Six-foot-two in my stockings—weigh-in at fourteen stone.

"Here, and I hope you'll have me; take me for what I'm worth—

A chap that's a bit of a waster, come from the ends of the earth

To fight with the best that's in him for the dear old land of his birth!"

Lady in black. "Our Jim's killed seven Germans—and he'd never killed ANYONE before he went to France!"

THE PEACE-MAKER.

The Anonymous War is not to be followed by an Anonymous Peace. I have Twyerley's own authority for this statement.

I may go farther and make public the interesting fact that Twyerley himself has the matter in hand, and readers of The Daily Booster will at an early date receive precise instructions how and where to secure Part I. of The History of the Peace before it is out of print. It is well known that all publications issuing from that Napoleonic brain are out of print within an hour or two of their appearance, but Twyerley takes precautions to safeguard readers of The Booster against any such catastrophic disappointment.

In approaching the Peace problem at this stage Twyerley is displaying his customary foresight. The military authorities frustrated Twyerley's public-spirited attempt to let the readers of The Booster into the secret of General Joffre's strategy—ruthlessly suppressing his daily column on The Position at the Front. He has resolved that the diplomatists shall not repeat the offence; he will be beforehand with them.

If Twyerley had been listened to in times of peace there would have been no war; the fact is undeniable. Since war has come, however, the danger of a patched-up peace must be avoided at all costs. In order that there shall be no mistake Twyerley has prepared a map of Europe-as-it-must-be-and-shall-be or Twyerley and his myriad readers will know the reason why. (The map is presented gratis with Part I. of the History and may also be had, varnished and mounted on rollers, for clubs and military academies.)

Twyerley at work upon the map is a thrilling spectacle. With his remorseless scissors he hovers over Germany and Austria in a way that would make the two Kaisers blench. Snip! away goes Alsace-Lorraine and a slice of the Palatinate; another snip! and Galicia flutters into the arms of Russia.

The History is to be completed in twenty-four parts, if the Allies' plenipotentiaries possess the capabilities with which Twyerley credits them; but he has prudently provided for extensions in case of need.

Anyway, whether the Treaty of Peace be signed in twelve months or twelve years, the final part of the History will go to press on the morrow.

Armed with the History, readers of The Booster will be able to follow step by step the contest in the council-chamber, when it takes place. They will be able to paint the large white map with the special box of colours supplied at a small additional cost. That, as Twyerley justly observes, is an ideal means of teaching the new geography of Europe to children. Even the youngest member of a household where the History is taken regularly will be in a position to say what loss of territory the Kaisers and Turkey must suffer. (Twyerley had some idea of running a Prize Competition on these lines but was reluctant to embarrass the Government.)

Several entire chapters will be devoted to "Famous Scraps of Paper" from Nebuchadnezzar to the Treaty of Bucharest. Illustrations of unique interest have been secured. For instance, the Peace of Westphalia carries a reproduction of the original document, portraits and biographies of the signatories, and a statistical table of the Westphalian ham industry. Similarly, the Treaty of Utrecht is accompanied by a view of that interesting town and several pages of original designs for Utrecht velvet.

Thus, what Twyerley calls "the human interest" is amply catered for.

The section "International Law for the Million" presents its subject in a novel tabloid form, as exhaustive as it is entertaining. I know for a fact that an army of clerks has been engaged at the British Museum for some weeks looking up the data.

Following the part which contains concise accounts of every European nation from the earliest times, comes "Points for Plenipotentiaries," occupying several entire numbers. Here is where the genius of Twyerley shines at its brightest, and personally I think that the British representatives at the Peace Congress should be provided beforehand with these invaluable pages. With Twyerley at their elbows, so to speak, they should be equal to the task of checkmating the wily foreigner.

I wish the Kaiser could see Twyerley scissoring his territory to shreds!

A VOICE IN THE NIGHT.

I dislike many things—snakes, for example, and German spies, and the income tax, and cold fat mutton; but even more than any of these I dislike William Smith.

As all the world knows, special constables hunt in couples at nights, a precaution adopted in order that, if either of the two is slain in the execution of his duty, the other may be in a position to report on the following morning the exact hour and manner of his decease, thus satisfying the thirst of the authorities for the latest information, and relieving his departed companion's relatives of further anxiety in regard to his fate.

William Smith is the special constable who hunts with me. As to whom or what we are hunting, or what we should do to them or they would do to us if we caught them or they caught us, we are rather vague; but we endeavour to carry out our duty. Our total bag to date has been one Royal Mail, and even him we merely let off with a caution.