PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 148.

January 27, 1915.

[CHARIVARIA.]

"Herts are doing well," reports Lord Cavan in a letter from the Front received at Stevenage. Herts, in fact, are trumps.

* * *

In Germany it is now said that the Kaiser will receive Calais as a birthday present. In France, however, it is said that it will be Pas de Calais.

* * *

The English governess whose book Messrs. Chapman and Hall have just published says of the Kaiser:—"When he made a witticism he laughed out aloud, opening his mouth, throwing back his head slightly with a little jerk, and looking one straight in the eyes." It seems a lot of trouble to take to intimate that one has made a joke, but no doubt his hearers found it helpful.

* * *

Further details of the battle off the Falkland Islands are now to hand. Von Spee, the German Admiral, it seems, ordered "No quarter"—to which our men retorted, "Not half."

* * *

An Express correspondent reports from Belgium that the Germans now have a number of monitor-like vessels at Zeebrugge which have only one large gun and "sit low in the water." We trust our Navy may be relied upon to make them sit lower still.

* * *

With regard to the occupation of Swakopmund the Vossische Zeitung now says that this proceeding of war in South-West Africa is without significance. It seems rather churlish of our contemporary not to point this out until we have had the trouble of taking the place.

* * *

A Berlin despatch announces that Dr. Weill, the member of the Reichstag who entered the French army, has been deprived of his German nationality. We fear that Dr. Weill omitted some of the formalities.

* * *

We cannot blame the ex-Khedive for assuming that his life is of value. He is to direct operations in Egypt from Geneva.

* * *

"CARDINAL MERCIER

Belief that he does not enjoy
full Liberty."

These headlines are regrettable. They make it possible for the Germans to say, "What's the good of giving him full liberty if he does not enjoy it?"

* * *

On more than one occasion lately the Special Constables have bean called out only to kick their heels for a considerable time at the local police station. There is some grumbling as to this, it being felt that they might have been told, anyhow, to bring their knitting with them.

* * *

The Glasgow Evening Times must not be surprised if it loses a few subscribers among the members of the R.A.M.C. owing to the following answer to a correspondent in its issue of the 15th inst.:—"'18' (Falkirk)—Delicate lads are of little use in the Army. You might try the Royal Army Medical Corps."

* * *

With reference to the action brought by Sir Hiram Maxim to restrain an alleged nuisance from noise and vibration caused by a firm of builders, our sympathy certainly went out to the defendants, for who could have guessed that the inventor of the famous machine-gun would have a rooted objection to noise?

* * *

The new West London Police Court was opened last week, and is pronounced by its patrons to be both handsome and comfortable—a place, in fact, in which no one need feel ashamed to be seen. There is even a writing desk in the dock for the use of prisoners. When so many of them write memoirs for the Yellow Press this is a little convenience which will be much appreciated.

"SPECIAL" ETIQUETTE.

Mrs. Bec. "I think it was perfectly hateful of Grace to send Lady Copperthwaite in to dinner before me, when she knows Sir John is only a sergeant, and my George is a Sub-Inspector!"

THE MURDERERS.

(Lines addressed to their Master.)

If I were asked what gives me most amaze
Among your signs of mental aberration,
I should select, from several curious traits,
Your lack of commonplace imagination.

You seem to think, if once you win the day,
You justify your means; it won't much matter
What laws of man you broke to get your way,
What rules of chivalry you chose to shatter.

Is that your reading in the glass of Time?
And has your swollen head become so rotten
That you suppose success could cancel crime,
Or murder in its triumph be forgotten?

Man shall not live, O King, by bread alone,
Though spiced with blood of innocent lives for leaven;
He must have breath of honour round him blown
As vital as the very air of Heaven.

What should it serve you, though your end were won
And earth were made a mat to wipe your boot on,
If every decent race beneath the sun
Spits for contempt upon the name of Teuton?

O. S.

THE FISH FAMINE.

It is only proper that an agitation should be on foot to compel the Government to take measures to prevent a further rise in the cost of bread, the food of the people.

But what is the Government prepared to do to remedy the present deplorable dearth in the food of the people's thinkers—fish?

Scientists, statisticians, fishmongers and other authorities tell us that for the development of the human brain there is nothing to compare with fish. Indeed, one has only to glance at the throng assembled in any popular fish-bar of a night to realise that the people of our country are alive to their need in this respect.

Consider what this shortage of fish must mean in the development of the intellectual life of the people of this country. How can we expect our parcels to be delivered intelligently, our gas-fittings to be adjusted properly, our bulbs to be planted effectively, if our carmen, our plumbers, our jobbing gardeners, and so forth, are deprived of their daily bloater or bloaters, as the case may be?

How can we hope that Mr. H. G. Wells, Mr. Arnold Bennett or even Lord Kitchener himself will continue to guide the nation effectively with the fish course obliterated from the menu?

What is the use of the Poet Laureate to the country if Billingsgate is inactive? And without Billingsgate how can our half-penny morning papers adjust their differences, or illuminating discussion among intellectuals be maintained?

How much longer will The Spectator and The Church Times be worth reading if the present scarcity of fish continues? Is a Hampstead thinkable without halibut?

A marked deterioration has already been noted in the quality of the discourses of the senior curate at one of our suburban churches. We may be capturing trade, and the position of our banks may be wonderfully sound; but against that must be recorded the lamentable fact that in a certain town in the Home Counties last week only twenty-two people attended a widely announced debate on the subject, "Have Cinema Pictures a more refining influence upon the Poor than Classical Poetry?"

THE BRITISH ARMY.

(As seen from Berlin.)

[The Socialist Vorwärts, which takes considerable pains to correct the mistakes of its contemporaries, solemnly rebukes journals which, it says, have described the Scots Greys as "the Scottish Regiment of the Minister Grey."—The Times.]

The desperate straits of the British are indicated by the statement that it has become necessary for what is called in England the "senior service" to take a hand in recruiting the junior, i.e. the British Army. We learn that the naval gunnery expert, Sir Percy Scott, has raised a regiment known as Scott's Guards.

It illustrates the difficulty which the British have in raising recruits, that the Government, now that it has acquired the railways, is ruthlessly compelling even the older servants to join the army. One section of these men, who hitherto have been occupied with flag and whistle, and have never been mounted in their lives, are being enlisted in a special battalion known as the Horse Guards, while, as the authorities themselves admit, the railways furnish whole regiments of the line. The War Office has even made up a force from the men who drive King George's trains, under the title of the Royal Engineers.

The British commemorate their generals in their regiments. For instance, the name of the Duke of Wellington is carried by the West Riding Regiment, which, as its name indicates, is a cavalry regiment; and the Gordon Highlanders—the Chasseurs Alpins of the British army—were founded to preserve the name of the late General Gordon.

The curious practice of bathing the body in cold water at the beginning of day, which is compulsory in the British army, is an old one, and is said to have been inaugurated by a royal regiment which even to-day commemorates the beginning of the odd habit in its title of Coldstreamers.

THE BELLS OF BERLIN.

(Which are said to be rung by order occasionally to announce some supposed German victory.)

The Bells of Berlin how they hearten the Hun
(O dingle dong dangle ding dongle ding dee);
No matter what devil's own work has been done
They chime a loud chant of approval, each one,
Till the people feel sure of their place in the sun
(O dangle ding dongle dong dingle ding dee).

If Hindenburg hustles an enemy squad
(O dingle dong dangle ding dongle ding dee),
The bells all announce that the alien sod
Is damp with the death of some thousand men odd,
Till the populace smiles with a gratified nod
(O dangle ding dongle dong dingle ding dee).

If Tirpitz behaves like a brute on the brine
(O dingle dong dangle ding dongle ding dee),
The bells with a clash and a clamour combine
To hint that the Hated One's on the decline,
And the city gulps down the good tidings like wine
(O dangle ding dongle dong dingle ding dee).

The Bells of Berlin, are they cracked through and through
(O dingle dong dangle ding dongle ding dee),
Or deaf to the discord like Germany too?
For whether their changes be many or few,
The worst of them is that they never ring true
(O dangle ding dongle dong dingle ding dee).

THE DISSEMBLERS.

[January 27th.

Emperor of Austria. "NOW WHAT DO WE REALLY WANT TO SAY?"

Sultan of Turkey. "WELL, OF COURSE WE COULDN'T SAY THAT; NOT ON HIS BIRTHDAY."

THE LAST FIGHT OF ALL.

Every morn we met together
On our journey up to town,
Guyed the Government and weather,
Ran all other nations down;
And, whenever (very seldom)
Strangers' visages were seen,
With indignant looks we quelled'em
On the 9.17.

But to-day there's none remaining
To bestow the crushing glance.
Down in Surrey Smith is training,
Brown is somewhere out in France;
Going through his martial paces,
Jones is billeted at Sheen;
Strangers seize the sacred places
On the 9.17.

But when once, the struggle ended,
Men resume their normal toil
There will be one final, splendid
Battle fought on English soil;
And the populace enraptured
From their evening Press shall glean:
"Heavy fighting; seats recaptured
On the 9.17."

THE WAR AND THE BOOKS.

"Nowhere," says a contemporary, "is the influence of the War more apparent than in the publishers' lists." We venture to anticipate a few items that are promised for this time next year:—

For Lovers of Bright Fiction. New German Fairy Tales. Selected from the Official Wireless. 550 pp., large quarto, 10s. 6d. The first review says, "Deliciously entertaining ... powers of imagination greatly above the ordinary. The story of "Hans across the Sea, or the Eagles in Egypt," will make you rock with laughter."

Important new work on Ornithology. British Birds, by One who Got Them. Being the experiences of a Slacker in the prime of life during the Great War. Crown octavo, 6s. Profusely illustrated with cuts.

Civilian Life From Within. The author, Mr. Jude Brown, has (for good reasons fully explained in the preface) remained a civilian during the past year. He is thus in a position to speak with authority upon a phase of life which most of his contemporary readers will either have forgotten or never known. Just as Service novels in the past used to appear full of the most absurd technical errors, so to-day many books that profess to deal with civilian life are disfigured by every kind of solecism. Mr. Brown, however, writes not as a gushing amateur but as one who knows. Order early.

Nephew. "I'm reading a very interesting book, Aunt, called 'Germany and the next war.'"

Aunt. "Well, my dear, I should have thought they had their hands full enough with the present one."

In a Good Cause.

Mr. Punch begs to call the attention of his readers to a sale which will take place at Christie's, on February 5th, of pictures by members of the Royal Society of Painters in Watercolours. The entire proceeds will be divided between the two allied societies, the Red Cross and the St. John Ambulance. The pictures are on exhibition at Messrs. Christie's, who are bearing all expenses and charging no commission.

A Birthday Wish: Jan. 27th:—

A toast to the Kaiser from wives and from mothers,
"May he be as happy as he has made others."

"We have the further intelligence that 80 Turkish transports have been sunk by the Russians in the North Sea. This last piece of information lacks official confirmation."

Dublin Evening Mail.

This continued official scepticism about the Russians is very disheartening.

"Sandringham is fifty miles due east of Yarmouth."—Liverpool Echo.

Rather a score off the Kaiser, who didn't realise it was a submarine job.

"Our Correspondent at Washington reports that the Press of the Eastern United States is unanimous in excoriating the German Air Raid."—The Times.

If only they would excoriate the Zeppelins themselves.

Manager (to dragon). "What's the meaning of this? Where's your hind legs?"

Dragon. "They've enlisted, Sir."

ON THE SPY-TRAIL.

I.

Jimmy had been saving up his pocket-money and his mother had begun to get rather anxious; she thought he must be sickening for something.

He was. It was for a dog, any dog, but preferably a very fierce bloodhound. He had already bought a chain; he had to have that because the dog he was going to buy would have to be held in by main force; it would have to be restrained.

But he didn't have to buy one after all; he had one transferred to him.

You see Jimmy was helping at a kind of bazaar in aid of the Belgian Refugees Fund. He had volunteered to help with the refreshment stall. There is a lot of work about a refreshment stall, Jimmy says. His work made him a bit husky, but he stuck to it and so it stuck to him.

He was very busy explaining the works of a cake to a lady when a man came up with something under his arm. It was a raffle. You paid threepence for a ticket, and would the lady like one?

The lady said she already had two tea-cosies at home; but the man explained that it was not a tea-cosy, it was a dog.

A dog! Perhaps a bloodhound! Jimmy trembled with excitement. Only threepence for a ticket, and he had a chance of winning it.

It seemed a faithful dog, Jimmy thought. It had a very good lick, too; it licked a sponge-cake off a plate, and would have licked quite a lot more from Jimmy's stall if it had had time.

Jimmy came third in the raffle.

But the man whose ticket won the dog said he didn't care for that kind of breed, by the look of it, and gave way in favour of the next.

The next man said he wasn't taking any shooting this year, and he stood aside. The dog was Jimmy's!!

With trembling hands he fastened on the chain—to restrain it. Then he asked the man whose ticket had won the raffle if it was really a prize bloodhound.

The man looked at the dog critically, and said it was either a prize bloodhound or a Scotch haggis; at any rate it was a very rare animal.

Jimmy asked if he would have to have a licence for it, but the man said it would be best to wait and see what it grew into. All good bloodhounds are like that, Jimmy says.

Jimmy ran all the way home: he couldn't run very fast, as the bloodhound tried to slide on its hind legs most of the way, it was so fierce.

Jimmy knows all about bloodhounds, how to train them. He is training his to track down German spies, amongst other things.

He knows a way so that if you say something—well, you don't exactly say it, you do it by putting your tongue into the place where your front tooth came out and then blowing—a really well-trained bloodhound will begin to shiver, and the hair on the back of his neck will go up. You then go and look for someone to help you to pull him off the German's throat, and ask the German his name and address, politely.

Jimmy taught his bloodhound to track clothes by letting it smell at a piece of cloth. It brought him a lot of clothes from nearly a quarter of a mile away. They were not the light clothes though, and Jimmy had to take them back. The woman wanted them—to wash over again, she said. She doesn't like bloodhounds much.

Jimmy says you ought to have the blood of the victim on the cloth.

Jimmy has trained his bloodhound to watch things. It is very good at watching. It watched a cat up a tree all one night, and never left off once: it is very faithful like that. And it bays quite well, without being taught to. It bayed up to four hundred and ten one night, and would have gone past that but a man opened a window and told it not to. He sent it a water-bottle to play with instead.

Jimmy's bloodhound is a splendid fighter. It fought a dog much bigger than itself and nearly choked it. The other dog was trying to swallow it, and Jimmy had to pull his dog out.

Jimmy says he has only once seen his bloodhound really frightened. It was when it followed Jimmy up into his bedroom, and saw itself in the mirror in the wardrobe. Jimmy says it was because it came upon itself too suddenly. It made it brood a great deal, and Jimmy had to give it a certain herb to reassure it.

Jimmy takes it out every day, searching for German spies. It goes round sniffing everywhere—in hopes. It is a very strong sniffer and full of zeal, and one day it did it.

A man was looking at a shop-window, where they sell sausages and pork pies. He was studying them, Jimmy says. Jimmy says he never would have guessed he was a German spy if his bloodhound hadn't sniffed him out. It walked round the man twice, and in doing so wrapped the chain round the man's legs. Jimmy says it was to cut off his retreat. The man moved backwards and stepped on the bloodhound's toe, and the bloodhound began to bay like anything. Jimmy says it showed the bloodhound was hot upon the scent.

It then sniffed a piece out of the man's trousers.

There was another man there; he was looking on and laughing. He said to Jimmy, "Pull in, sonny; you've got a bite."

But he stopped laughing when the German spy tripped up and fell on top of the bloodhound; for the German spy shouted out, "Ach, Himmel!" The man who was looking on shouted, "What ho!" and put all the fingers of both hands into his mouth and gave one terrific whistle. The bloodhound held on tightly underneath the German, baying faithfully, till the policeman came and forced them apart. The German spy never said anything to the policeman or to the man or to Jimmy, but it seemed he couldn't say enough to the bloodhound. He kept turning round to say things, as they came into his head, on his way to the police-station.

Jimmy asked the German if he could keep the piece of cloth his bloodhound had sniffed out.

Jimmy has made the piece of cloth into a kind of medal with a piece of wire, and has fastened it to the bloodhound's collar. Jimmy says if he gets a lot of pieces of cloth like this he is going to make a patchwork quilt for the bloodhound.

Jimmy's bloodhound is hotter than ever on the trail of German spies.

If you are good you shall hear more of it another time.

Nervous Subaltern (endeavouring to explain the mysteries of drill). "Forming Fours—when the squad wishes to form fours, the even numbers take——"

Sergeant-major. "As you were! A squad of recruits never wishes to do nothing, Sir!"

AS GOOD AS A MILE.

As this happened over a month ago, it is disclosing no military secret to say that the North Sea was extraordinarily calm. It was neither raining nor sleeting nor blowing; indeed the sun was actually visible, an alcoholic-visaged sun, glowing like a stage fire through a frosty haze. From the cruiser that was steaming slowly ahead, with no apparent object beyond that of killing time, the only break to be seen in the smoky blue of the sea was the dull copper reflection on one-half of its wake; and that somehow attracted no comment from the man on the look-out. Bits of flotsam nevertheless, however harmlessly flotsam, were recorded on their appearance in a penetrating mechanical sing-song, with a strong Cockney accent, as were the occasional glimpses of the shores of Norway.

All that could manage it were on deck, enjoying the unusual freedom from oilskins. The captain was assuring the commander that the safest way of avoiding a cold was to sit in a draught with a wet shirt on; a marine was having a heated argument with a petty officer as to whether the remnants of the German Navy would be destroyed or taken over at the end of the War; the torpedo-lieutenant was telling the A. P. what jolly scenery there was from here if only one could see it, and pronouncing his conviction that it was mere beef and not real reindeer that they had given him for lunch at the hotel up the fjord; while the A. P. was mentally calculating the chances of the old man's coming down handsomely enough to allow his honeymoon to run to Norway when the war was over.

"Periscope on the port bow, Sir!" It disappeared in the spray of half-a-dozen shells, and emerged unharmed for an instant before it dipped; but a rapidly-forming line of torpedo-bubbles showed that the submarine too had seen, and had made answer after its fashion.

People who ought to know assure us that the truly great often regret their days of obscurity; certainly the captain now wished that he were still merely the lieutenant-commander of a T.B. Then he could have turned nearly parallel to the course of the torpedo, and tried for a ram. With the heavier and slower ship there was no room or time for such a manœuvre; it was full speed ahead or astern. The torpedo was well-aimed, and, seeing from its track that it would meet their course ahead, he rang full speed astern. The ship quivered distressingly, and the water boiled beneath her stern. There was nothing left to do but wait and trust to the propellers.

Ranks and ratings alike clustered to the side, watching those bubbles with a curiously dispassionate interest; but for the silence they might have been a crowd of tourists assembled to see a whale. One low "Six to four against the torpedo" was heard; and a sub with a pathetically incipient beard asked for a match in a needlessly loud tone. The bubbles drew near, very near, and were hidden from all but one or two beneath the bow; hands gripped the rails rather tightly, and then once more the line of bubbles appeared, now to the starboard. Men turned and looked at each other curiously as if they were new acquaintances; one or two shook hands rather shamefacedly; and the sub who had asked for a match found that his cigarette wanted another.

And from the look-out, in the same mechanical sing-song, came "Torpedo passed ahead, Sir!"

AS WE HATE IT.

["Mr. Stanley Cooke will begin his tour with Caste at the Royal, Salisbury, on Monday. The old piece, we understand, has been altered so as to allow of references to current events in the War. Sam Gerridge now enlists in the last Act, and appears in khaki."—The Stage.

Not to be outdone, Mr. Punch begs to present scenes from his new version of As You Like It.]

Act I.

An open place (with goal-posts at each end).

Enter from opposite turnstiles Duke Frederick and Rosalind (with Celia).

Duke. How now, daughter and cousin? Are you crept hither to see the football?

Rosalind. Ay, my lord, so please you give us leave.

Duke. You will take little delight in it, I can tell you. I only came myself from—er—duty. It's disgraceful to think that our able-bodied young men should waste their time kicking a ball about in this crisis. I would enlist myself if only I were ten years younger.

Celia (thoughtfully). I know a man just about your age who——

Duke (hastily). Besides, I have a weak heart.

[Shout. Orlando kicks a goal.

Rosalind. Who is that excellent young man?

Duke. Orlando. I have tried to persuade him to go, but he will not be entreated. Speak to him, ladies; see if you can move him.

[Whistle. Time. Arden Wednesday is defeated 2-1. Orlando approaches.

Rosalind. Young man, are you aware that there is a war on?

Orlando. Yes, lady.

Rosalind (giving him a small white feather from her bag).
Wear this for me, the lastling of the flock;
To-morrow you shall have a better one.

Orlando. Lady, I thank you for your welcome gift.
This little favour cunningly affixed
With mucilage upon the upper lip
Shall take the place of those informal sproutings
Which military etiquette demands
And Nature has persistently denied me.

Rosalind (alarmed). Why want you a moustache, young man?

Orlando. To fight with.
(Bowing.) Second Lieutenant O. de Boys; gazetted
This very morning to the Fifth Battalion
The Arden Foresters—and at your service.
My men await me. Fare you well, fair ladies.
[Exit.

Rosalind (sighing). Celia, my dear, I've made a fool of myself again.

Celia. It looks like it. You're always so hasty.

Rosalind (casually). I wonder where the Fifth Battalion is training?

Celia. Somewhere in the Forest, I expect.

Rosalind. Alas, what danger will it be to us
Maids as we are to travel forth so far!

Celia. I'll put myself into a Red Cross dress.

Rosalind. I do not like the Red Cross uniform.

Celia. You could be photographed ten times a day:
"The Lady Rosalind a Red Cross Nurse."

Rosalind. I like it not. Nay, I will be a Scout.

Celia. What shall I call thee when thou art a Scout?

Rosalind. I'll have no worse a name than Archibald.
The Boy Scout Archibald. And what of you?

Celia. Something that hath a reference to my state;
No longer Celia now, but Helia.

Rosalind. Help!

Act II.

An open place in the Forest.

A Voice. Platoon! Properly at ease there, blank you! 'Tn-shun! Dis-miss!

Enter Amiens, Jaques and others.

Amiens. Song.
It's a long way to Tipperary,
It's a long way to go;
It's a long way to Tipperary,
To the sweetest girl I know ... (et-cetera.)

Jaques. More, more, I prithee, more.

Amiens. It will make you melancholy, Corporal Jaques.

Jaques. I want to be melancholy. Any man would be melancholy when his officer's moustache falls off on parade.

Amiens. A white one too—a regular Landsturmer. And yet he's not an old man, Corporal.

Jaques. Ay, it's a melancholy business. Come, warble.

Amiens. Song.
Who doth all comfort shun
And hates the blooming sun,
Eating what he can get
And sleeping in the wet,
Come hither, come hither, come hither;
Here shall he learn
To right-about-turn
In winter and rough weather.

Jaques (getting up). A melancholy business. Amiens, my lad, I feel the old weakness coming over me.

Amiens (alarmed). You're going to recite, Corporal?

Jaques. Yes, I'm going to recite. (Sighs.)

Amiens. Fight against it, Corporal, fight against it! It didn't matter in the old civilian days, long ago; but think if it suddenly seized you when we were going into action!

Jaques. I know, I know. I've often thought of it. But when once it gets hold of me——(Pleadingly) This will only be a very little one, Amiens.... H'r'm!

All the world's at war
And all the men are learning to be soldiers:
They have their exits—
(Bugle)
Dammit, there goes mine.

[Exit hurriedly, followed by the others.

Enter Rosalind and Celia.

Rosalind (reading).
No mistress ever has recalled
A sweeter youth than Archibald.
The only name that never palled
On Rosalind was Archibald.
How firmly is thy face installed
Upon my heart, O Archibald!

Celia. Is that your own, dear?

Rosalind. I found it on a tree. There's lots more.... Oh, Celia, listen! It ends up:

O! once I was severely galled
By feathers from my Archibald.

Celia, it must be Orlando! He has penetrated my disguise and he forgives me!

[Enter Orlando from left at the head of his men.

Orlando (to his platoon). Halt! Eyes right! (Advancing to Rosalind.) Lady, you gave me a feather once. I have lost it. Can you give me another one? My Colonel says I must have a moustache.

Rosalind. Alas, Sir, I have no others.

Orlando (firmly). Very well. Then there's only one thing for me to do. I shall have to join the Navy.

He does so, thus providing a naval Third Act.... And so eventually to the long-wished-for end.

A. A. M.

THE LATEST IRISH GRIEVANCE.

A Milesian Medley.

[The Earl of Aberdeen on his promotion in the peerage has adopted the style of Marquess of Aberdeen and Tara.]

The Harp that once in Tara's Hall
The soul of music shed
Has had a most disastrous fall
And won't be comforted;
For now, when the Milesian Gael
Looms large upon the scene,
Tara is tacked on to the tail
Of Scottish Aberdeen.

O Casement dear, an' did ye hear the news that's goin' round?
The Germans are by law forbid to land on Irish ground;
And Cork's proud Corporation—may perdition seize their soul!—
Have blotted Kuno Meyer's name from off their burgess roll.

I met wid Paddy Birrell on the links at Overstrand,
An' sez he, "How's poor dear Ireland, and how does she stand?"
She's the most amazin' counthry that iver yet was seen,
For she's let the name of Tara come afther Aberdeen!

O if in dingy khaki we've got to see it through,
And must not taste of raki (which is Turkish mountain-dew),
Still we can wet our whistle with porter and poteen,
And extirpate the thistle from Tara's sacred scene.

When laws can turn the pratie into the Frenchman's bean,
An' when the Russian Ballet comes to dance on College Green,
Then I'll accept the title, though I'm a patriot keen,
But till that day Tara shall stay in front of Aberdeen.

Chorus (to the tune of Tarara-Boom-de-ay.)

Tara and Aberdeen—that's what it should have been,
For never has there been an insult so obscene
To dear Dark Rosaleen, our holy Island Queen,
As letting Tara's sheen be dimmed by Aberdeen.

"Grease Spots on Milk.—Take a lump of magnesia, and, having wetted it, rub it over the grease-marks. Let it dry, and then brush the powder off, when the spots will be found to have disappeared."—North Wilts Herald.

They didn't. Perhaps we had the wrong kind of milk.

Lady. "I want some studs, please, for my son."

Shopman. "Yes, Madam—for the front?"

Lady. "No—home defence."

A TERRITORIAL IN INDIA.

II.

My dear Mr. Punch,—I think I see now the reason for the wholesale transference of our Battalion to clerical duties as described in my last letter. We are being "trained for the Front in the shortest possible time." That much is certain, because it is in the official documents. Clearly, then, we are to form a new arm. Each man will be posted in a tree with a type-*writer before him. The enemy, approaching, will hear from all sides a continuous tap-tapping and will fly in disorder, imagining that he is being assailed by a new kind of machine-gun.

Did I tell you that we are living in a tent? Four of us occupy one tent; that is to say, we occupy that portion of it which is not required by some five hundred millions of ants. I arrived at this figure in the same way that other scientists count microbes—by multiplying the number on a square inch by the superficial area in inches of the tent. Ants are voracious brutes. In five minutes they can eat a loaf of bread, two pounds of treacle, a tin of oatmeal (unopened), eight bananas, a shaving brush and a magazine. So at least we were assured by our colleagues in the office, some of whom have been in India for many years and therefore ought to know.

When we leave the tent to step across into the office some of the more friendly of the ants accompany us and indulge in playful little pranks. Only this morning one of them, while my back was turned, upset a bottle of ink over a document I had just completed.

We keep alive our military ardour in our spare time by waging war upon this enemy. Their strategy resembles that of the Germans. They rely upon masses, and every day their losses are appalling. But, unlike the Germans, they seem to have unlimited reserves to draw upon. I foresee the day when we shall be driven out and they will be left masters of the field.

But enough of ants, which are becoming a bore. I have verified the theory that human nature is the same all the world over. When I was at home for that last forty-eight hours' leave before we sailed for India, five of us returned to the camp on Salisbury Plain by motor, and on our way we stopped at a country inn. Doubtless our big khaki overcoats and sunburnt faces gave us a more soldierly appearance than the length of our military training warranted, and an elderly countryman seated on a bench inside, regarding us with interest, asked me if we were off to the front. "Well," I said, "we're going to India first, and after a few months we are to return to the Front." Plainly our friend was in a difficulty. He was a patriot. One could see that he longed intensely, ardently, to express his appreciation of our action in volunteering, but he could not find the appropriate words. There was a long pause. Then a light of inspiration shone on his countenance. He had found it. His hand dived into his pocket. "Here," he said, "have some nuts."

So in India. We have another patriot here in our "boy" Mahadoo, who for two rupees a week acts as our valet, footman, housemaid, kitchenmaid, chambermaid, boots, errand boy and washerwoman. "And the sahib will fight the Germans?" he asked me the other day. "I hope so," I replied; "in a few months." One could see that he too experienced the difficulty of adequate expression. Then his hand went to his turban and he produced a small slab of English chocolate. "For you, rajah," he said, and, standing to attention, he saluted like a soldier. And I believe there was a lump in his honest dusky throat.

Life can be very difficult when you have only one uniform, and that an Indian summer one. I realised the other day that the dreaded hour had arrived when mine must be purified. Accordingly I gave Mahadoo instructions to wash it, and went into the office in pyjamas. So far so good. An hour later came an order from the D.A.Q.M.G. that I was to go into the town to cash a cheque. My uniform lay on the grass outside the tent, clean but wet. I was a soldier. I must obey orders unquestioningly. What was to be done?

Well, I pondered; it is a soldier's business unflinchingly to brave danger and hardship. I must go into the town in pyjamas and run stolidly the gauntlet of curious glances and invidious remarks. The bank lay in the centre of the European quarter. Very well, I must do my duty nevertheless. I was a soldier.

So I wrung out my uniform, changed into it and caught a severe cold.

I suppose they don't give V.C.'s till you have actually figured on the battlefield.

Yours ever,
One of the Punch Brigade.

CONVERSATIONS OF THE MOMENT.

"Why is everybody making such a fuss with that rather ordinary-looking little person?"

"My dear! She has a cellar."

Another Impending Apology.

"NEW BANKING DEPARTURE.

Sir Edward Holden Redeems His Promise."

Daily Sketch.

THE FLIGHT THAT FAILED.

The Emperor. "WHAT! NO BABES, SIRRAH?"

The Murderer. "ALAS! SIRE, NONE."

The Emperor. "WELL, THEN, NO BABES, NO IRON CROSSES."

[Exit murderer, discouraged.

Cyclist. "I have a despatch for the officer in command. Can I see him?"

Sentry (a raw one). "Yus. Shall I fetch un out to 'ee?"

ACCOUNT RENDERED.

Mr. Punch, Sir,—Can you inform me if the Government may be relied upon to pay compensation to all who suffer loss or damage as a result of the War? If so, will you be good enough to advise me how to proceed to get payment for the following items of my own personal loss?

"A marriage has been arranged between Capt. Stokes, 4th (Queen's Own) Hussars, of St. Botolph's, and Mrs. Stokes and Miss Evelyn Wardell and Mrs. John Vaughan of Brynwern, Newbridge-on-Wye."—Welshman.

We hope that without offence we may congratulate him.

"PRIVATE STILLS IN FRANCE."

Daily News.

He is only one of thousands.