PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOLUME 147.

SEPTEMBER 2, 1914.

CHARIVARIA.

Reports still continue to come in as to the outbursts of rage which took place in Germany when the news of our participation in the War reached that country. Seeing that we had merely been asked to allow our friends to be robbed and murdered, our interference is looked upon as peculiarly gratuitous.

We hear, by the way, that the Germans, who hold Kiao-chau on a long lease, appealed unsuccessfully to Leaseholders Protection Societies all over the world to intervene in defence of their interests.

We understand that a new version of the Kaiser's famous "Yellow Peril" cartoon (it bore the inscription, "Nations of Europe, protect your property!") is in preparation at Tokio, in which a jaundiced Kaiser is delineated as the Yellow Peril.

Those persons who complain that the Allies are too frequently on the defensive forget that it is very difficult to be as offensive as the Germans.

The report that among the troops which entered Brussels was a bear dressed up in infamous taste to represent the King of the Belgians is denied in Germany. It is quite possible that he was merely one of the Prussian officers.

The Giornale d'Italia reports that, at a meeting of cardinals held at Rome, it was decided to issue an appeal to the belligerents to agree to a truce pending the election of a new Pope. It is thought, however, that the Kaiser will refuse even such a reasonable request as this.

It is rumoured that Wilhelm II. has despatched all his British uniforms to King George. This, anyhow, should be remembered to his credit. He did not wish to disgrace them.

The temptation to call the Kaiser names is, of course, almost irresistible, but we are rather surprised to come across the following head-lines in our serious contemporary, The Observer:—

"Brussels—and After. The German Sweep."

There would seem to be no end to the social horrors of the War. The Teuton journal Manufakturist is now prophesying that one of its results will be the substitution of German for French fashions.

The title of "The King of Prussia," one of the oldest licensed houses at Barnet, is to be altered. Every effort, we understand, is being made in Germany to keep the news from the Kaiser.

People must not come down too heavily on Keir Hardie. We honestly believe that he honestly believes that his little views are right. That's what makes his case so sad.

The Dominican Revolution, it is announced, has ended. It is supposed to have been unable to stand the competition of the bigger war.

There appears to be considerable difference of opinion as to whether those persons who are in want of a holiday should take it as usual or not. The "Take your Change" movement may be quite right for women and children; but the "Leave your Change" movement is better still.

According to The Evening News three elephants have been requisitioned from the Zoo at the White City by the military authorities. In Berlin, no doubt, this will be taken to signify that our heavy cavalry mounts are giving out.

The Committee of the Masters of the Foxhounds Association have decided that, while regular hunting will be impossible, they consider it would be most prejudicial to the country in general if it were allowed to lapse altogether. In this, we understand, the Committee and the foxes do not see eye to eye, the latter taking the view that hunting men ought now to devote their entire attention to more important matters.

"Germans Driven Back From Antwerp" read an indignant old lady. "Driven, indeed!" she exclaimed; "I'd have made them walk!"

The statement issued to the Press by Messrs. Sutton And Sons to the effect that large supplies of bulbs from Holland are now being delivered at Reading in as good a condition as ever has, we hear, had a distinctly steadying effect on the country at large.

From Hoylake comes the news that certain persons who live in a street there called Prussia Road have petitioned the Urban District Council for a change of name—and it is rumoured that the Council, with a view to saving the ratepayers' pockets, have hit upon the ingenious idea of obliterating the first letter only of the present name—thereby also paying a well-deserved compliment to a distinguished ally.

A clerk who left a month ago for a week in lovely Lucerne and has only just been able to get back found his employer (a merchant with a strain of German blood in his veins) quite angry. "I have half a mind to dismiss you for exceeding your leave," he said. "However, you are useful to me. Only please understand that you have now had your holiday for the next three years as well."

["Special constables who can speak German are particularly required."—Daily paper.]

Special Constable (having cornered his man). "Sprechen Sie Deutsch?"

Suspect. "Nein! Nein!"

"A sow has given birth to a freak of nature. The animal's face is almost human in appearance, it has neither eyes nor nostrils, but a nose like a fish."

Sheffield Daily Telegraph.

This is like none of our friends.

THE AVENGERS.

(To our Soldiers in the field.)

Not only that your cause is just and right—

This much was never doubted; war or play,

We go with clean hands into any fight;

That is our English way;—

Not this high thought alone shall brace your thews

To trample under heel those Vandal hordes

Who laugh when blood of mother and babe imbrues

Their damnéd craven swords.

But here must be hot passion, white of flame,

Pure hate of this unutterable wrong,

Sheer wrath for Christendom so sunk in shame,

To make you trebly strong.

These smoking hearths of fair and peaceful lands,

This reeking trail of deeds abhorred of Hell,

They cry aloud for vengeance at your hands,

Ruthless and swift and fell.

Strike, then—and spare not—for the innocent dead

Who lie there, stark beneath the weeping skies,

As though you saw your dearest in their stead

Butchered before your eyes.

And though the guiltless pay for others guilt

Who preached these brute ideals in camp and Court;

Though lives of brave and gentle foes be spilt,

That loathe this coward sport;

On each, without distinction, worst or best,

Fouled by a nation's crime, one doom must fall;

Be you its instrument, and leave the rest

To God, the Judge of all

Let it be said of you, when sounds at length

Over the final field the victor's strain:—

"They struck at infamy with all their strength,

And earth is clean again!"

O. S.

HOW GERMANY CAME OFF.

(Extracts from a diary kept at intervals by a very special correspondent in the Dardanelles.)

Goeben arrives Dardanelles. Announcement of sale to Turkey and of disembarcation of German crew.

Goeben still in Dardanelles. Having been disposed of to Turkey, the ship again disembarced her crew.

Goeben continuing in Dardanelles, the disembarcation of German crew, which was completed three days ago and again yesterday, began again to-day and was carried out successfully.

The Goeben still being at anchor in the Dardanelles, it was decided to carry out a disembarcation of her German crew on a scale surpassing all previous efforts.

The Goeben continues in the Dardanelles. Owing to the remarkable expertness which her crew has acquired, it was possible to carry out three disembarcations this afternoon. The officer commanding, indeed, proposes shortly to issue a challenge to ships of all nationalities for the Open Disembarcation Championship of the World.

The Goeben remains in the Dardanelles. In response to a pressing request from great masses of the Turkish population, who have been unable before to witness the ceremony, it has been decided again to disembark the German crew, and, beginning to-morrow at 10 A.M., the impressive spectacle will be gone through at regular intervals of an hour throughout the day. All the railway companies have announced cheap excursions, and there can be no doubt that these disembarcations will easily surpass all earlier ones.

The German crew of the Goeben are agitating for an eight-hour day.

Instructions having reached the crew of the Goeben to return to Germany, a magnificent Farewell Disembarcation took place last night. At its conclusion sympathisers presented an illuminated address bearing the following inscription "To the crew of the Goeben on the occasion of their final disembarcation before leaving for the Fatherland."

Later.—Arrival of the crew of the Goeben at Kiel. Great popular enthusiasm. Kaiser orders a Special Disembarcation to take place before entire Fleet, a duplicate cruiser (in the regretable absence of the Goeben) being lent for the purpose.

THE TRUCE.

Peace reigns in the club-house on the links. The young men have nearly all gone, and Morris, our veteran "plus two" member, who generally only condescends to go round with the pro. and one or two choice players, is eager for a match with anyone. Only you must play for five shillings for his wife's branch of the Red Cross Society.

In the smoke-room over our pipes—cigars are considered wasteful and bad form—the old conversational warriors look at one another. I glance across at Sellars, a member of that loathsome, I should say highly admirable, institution, the National Liberal Club. It is not six weeks since I denounced him as a pestilent traitor because he demanded, for some reason, that escapes me, the blockade of a city called Belfast. And, if I remember, he alluded to me as a traitorous tamperer with the Army. But now I praise the admirable patriotism of John Redmond; I eulogise the financial genius of Lloyd George; I grow fervid as I rhapsodise about Winston.

Then Sellars interposes, "My dear fellow, why do you forget the splendid abnegation of Sir Edward Carson? As for Lloyd George he may have done well, but hasn't he Austen at his elbow all the time? Talk about Winston if you like, but, after all, he has only muzzled the German fleet. F. E. Smith has done a far more wonderful thing. He has muzzled the British Press."

Peace! It is wonderful. Only at the back of my mind there is one sad thought which I strive to put away from me. Suppose a General Election comes whilst the war is still on. I, as a patriot, shall have to vote for the splendid Government. It will be Sellars' duty and joy to support our splendid Opposition. And, if we all act in the same way, we shall have those wretched—what funny slips one's pen makes!—those adorable Radicals back in power for another five years.

But when the war is over and we see a free Europe I promise myself one reward. The night when peace is proclaimed I shall seek out Sellars and tell him just what I think about Lloyd George; and I haven't the slightest doubt that he will celebrate the occasion by some venomous abuse of Bonar Law.

You see at present we are handicapped; we are just Englishmen.

Another Impending Apology.

"The first editor of Golfing was Mr. Thomas Marlowe, who is now editor of the Daily Mail. On the other hand, there have been several editors of Golfing who have since risen to positions of distinction."—Golfing.

TO ARMS!

Recruiting-sergeant Punch. "NOW, MY LADS, YOUR COUNTRY WANTS YOU. WHO'S FOR THE FRONT?"

UNDER MARTIAL LAW.

"Now mind, Mary, if a sentry asks you who you are, you must immediately answer, 'Friend.'"
"Yes, 'm, but what am I to say if he asks me how baby is?"

THE ATTACK ON GERMAN TRADE.

Those mistaken persons who maintain that "music has no frontiers" have been sharply rebuked by the patriotic action of the management of certain concerts, who boldly opened the season by expelling all German music from their programmes. It is all very well to say that this is confounding the Germany that we honour and admire with the Germany of the other sort, of which we have had more than enough. The step has been taken on the highest patriotic grounds, and although the ban has been partially removed since the season began, it is clearly indicated that this conciliatory attitude will only last so long as the main German fleet continues to skulk behind the defences of Kiel. If there is any aggressive movement, then let it be understood that Tschaikowski's Pathètique Symphony will be worn threadbare by nightly repetition sooner than that we should have any truck with Brahms, Wagner or Bach.

Already the occupation of Brussels has caused the scratching (at the very last moment) of the Schumann concerto.

Of course there is more in it than meets the eye. If all German music is eliminated there are bound to be prodigious gaps which must be filled up somehow. Very well. The result can only be a new state of activity in the home composing industry. This is no time for giving away secrets, but perhaps we may be allowed to say that the continued attendance last week of Sir Henry Wood at the offices of the Board of Trade can only mean that he too is taking his part in a comprehensive and well-considered plan for making war on German industries. Now is the time for the native producer to get to work. Germany must once and for all be ousted from this market. There need be no difficulty in obtaining samples, and we look to British industry and enterprise to do the rest.

We are not sure that neutrals should be allowed into this thing. An exception might be made in the case of Italy, but, apart from her, we should limit the exotic features in our programmes to the works of our allies in the field. It might give a needed fillip to the national music of Japan.

How it strikes our Contemporaries.

"Yesterday's eclipse of the sun was itself eclipsed by the world shadow. Shortly after noon a large inky blot obscured nearly three-quarters of the sun's surface and a violet haze hung over London, but very few people were heeding the phenomenon in the sky. The hawkers, even, were too busy selling patriotic favours to offer smoked glasses."—Daily Mail.

"Londoners did not permit the war to eclipse the eclipse. The hawkers' cry, 'Smoked glass a penny,' was heard everywhere, and there was a ready sale for the pieces of glass which enabled one to view the darkening of the sun." Daily Mirror.

The allies should come to a better agreement than this.

"Spies Output Down Again," says a contemporary, and we were just going to congratulate the authorities when we discovered that it referred to a Petroleum Company.

THE FATAL GIFT.

People say to me sometimes, "Oh, you know Woolman, don't you?" I acknowledge that I do, and, after the silence that always ensues, I add, "If you want to say anything against him, please go on." You can almost hear the sigh of relief that goes up. "I thought he was a friend of yours," they say cheerfully. "But, of course, if——" and then they begin.

I think it is time I explained my supposed friendship for Ernest Merrowby Woolman—confound him.

The affair began in a taxicab two years ago. Andrew had been dining with me that night; we walked out to the cab-rank together; I told the driver where to go, and Andrew stepped in, waved good-bye to me from the window, and sat down suddenly upon something hard. He drew it from beneath him, and found it was an extremely massive (and quite new) silver cigar-case. He put it in his pocket with the intention of giving it to the driver when he got out, but quite naturally forgot. Next morning he found it on his dressing-table. So he put it in his pocket again, meaning to leave it at Scotland Yard on his way to the City.

Next morning it was on his dressing-table again.

This went on for some days. After a week or so Andrew saw that it was hopeless to try to get a cigar-case back to Scotland Yard in this casual sort of way; it must be taken there deliberately by somebody who had a morning to spare and was willing to devote it to this special purpose. He placed the case, therefore, prominently on a small table in the dining-room to await the occasion; calling also the attention of his family to it, as an excuse for an outing when they were not otherwise engaged.

At times he used to say, "I must really take that cigar-case to Scotland Yard to-morrow."

At other times he would say, "Somebody must really take that cigar-case to Scotland Yard to-day."

And so the weeks rolled on ...

It was about a year later that I first got mixed up with the thing. I must have dined with the Andrews several times without noticing the cigar-case, but on this occasion it caught my eye as we wandered out to join the ladies, and I picked it up carelessly. Well, not exactly carelessly; it was too heavy for that.

"Why didn't you tell me," I said, "that you had stood for Parliament and that your supporters had consoled you with a large piece of plate? Hallo, they've put the wrong initials on it. How unbusiness-like."

"Oh, that?" said Andrew. "Is it still there?"

"Why not? It's quite a solid little table. But you haven't explained why your constituents, who must have seen your name on hundreds of posters, thought your initials were E. M. W."

Andrew explained.

"Then it isn't yours at all?" I said in amazement.

"Of course not."

"But, my dear man, this is theft. Stealing by finding, they call it. You could get"—I looked at him almost with admiration—"you could get two years for this;" and I weighed the cigar-case in my hand. "I believe you 're the only one of my friends who could be certain of two years," I went on musingly. "Let's see, there's——"

"Nonsense," said Andrew uneasily. "But still, perhaps I'd better take it back to Scotland Yard to-morrow."

"And tell them you've kept it for a year? They'd run you in at once. No, what you want to do is to get rid of it without their knowledge. But how—that's the question. You can't give it away because of the initials."

"It's easy enough. I can leave it in another cab, or drop it in the river."

"Andrew, Andrew," I cried, "you're determined to go to prison! Don't you know from all the humorous articles you've ever read that, if you try to lose anything, then you never can? It's one of the stock remarks one makes to women in the endeavour to keep them amused. No, you must think of some more subtle way of disposing of it."

"I'll pretend it's yours," said Andrew more subtly, and he placed it in my pocket.

"No, you don't," I said. "But I tell you what I will do. I'll take it for a week and see if I can get rid of it. If I can't, I shall give it you back and wash my hands of the whole business—except, of course, for the monthly letter or whatever it is they allow you at the Scrubbs. You may still count on me for that."

And then the extraordinary thing happened. The next morning I received a letter from a stranger, asking for some simple information which I could have given him on a post-card. And so I should have done—or possibly, I am afraid, have forgotten to answer at all—but for the way that the letter ended up.

"Yours very truly,
Ernest M. Woolman."

The magic initials! It was a chance not to be missed. I wrote enthusiastically back and asked him to lunch.

He came. I gave him all the information he wanted, and lots more. Whether he was a pleasant sort of person or not I hardly noticed; I was so very pleasant myself.

He returned my enthusiasm. He asked me to dine with him the following week. A little party at the Savoy—his birthday, you know.

I accepted gladly. I rolled up at the party with my little present ... a massive silver cigar-case ... suitably engraved.

So there you are. He clings to me. He seems to have formed the absurd idea that I am fond of him. A few months after that evening at the Savoy he was married. I was invited to the wedding—confound him. Of course I had to live up to my birthday present; the least I could do was an enormous silver cigar-box (not engraved), which bound me to him still more strongly.

By that time I realised that I hated him. He was pushing, familiar, everything that I disliked. All my friends wondered how I had become so intimate with him ...

Well, now they know. And the original E. M. W., if he has the sense to read this article, knows. If he cares to prosecute Ernest Merrowby Woolman for being in possession of stolen goods I shall be glad to give him any information. Woolman is generally to be found leaving my rooms at about 6.30 in the evening, and a smart detective could easily nab him as he stops out.

A. A. M.

FORTUNE'S FAVOURITE.

Dear maiden of the sunny head

And cheeks of coral hue,

The lips of rarest ruby red,

The eyes of Oxford blue,

And other charms I've left unsaid ...

Ah, how I envy you!

Heedless of half a world at war

You neither strive nor cry;

Though danger knocks at England's door

There's laughter in your sky:

You ask not what she's fighting for,

Nor reck the reason why.

You little guess, you never will,

The force that nerves this fist

To toil away for you until

My mind is like a mist;

The lack of money for the mill,

The growing dearth of grist.

Ah, since amid a world grown wild,

And horrors still half told,

Peace has her palace round you piled,

By all the gods I hold

You are a very lucky child,

My little Nine-months-old.

Officer Commanding Squad (about to cross Waterloo Bridge). "'Alt! Break step! Large columns of troops when crossin' Bridges is commanded to 'break step' so that the unison of their tread may not dangerously threaten the sterbility of the bridge."

A CANDIDATE FOR THE FORCE.

"I want to enrol myself as a Special Constable," I said to the man in mufti behind the desk.

"Well, don't let me stop you," he remarked. "The Police Station is next door. This is a steam laundry."

A minute later I began again:—

"I want to enrol myself as a Steam Laund—that is to say, as a Special Constable."

"Certainly, Sir," said the Inspector in charge. "Your name and address?"

I opened my cigarette-case and placed a card on the desk.

"The name of the house is pronounced Song Soocee," I said, "not, as spelt, Sans Souci."

The Inspector handed me back the card. It was a cigarette-picture representing the proper method of bandaging a displaced knee-cap. I rectified the error, and he entered the information in a book.

"I must ask if you are a British subject?" he inquired.

"You might almost describe me as super-British," I replied. "There is a tradition in my family that my ancestors were on Hastings Pier when the Conqueror arrived."

"Thank you. That will be all."

"You don't want me to give references, one of which must be a clergyman or a J.P.? You don't require me to state previous experience, if any, or any details of that sort?"

"Oh, no," he answered. "That'll be all right. You are no doubt familiar with squad drill?"

"Splendid! I had no idea it was used in the Force."

"Eight turn—left turn—about turn—form fours—and so on?"

"I beg your pardon," I said, "but what did you call that?"

"Squad drill, Sir."

"O-o-h! I thought you said 'quadrille.' But I know the turns. Right turn, I turn to the right; left turn, I turn to the left; about turn, I turn just about, but not quite; form fours, I form—excuse me, but how does one man form fours?"

"There will, of course, be others," replied the Inspector. "You'll soon pick it up. And please state at what hours of the day you would be prepared to take duty."

"Well," I said, "I've practically nothing to do from the time I get up—half-past ten—until mid-day. I could also manage to spare half-an-hour between afternoon-tea and dinner. And I could just drop in here about eleven at night to see if things were going along all right. Now, if you'll kindly fetch me a bull's-eye lantern, a life-preserver, a bullet-proof tunic, some indiarubber boots, a revolver, and a letter of introduction to some of the most skilful cooks in the neighbourhood I can put in one crowded hour of joyous life before I'm due on the links."

"Just a moment," said the Inspector. "I don't want to discourage you, but kindly cast your eye over these paragraphs;" and he handed me a printed circular. "You will see that it will be necessary for you to perform four consecutive hours' duty."

"Good heavens," I exclaimed, "I don't think I shall be able to manage that. I'm in the middle of an important jig-saw; I'm expecting a new motor-car to arrive any minute; and I have a slight head-cold. However, if my country calls me, I will see what can be arranged."

I noticed the Inspector's look of admiration at my bull-dog resolution, so to hide my blushes I perused the circular.

"I see," I said, "that we are each supplied with 'one armlet.' What's an armlet?".

"A badge that goes round your arm."

"Of course! How stupid of me! Just like a bracelet goes round one's—no, that won't do. Just like a gimlet goes—no, that doesn't either. I can't think of a simile, but I quite understand. Then we have 'one whistle.' What's that for? To whistle on if I feel lonely?"

"To summon assistance if you should require it."

"I have an idea that my whistle will be overworked. Shall I be able to get a new one when the original's worn out?"

The Inspector thought there would be no difficulty in my getting rewhistled.

"'One truncheon,'" I continued. "That, of course, is to trunch with. One truncheon, though, seems rather niggardly. I should prefer two, one in each hand. 'One note-book'—is that for autographs and original contributions from my brother Specials?"

"For noting names and addresses and details of cases," explained the Inspector. "For instance, if, when on duty, you saw Jack Johnson committing a breach of the peace you would—"

"Blow my whistle hard—"

"Certainly not. You would take his name and address and note it down."

"And if he refused it I could then whistle for help?"

"No, you would at once arrest him."

"What's the earliest possible moment at which it would be etiquette to blow my whistle?"

"When he offered resistance. Then you could whistle."

"No, I couldn't," I said, "not unless my equipment included one pair of bellows. Do you mean to tell me that I should be expected to arrest a man of infinitely superior physique to my own with no other weapons than one armlet, one whistle, one truncheon and one note-book? Surely I should be allowed to run for the Mayor and get him to read the Riot Act? If not, I can only say a policeman's lot is——"

"Not a happy one?" put in the Inspector.

"I was going to say a policeman's lot is a lot too much. Would you kindly cross my name off your list?"

"I crossed it off some minutes ago," replied the Inspector.

THE WATCH DOGS.

II.

Dear Charles,—Another letter from the back of the front for you. You will be glad to hear that your Terrier is settling down in his temporary kennel and sharpening his teeth in due course. The time will come when you may look your gift dog in the mouth and be not disappointed, we hope, by the view.

We received orders a day or two ago to take up our beds and walk; that is, a couple of officers and a hundred odd of the men were told off to execute a flank movement on a neighbouring township where there is a range, and do our damnedest with the poor old targets. So we put our oddments in our pillow-case, rolled up our bedrooms into a convenient bundle and trekked. We were assured that we should be back at our base within the week, but we have learnt to take no chances. We have but one form of movement, the tout ensemble.

It is quite refreshing to step, over a hundred strong, into a village with no pre-arranged scheme of board and lodging. Like every other wanderer in a strange part, we turn first to the policeman. We march towards him at attention; we call a halt at the base of his feet, and then, with the courtesy of the gentleman and the brevity of the soldier, we inform him that we have arrived. The next development is up to him.

It is not to him, however, that we owe our temporary rest. It is to that irrepressible and indefatigable unit, the Boy Scout. Charles, I believe we'd all be lying out in the rain at this moment but for that assistance. The equipment of the Boy Scout on billeting duty consists of a piece of white chalk and a menacing demeanour. Thus armed, he knocks at every likely door, wishes the householder a good morning and registers on the door-frame the number of men that may be left till called for within, even while the policeman is still endeavouring to explain the international situation and the military exigencies to the slow-thinking rustic. Many formidable obstacles lie in our path, we know, but we are comforted by the thought that the Boy Scout isn't one of them. If, in the next generation, Britain continues to exist as a nation and not as a depôt for the training of waiters in the Berlin restaurants, then indeed we shall have something to rely on in these adaptable young fellows.

The host upon whom we officers were thrust was quite polite as long as our Boy Scout stood by, but, left to himself, turned out crusty. He was rather too old to turn into the perfect hotel proprietor all in a minute, and, as he put it, "he couldn't see his way" to do this and that for us. He was prepared to do all he had to do, but no more. Unfortunately we were not as well up in the regulations as our youthful and now departed protector. So we went out and did a bit of billeting on our own. It is an odd experience, this knocking at somebody's door and, upon being asked what one has come for, answering, "To stay." For ourselves we thought that the Rector would be a good man to experiment on. These parsons are used to being victimised and are known not to be too harsh upon the delinquent. So off we went to the Rectory, significantly handling our hilts and twirling our military stubbles. But the essence of war is surprise, and it was the Rector's wife who confronted our attack.

I said, upon enquiry, that I couldn't say what we wanted but placed myself unreservedly in my colleague's hands. I then took a pace to the rear and prepared to retire in good order. Robertson's whole efforts were concentrated on refraining from taking off his cap, as behoves a gentleman, but not an officer, and the Rector's wife remained amiable but on the defensive. Charles, our position was a hopeless one and our careers had concluded then and there but for the arrival of the ally. Boy Scouts are as tactful as they are forgiving; he accepted our explanation and apology to himself and he explained for us and apologised to the Rector's wife. It was little he had to say, for never was a less reluctant and more efficient billettee. This kind lady has not only made our sojourn one long series of simple luxuries, she has been through the whole of our kit and washed and repaired the lot. Think what you may about the Church when you are a civilian in affluence, but when you are a soldier in distress turn to it first for succour.

Lastly, a minor incident of a regretable nature. Halting on the march yesterday for our transport to catch up (our transport is known as Lieutenant Pearson's Circus) I discovered one of our dusty thirsty warriors having made his illegal entrance into a public-house by an emergency door. There he stood with a glisten in his eyes and his hand just about to grasp the pewter pot! Out he went under sentence of death by slow torture, and there was I left, with a thirst such as I have never before believed to be possible, alone with a pewter pot, with the foam just brimming over the top ... alone, unseen, undiscoverable ...

Your fallen Friend,
Henry.

THE LANGUAGE OF THE HOUR.

Irate Lady (firing Parthian shot after marital misunderstanding). "Yer—yer bloomin' Oolan!"

LITERARY GOSSIP.

The Autumn publishing season will undoubtedly be affected by the war, several firms having decided to withhold most of their forthcoming books. Messrs. Odder and Thynne, however, being convinced that the reading public cannot subsist entirely on newspapers, have with great public spirit resolved to publish their full programme, which is unusually full of works of interest.

The foremost place in their list is allotted to Principal Toshley Potts's volume of essays, which bear the attractive title of The Hill of Havering. Principal Potts was recently hailed by Sir Nicholson Roberts as "the Scots A. C. Benson," and this felicitous analogy will, we feel sure, be triumphantly vindicated by the contents of this epoch-making work, which by the way is dedicated to Dr. Emery Cawker, of the University of Brashville, Ga.

Another work of outstanding significance is a volume of poems, entitled Kailyard Carols, from the accomplished pen of Mr. Alan Bodgers, whom Mr. David Lyall, in a three-column article in the Penman, recently declared to be the finest lyric poet since Shelley, and Mr. Lyall seldom makes a mistake. Mr. Bodgers, it may be added, is the sub-editor of the Kilspindie Courant, and has a handicap of twenty-two at the local golf club.

Very welcome also is the announcement that Professor Hector McGollop has undertaken to edit a series of Manuals of Moral Uplift, to which he will contribute the opening volume on The Art of Unction. Other contributors to the series are Dr. Talisker Dinwiddie, Principal Marcus Tonks and the Rev. Bandley Chadd.

In the department of fiction the most remarkable of the novelties promised by Messrs. Odder and Thynne is The Nut's Progress, by Mr. Ewan Straw. It will be remembered that in a four-column review of Mr. Straw's last book, Nothing Doing, which appeared in the Xmas number of the Book Booster, Sir Clement Shorthouse declared that this talented fictionist combined the lilt of Frank Smedley (the author of Frank Fairleigh) with the whimsicality of Barrie and the austere morality of Annie Swan. Otherwise we may be sure the firm of Odder and Thynne would never have published a work with so risky a title.

Perhaps.

Of wolves that wear sheep's clothing

The world has long been full,

But I've a special loathing

For one in Berlin wool.

Although the wool may cover

Not more than half the beast,

Perhaps when all is over

He'll be entirely fleeced.

W. W.

"Magnificent Bequest to the Louvre.
Sunspot Visible to the Naked Eye."

Times.

France seems to have acquired Germany's spot in the sun.

Ethel (in apprehensive whisper which easily reaches her German governess, to whom she is deeply attached). "Mother, shall we have to kill Fräulein?"

REASONING IN THE RANKS.

[Several journals have pointed out that the type of recruit now offering himself is in a high degree capable of reasoning and initiative.]

"Now I want any of you who are puzzled about anything to ask questions about it," said the instructing sergeant-major ... and anon:

"Right about, Number 3 of the front rank! There is no such thing as left about turn. Squad, form——"

"Excuse me," interrupted Number 3, "but why do you say that there is no such thing as left about turn?"

"Because there isn't," said the sergeant-major unsympathetically.