PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 147.

November 11, 1914.

CHARIVARIA.

"In Buenos Aires and other parts of Argentina," The Express tells us, "people are tired of the war, and a brisk trade is being done in the sale of buttons to be worn by the purchaser, inscribed with the words 'No me habla de la guerra' ('Don't talk to me about the war')." The Kaiser, we understand, has now sent for one of these buttons.

The Crown Prince Rupprecht of Bavaria, in an order to his troops last week, referred to the British in the following words:—"Here is the enemy which chiefly blocks the way in the direction of restoration of peace." Conceive a "contemptible little army" being able to do that! It makes one wonder whether the first epithet was perhaps a misprint for "contemptuous."

The Germans are now calling the Allies a Menagerie, though curiously enough it is the others who have a Turkey waddling after them.

According to a report which reaches us the crews of the Goeben and Breslau are wearing a most curious garb, being clothed in Turkish fezes and breaches of neutrality.

"GERMANS MOWED DOWN
French Marines' Big Feet."

Irish Independent.

This is really a most unfortunate misprint, for it is just this kind of carping statement that leads the Germans to say we are falling out with our Allies.

There is much speculation as to whether there is German blackmail behind the announcement that the maximum period of quarantine for imported dogs has been reduced from six months to four.

The only animals left alive in the Antwerp Zoo are reported to be the elephants, which are now being used for military traction purposes. Later on it is proposed by the Germans to drive them into the lines of the Indian troops with a view to making the latter home-sick.

Mr. Algernon Ashton asks in The Evening News, "Why is the Poet Laureate so strangely silent?" Everyone else will remember Mr. Bridges' patriotic lines at the beginning of the War, and we begin to suspect that Mr. Ashton's well-known repugnance to writing for the papers has been extended to the reading of them.

The Daily Mirror, to signalise its eleventh birthday, produced a "Monster Number," yet it contained no portrait of the Kaiser.

Happening to meet a music-hall acquaintance we asked him how he thought the war was going, and he replied, "Oh, I think the managers will have to give in."

America is evidently attempting to attract some of the devotees of winter sports who usually go to Switzerland. Another landslide on the Panama Canal is now announced.

We are sorry to have to bring a charge of lack of gallantry against The Leicester Mail. We refer to the following passage in its description of an ovation given to Driver Osborne, V.C., at Derby on the 31st ult. After describing how, in the course of a great reception given to him by a large crowd at the station, two or three buxom matrons insisted upon embracing him, our contemporary continues: "Driver Osborne has now practically recovered, and reports himself for duty again at the end of this week."

The municipality of Berlin has decided to substitute for the existing designations of some of the principal streets in that city the names of "German generals who have become famous during the present war." This, however, will not involve many alterations.

Orders have been issued by the Federal Council of the German Empire that no bread other than that containing from 5 to 20 per cent. of potato flour will be allowed to be baked. Such bread is to be sold under the name of "K" bread. At first this was taken to be a graceful tribute to Lord Kitchener, but it is now officially stated that "K" stands for the German for potatoes.

The Kölnische Zeitung complains that English prisoners in Germany "are allowed to lead the lives of Olympian Gods." Our choleric contemporary is evidently unaware that we are allowing German prisoners to reside in Olympia, which is the next best thing to Olympus.

The British steamer Remuera reported on reaching Plymouth last week that a German cruiser had attempted to trap her by means of a false S.O.S. signal. We ought not, we suppose, to be surprised at a low trick like this from the s.o.s.sidges.

There is one quality that no one can with justice deny to the Germans, and that is thoroughness. The other day, having laid a mine, they seem to have used one of their own cruisers to test its destructive power.

"It is noticeable," says The Daily Mail, "that the Kaiser's speeches no longer include references to God, only Frederick the Great." This confirms the rumours of a quarrel.

The Airship Menace.

Famous Town Captured by Germans.

"In the south of Ypres we have lost some points, D'Appui, Hollebeke, and Landvoorde."

Worcester Daily Times.

If your map doesn't give D'Appui, buy a more expensive one.

"Capstan Hands.—First-class Men, used to chucking work, for motor vehicle parts."

Advt. in "The Manchester Guardian."

They ought to be easy enough to get.

"Guardsmen again provided a dramatic element in the trial by guarding the prisoner and the door which fixed bayonets."

Evening News.

You should see our arm-chair give the salute.

TO THE SHIRKER: A LAST APPEAL.

Now of your free choice, while the chance is yours

To share their glory who have gladly died

Shielding the honour of our island shores

And that fair heritage of starry pride,—

Now, ere another evening's shadow falls,

Come, for the trumpet calls.

What if to-morrow through the land there runs

This message for an everlasting stain?—

"England expected each of all her sons

To do his duty—but she looked in vain;

Now she demands, by order sharp and swift,

What should have been a gift."

For so it must be, if her manhood fail

To stand by England in her deadly need;

If still her wounds are but an idle tale

The word must issue which shall make you heed;

And they who left her passionate pleas unheard

Will have to hear that word.

And, losing your free choice, you also lose

Your right to rank, on Memory's shining scrolls,

With those, your comrades, who made haste to choose

The willing service asked of loyal souls;

From all who gave such tribute of the heart

Your name will stand apart.

I think you cannot know what meed of shame

Shall be their certain portion who pursue

Pleasure "as usual" while their country's claim

Is answered only by the gallant few.

Come, then, betimes, and on her altar lay

Your sacrifice to-day!

O. S.

UNWRITTEN LETTERS TO THE KAISER.

No. VII.

(From the President of the French Republic.)

Bordeaux.

Sire,—You will pardon me, I know, if for a moment I break in upon the serious occupations and meditations in which your time must be spent. I like to picture you to myself in the midst of your Staff, working out for them and your armies great problems of strategy and devising those movements which, so far, have overwhelmed not your foes so much as the minds of your fellow-countrymen. You too, Sire, sanguine and impetuous as is your nature, are no doubt beginning to realise that a great nation—let us say France, for example—is not to be overcome by mere shouting and the waving of sabres, or by the making of impassioned speeches in which God, having been acclaimed as an ally, is encouraged to perform miracles for the benefit of the Prussian arms. I do not deny that your soldiers are brave and that your armies are well equipped; but our Frenchmen too have guns and bayonets and swords and shells and know how to make use of them, and their portion of courage is no smaller than that of the Prussians, or even of the Bavarians whom you have lately been vaunting. Moreover—and this you had perhaps over-looked—they have something which is deadlier and more enduring than shot and shell and steel—the unconquerable spirit which leaps up in the hearts of men who are gathered to defend their country from invasion and their national existence from destruction.

Oh, Sire, how little you have understood France and her people; how little you have understood the minds and motives of men! "France," your Professors and your Generals told you, "is degenerate; her population is smaller than ours; she has lost her skill in fighting and her courage; she has no culture, never having heard of Treitschke and having neglected the inspired writings of Nietzsche; she will be an easy prey, for no one will lift a hand to help her. England is lapped in ease behind her ocean and will never fight again; Russia is distant and slow, and we can despise her; Belgium will never dare to deny us anything we care to ask. Let us make haste, then, and crush France to the earth for ever." So you planned, and your legions set out to trample us down, with the result that is now before the eyes of the world.

Only a few words more. There is at Sampigny, in Lorraine, a modest country-house, which was, in fact, my home. Your troops passed through the place, and for no military reason that I can discover they reduced this house to ruins. I know that that is a small price to pay for the honour of being allowed to represent the French nation in this hour of peril and glory, and I pay it willingly. When so many are laying down their lives with joy why should I complain because a few walls have been shattered? But I am reminded and I wish to remind you of another story. One hundred and eight years ago, in October, the Great Napoleon, having scattered your predecessor's armies to the four winds of heaven, proceeded to Potsdam, where he visited the tomb of the great Frederick. They showed him the dead King's sword, his belt and his cordon of the Black Eagle. These Napoleon took, with the intention of sending them to Paris, to be presented to the Invalides, amongst whom there still lingered a few who had been defeated by Frederick at Rosbach. Certainly the relics took no shame from such a seizure and such a guardianship. But the palace at Potsdam was not destroyed and stands to this day. I do not wish to liken myself to Frederick, nor do I compare you with Napoleon, but I tell you the story, which is true, for what it is worth. I wonder if you will appreciate it?

Agree, Sire, the expression of my distinguished consideration.

Raymond Poincaré.

THE IRON CROSS.

(For German looters.)

[In tempi barbari e più feroci

S' appiccavan' i ladri in sulle croci;

In tempi men barbari e più leggiadri

S' appiccano le croci in petto ai ladri.—Giust.]

In former ferocious and barbarous times,

The thief was hung up on the cross for his crimes,

But Culture to savages offers relief—

The cross is now hung on the breast of the thief.

"Amended and more stringent regulations concerning the lights of London have been issued by Sir E. R. Henry, the Commissioner of Police. A number of them are in the same terms as those which were published in The Globe nearly a month ago, but others make important changes. For example, the third order, as originally drafted, ran: 'The intensity of the inside lighting of shop fronts must be reduced from 6 p.m. or earlier if the Commissioner of Police on any occasion so directs,' but it is now as follows:—

The intensity of the inside lighting of shop fronts must be reduced from 6 p.m. or earlier if the Commissioner of Police on any occasion so directs."—Globe.

The italics ought to make it a lot darker.

Gifts of money for the purchase of blankets are being made in Germany not less than here, and we understand that a large sum has been sent out to South Africa addressed: "De Wet Blanket Fund."

HIS MASTER'S VOICE.

The Kaiser (to Turkey, reassuringly). "LEAVE EVERYTHING TO ME. ALL YOU'VE GOT TO DO IS TO EXPLODE."

Turkey. "YES, I QUITE SEE THAT. BUT WHERE SHALL I BE WHEN IT'S ALL OVER?"

Talkative Passenger. "I see that the young Earl of Harboro' has just done a very plucky act at the front."

Rabid Socialist (indignantly). "Well, so he ought."

THE MISUSED TALENT.

(A mild apostrophe to the young man next door.)

Augustus! ever prone at eve to gurgle a

Melodious distych from the music-halls,

Piping in summer from beneath a pergola,

Piping to-day behind these party-walls,

Three months ago and more, when Mars had thrust us

In doubt and dread alarm and cannons' mist,

I found one solace, for I mused, "Augustus

Will probably enlist.

"I know not what his dreams of glory may be,

I know not if his heart is full of grit,

But I do know that he disturbs the baby,

And, judging by his lungs, he must be fit;

His is the frame, or else I've never seen one,

His are the fitting years to fight and roam,

He has no ties (except that pink and green one)

To tether him to home.

"When he returns he'll possibly be sager;

If not (for glory of his long campaign)

We shall be thrilled to hear the sergeant-major

Singing the good old songs he loved again;

Bellona, too, has something of the witch in her;

It may be he will learn more tact and grace

When that mild tenor has been turned by Kitchener

Into a throaty bass."

Thus jestingly I dreamed. And now, Caruso,

You have not budged one inch upon the road;

While half the lads have got their khaki trousseau,

You still retain that voice and nut-like mode;

Peace holds you with the tightness of a grapnel,

And, still adhering to her ample hem,

You enfilade us with your tuney shrapnel

From 9 to 12 P.M.

So here's my ultimatum. Though it loosens

The kindly bonds that neighbours ought to keep,

I'll take a summons out to curb the nuisance

Unless you stop it. Can I laugh or weep

For those who fling their challenge at the blighting gale,

Who smile to hear the cannon's murderous croon,

When you go on like a confounded nightingale

Under a fat-faced moon?

The streets are darkened now that once were ringing

Through all the lamp-lit hours with festal fuss,

And songs are changed, and so's the time for singing,

But I'd be greatly pleased to hear you, Gus,

Out in the road there, watched by Anns and Maries,

Op'ning your throttle to the mid-day light;

Fate gave it you to prove that Tipperary's

A long way off. Left—Right!

Evoe.

We commend The Pioneer to the notice of our evening contemporaries. Its "Extraordinary War Special"—price, one anna—consists of the following:—

"No Reuter received since 8.30 a.m."

A more enterprising paper, such as The —— or The —— [censored] would have provided some new headlines from yesterday's news.

TOMMY BROWN, PATRIOT.

II.

Tommy Brown has already been in disgrace, although it is only a fortnight since he wrote the famous patriotic essay which determined Mr. Smith, his Form-master, to go to the Front. You see, Miss Price, who is deputising for Mr. Smith, does not like lizards, and has an especial aversion to white rats, whereas Tommy is very fond of these and other dumb animals.

So Tommy was reported to the Headmaster. At first the Headmaster thought that the application of "somewhat severe measures, my boy," would meet the case; but whoever heard of caning a curly-headed boy with blue eyes and an ink-stain on both lips? The interview took place in the Headmaster's study. To the question, "What do you mean, Sir, by bringing lizards and white rats to school?" Tommy said, "Yes, Sir," and then, after thinking for fully three seconds, he said he had a ferret at home, and did the Headmaster know how to hold a ferret so that it couldn't bite you?

It seems that ferrets, if they once get hold of your thumb, never let go—not never—and that you have to force their jaws open with a penholder; also ferrets exhibit a marked preference for thumbs. All this information Tommy conveyed without drawing a breath. The Headmaster said, "Quite so, my boy, quite so. But don't you know it is extremely reprehensible conduct to bring animals to school in your pocket?" Well, you see, that is how Tommy's mother talks to him, so he knew what to do, and, looking up into the Headmaster's face with that wistful look of his, he imparted the deep secret that he had a tortoise.

Tortoises, the Headmaster learnt, had a way of getting lost among the cabbages, but, if you wanted to prevent them from straying, all you had to do was to turn them over on their backs and put a piece of brown paper over them for their feet to play with. Also they were stuck fast in their shells, because Tommy had tried. A boy had told Tommy that tortoises laid eggs, but although Tommy had showed his tortoise a hen's egg and then put the tortoise in a nice new nest the tortoise had taken no step in the matter.

However, Tommy promised never to bring any more animals to school and to express his sorrow to Miss Price. And he was richer by sixpence when the interview closed.

At parting, Tommy offered to lend the Headmaster his tortoise for a week, and told him that, if he stood for a whole hour on its back, it wouldn't hurt it, because Tommy had trained it; also it never crawled out of your pocket.

Tommy apologised to Miss Price for bringing the white rats to school—they weren't white rats really, not to look at; they were rather piebald through constant association with ink. Also he brought an apple and showed her how, by holding it a certain way whilst eating it, she would miss the bad part. In further sign of amity he showed her his knife, and especially that instrument in it which was used for removing stones from horses' hoofs. Not that Tommy had removed many stones from horses' hoofs, not very many, but if you had a tooth that was loose it was very helpful. Miss Price gave him a new threepenny bit, and Tommy tried hard to please her in arithmetic by reducing inches to pounds, shillings and pence.

With nine-pence in his pocket Tommy felt uneasy. It was a question between a lop-eared rabbit and a mouth-organ. A lop-eared rabbit, that is to say a proper one, cost two shillings; for nine-pence it was probable that you could only get a rabbit which would lop with one ear.

Besides, a lop-eared rabbit meant a hutch, and he had already used the cover of his mother's sewing-machine for the piebald rats.

On the other hand, you could get a mouth-organ with a bell on it for nine-pence; he knew.

It was a splendid instrument!

Tommy took it to bed with him and put it under his pillow, and when his mother came to see that he was all right at night his hand was clutched round it as he slept content.

The next day Tommy gave an organ recital in the playground before a large and enthusiastic audience. For a marble he would let you blow it while he held it. For two marbles you could hold it yourself.

One boy paid the two marbles, and noticed the words "Made in Germany" in small letters on the under side. The silence that followed the announcement of this discovery was broken only by the sound of Jones minor biting an apple. All eyes were on Tommy Brown. For the fraction of a second he hesitated, and in that fraction Brook tertius giggled.

Tommy seized the mouth-organ with a determination that was almost ferocious; he threw it on the ground, stamped on it with his heel again and again, and finally took and pitched it into a neighbouring garden. He then fell upon Brook tertius and punched him until he howled.

Before Tommy Brown could go to sleep that night his mother had to sit by his bed-side and hold his hand; he never released her hand until he was fast asleep. How like his father (the V.C.) he looked! She wondered what made him toss so in his sleep and what had become of his mouth-organ with the bell on it.

HOW TO BRING UP A HUN.

The Teutonic substitute for Milk.

"French President at the Font."

Leicester Daily Mercury.

Where he received his baptism of fire?

"German infantry on the morning of the 5th ventured an assault and were repulsed by blithering fire."—Pioneer.

Some of their Professors should be able to do good work in the blithering line.

"Reuter's agency learns that according to an official telegram received in London Turkish vessels have entered the open port of Odessa and bombarded Russian ships.

6 to 1 agst Cheerful, 7 to 1 agst Flippant."

South Wales Echo.

Not at all; we remain both.

WHAT OUR TAILOR HAS TO PUT UP WITH.

BEGBIE REBUKED.

Fleet Street was thrilled to the depths of its deepest inkpot last week when it read in The Daily Chronicle of the historic meeting between Mr. Harold Begbie and Mr. W. J. Bryan in New York. The sensation was caused not so much by the announcement that Mr. Bryan "has the long mouth of the orator, the lips swelling and protruding as he speaks, thinning and compressing when he is silent," or that "the full and heavy neck, which seems to be part of the face, is corded with muscles," although either of those statements is startling enough. Nor was it Mr. Begbie's struggle to decide whether he should devote his attention to the great statesman or to the railway station in which they met, the statesman being selected only just in time. No, what nearly stopped the clock of St. Bride's church was this paragraph in Mr. Begbie's record of the event: "At this point I asked quite innocently, and with a real desire for information, an obvious but indiscreet question, which Mr. Bryan rebuked me for asking, reminding me that he was a member of the Government."

What a subject for an Academy painting in oils! Or, if Milton had been living at this hour, how he would have immortalised the touching scene!

A desire to present to our readers some fuller details of this world-staggering event prompted us to cable to a few correspondents in New York. One cables back: "The scene was dramatic in the extreme. The journalist, his big blue eyes brimming with innocence, gently breathed his question, when the great statesman shook his shaggy mane and roared out his rebuke like a lion in pain. The journalist's apologetic gesture was one of the most delicate things I have ever seen."

Another tells us:—"When Mr. Begbie put his question so great a stillness reigned throughout the crowded railway station that you could have heard a goods-train shunt." Mr. Bryan looked long and earnestly at the journalist, then, placing his hand affectionately on his shoulder, he said to him in a throbbing voice, "Oh, Harold, how can you?"

"The Incorrigibles."

"The enemy made attacks, but each effort was repulsed with great laughter."

—Star.

"One recalls in this connection the statement made by Alexander the Great, that Napoleon's invasion of Russia was defeated not by the Cossacks, but by Generals January and February."—Stock Exchange Gazette.

This reminds us of Cæsar's comment on the sack of Louvain:—"Magnificens est, sed non bellum."

WIRELESS.

There sits a little demon

Above the Admiralty,

To take the news of seamen

Seafaring on the sea;

So all the folk aboard-ships

Five hundred miles away

Can pitch it to their Lordships

At any time of day.

The cruisers prowl observant;

Their crackling whispers go;

The demon says, "Your servant,"

And lets their Lordships know;

A fog's come down off Flanders?

A something showed off Wick?

The captains and commanders

Can speak their Lordships quick.

The demon sits a-waking;

Look up above Whitehall—

E'en now, mayhap, he's taking

The Greatest Word of all;

From smiling folk aboard-ships

He ticks it off the reel:—

"An' may it please your Lordships,

A Fleet's put out o' Kiel!"

"Much indecision prevails as to what the value of sultanas will be in the near future."

Daily Telegraph.

What the Germans want to know is the price of Sultans.

BLANCHE'S LETTERS.

War Gossip.

Park Lane.

Dearest Daphne,—

The situation here is unchanged, though we have made some progress in knitting. Forgive me, m'amie, but one does get so much into the despatch habit! The other day I'd a letter from Babs, in which she told me she'd "nothing fresh to report on her right wing" before she pulled herself together.

Norty's at the front as a flying-man. He's finding out all sorts of things, dropping bombs on Zeppelins and covering himself with glory. I had a few lines from him last week. He dated from "A place in Europe" (they have to be enormously cautious!), and said he was having the time of his life. He was immensely pleased with the last letter I managed to get through to him, and was particularly struck, he says, with my advice to him: "Find out all you can, and above all don't get caught;" he considers it simply invaluable advice and says all airmen ought to have it written up in letters of gold somewhere or other.

Stella Clackmannan's had a fortnight's training as a nurse and is off. I ran in to see the dear thing the night before she left. She'd been posing to a photographer in her Red Cross uniform for hours and hours and was almost in a state of collapse; but the heroic darling said she was ready to do even more than that for her country. In one photo she's sitting by a cot with her hands folded, looking sad but very sweet. In another she's standing up, singing, "It's a long way to Tipperary;" and in a third she's bandaging someone (she had one of the foot-men in for this photo), and, à mon avis, it's the least successful of all. She appears to be choking the poor man! However, they're immensely charming, and will all be seen in the "Aristocratic Angels of Mercy" page of next week's People of Position.

Dear Professor Dimsdale has only just got back to England from his eclipse expedition. I'm not sure now whether it was an eclipse or an occultation, but anyhow the only place where it could be properly seen was a mountain in the Austrian Tyrol. It was due in the middle of August, and the last week in July the Professor set off with his big telescope and his lenses and his assistants and his note-books and everything that was his. He lived a week or two on the mountain, to get used to the atmosphere and prepare all his things, so he didn't know what was going on in the world below. And then, just as the eclipse or whatever it was began, and the Professor was looking up at the sky for all he was worth, a lot of fearful creatures came rushing up the mountain and said there was a war and that he was an alien enemy and that he was making signals and that his big telescope was a new sort of howitzer; and they pushed him down the mountain, and broke his telescope and all his lenses, and tore up his note-books, and shook their fists at him and used such language that he said for the first time in his life he was sorry he was such a good linguist!

They finished by shutting him up in a fortress, and there he's been ever since. He hardly knows how it was he got away, but he believes the whole garrison was marched off to meet the Russians, and that they're all prisoners now—which is his only drop of comfort. I've tried to console him for having missed what he went to see. I said, "Perhaps the eclipse or whatever it was will happen again soon—or one like it." He groaned out, "My dear lady, that particular conjunction of the heavenly bodies will not occur again for 2,645 years, 9 months, 3 weeks and 2 days." So there it is, my dearest!

Would it cheer you up to hear a small romance of war and knitting? Here it is, then. Some time ago Monica Jermyn brought round some terrific mitts she'd knitted to go in one of my parcels for the troops. She's easily the worst knitter who ever held needles! "My dear child," I said, "what simply ghastly mitts! They're full of mistakes." "What's it matter?" Monica answered. "Mistakes will keep them quite as warm as the right stitches. Besides, they're all right. I knit ever so much better now than when I used to make socks for the Deep Sea Fisherman last year." "That's not saying much," I said. "I remember those socks for the Deep Sea Fishermen, and I doubt whether even the deepest sea fishermen would know how to put them on! What's this?" "It's a message to go with the mitts," replied Monica. This was the message:—"The girl who made these mitts hopes they will be a comfort to some dear brave hands fighting for her and her sisters in England." "Oh, my dear!" I remonstrated. "It's very young and romantic of you, but don't you think it's just a little——" "No, I don't!" she cried. "And if it is, I don't care. Please, please let it go!" So it went.

Soon after that the Jermyns went down to their place in Sussex, and later I heard they'd some convalescent war heroes as guests. Monica wrote me: "All six of them are dear brave darlings, of course, but one of them is darlinger than the others. Tell it not in Gath, dear Blanche, but I think I've met my fate!" Later she wrote: "He's getting on splendidly. He turns out to be a cousin of the Flummerys. He performed prodigies of valour, but won't say a word about it. When he leaves us my heart will quite, quite break—and I sometimes hope his will too!"

Yesterday came the following:—"Claude and I belong to each other. And what, oh what do you think helped to lead up to the dear, delicious finale? But wait. My hero is almost quite well now, and this morning, when we took what would have been our last little walk in the grounds, it happened! He walks beautifully now, though he still needs an arm at about the level of mine to lean on. It was a chilly morning and, as I was looking down and trying to think of something to say, I gave a sudden shriek, for on his dear heroic wrists I recognised—My Mitts! And when he heard I'd made them he was just as confondu as I was. 'They were in a bale of comfies sent to my company,' he said, 'and I had the ladling out of them to the men. But when I came to these mitts, with the sweet little message pinned to them, I simply couldn't part with them! And to think you made them—and wrote the little message! It makes one believe in all those psychic what-d'-you-call-'ems.'

"I felt a crisis was coming and so I said hurriedly, 'Oh, I only wish they were worthier of—of—brave hands and wrists. I'm a wretched knitter—they're full of mistakes—I kept forgetting to keep to the pattern—it ought to have been, "knit two together and make one"—but of course you don't understand knitting.' 'I understand it right enough if that's all there is to it,' he said. "Knit two together and make one." Monica—no, you mustn't run away—— ' And that's all you're going to be told, Blanche, except that the powers that be have given their consent and I'm too happy for words!"

Et voilà mon petit roman de guerre et de tricotage.

My poor Josiah is still at the uttermost edge of beyond. He began to come home, and the boat was chased and ran to an island for shelter, and then the island was taken by one of our enemies and he was a prisoner. Then it was retaken by one of the Allies and he was free again. Since then more things have happened and he's been a prisoner again, and free again. And now he's lost count, and says he doesn't know what he is or who's got the island!

Ever thine,

Blanche.

Cyclist. "Many recruits gone from this village?"

Shopkeeper. "No, Sir."

Cyclist. "Oh, why's that?"

Shopkeeper. "Well, Sir, after going carefully into the matter, we, in this neighbourhood, decided to remain absolutely neutral."

FATHER WILHELM.