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PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 150.

January 19, 1916.

CHARIVARIA.

In a description of Lord Kitchener's home at Broome Park we read that on the way there one passes a kind of crater known by the rustics as "Old England's Hole." And a little farther on you come to the man who got Old England out of it.

A German professor advocates the appointment of State matrimonial agents. Elderly and experienced ladies and gentlemen should be employed to bring young people together, and "unostentatiously to give them practical counsel, conveying their remarks tactfully, and in such a way as not to awaken the spirit of contradiction found in youthful minds;" paying due regard, moreover, to theories of eugenics and heredity. The Winged Boy disguised as an antique German professor makes an attractive picture.

Some anxiety was caused in America by the news that the Ford Peace party was to meet in the Zoo at the Hague. But they have all emerged safely.

The Governor of South Carolina, who was one of the members of this heroic mission, left the Hague in a great hurry and returned to America before the rest of the delegates. Much curiosity is expressed as to what the Governor of North Carolina will have to say to him on this occasion.

In spite of the Government's official discouragement of any further rise in wages a demand for an increase of no less than 33-1/3 per cent, has been made by the "knockers-up" in the Manchester district. For going round in the chill hours of the morning and wakening the workers, these blood-suckers (chiefly old men and cripples) receive at present the princely remuneration of threepence per head per week; and they have now the effrontery to ask for fourpence.

The German Government has decided to raise the charge for telegrams. Wolff's Bureau has instructed its correspondents that in order to meet this new impost the percentage of truth in its despatches must be still further diminished.

Before the opening of the Luxemburg Parliament two members of the Opposition threw the chairs belonging to Ministers out of the window. It is feared that something of the kind may be attempted at Westminster, since several Members have been observed to cast longing eyes upon the Treasury Bench.

With a view to increasing the food-supply the German Government have extended the time for shooting hares from January 16th to February 1st, and for pheasants from February 1st to March 1st. The dachshund season, we understand, will be continued for the duration of the War.

Count Kospoth, a member of the Prussian Upper House, in the course of an energetic plea for economy, remarks that "at one's country-seat one can very well do without a motor-car, and even with two to four horses in stables instead of six or eight." This was read with great satisfaction by the Berlin Hausfrau on a meatless day when the bread-card was exhausted.

The House of Commons was quite relieved when Sir George Reid took his seat. There had been some fears that he would take two.

A young woman who mistook Vine-street police station for a tavern, and was fined ten shillings for drunkenness, is reported to have expressed the opinion that there is room for improvement in the nomenclature of our public edifices.

"My grave doubt," writes a Conscientious Objector regarding his fellows, "is whether there is any reasonable chance that most of them will be able to convince a tribunal that their conscientious objection is real." It may comfort him to know that his doubt is very widely shared.

"Dear Mr. Punch," writes a soldier at the Front who has been reading the Parliamentary reports,—"Do you think an officer out here who developed 'conscientious objections' might get a week's leave?"

In the course of a debate in the Reichstag on the German Press Bureau it was revealed that the Censor had struck out quotations from Goethe as being dangerous to the State. Our man who tinkered with Kipling is wonderfully bucked by this intelligence.

Bread is the staff of life, and, in the view of certain officers in the trenches, whose opinions we cannot of course guarantee, the life of the Staff is one long loaf.

Extracted from the report of an enthusiastic company commander after a brisk action with some tribesmen on the Indian Frontier: "The men were behaving exactly as if on ceremonial parade. They laughed and talked the whole time...." We seem to recognise that parade.

Extract from letter from an Unconscientious Slacker.

"Dear Lord Kitchener,—I am not a good walker, which prevents my joining the Infantry. As I have no experience of horses, the Cavalry is also out of the question. The Artillery I don't care for on account of the noise, and flying makes me giddy. The A.S.C. does not appeal to me, and the R.A.M.C. would entail some very unpleasant duties.

"So you had better not worry about me. Perhaps when the fine weather comes I may think about the Navy. I am rather keen on boating...."

"We have from the first declared that should the voluntary system fail to supply the men needed to win the war and who could be spared from civil war we would accept and support it."

Manchester Guardian.

Unfortunately, to judge by the proceedings at the Labour Conference, the claims of civil war are very heavy.

This paragraph from "Town Topics" in The Liverpool Echo—

"We know that many of our men—especially the single ones, judging by the Derby figures—are sheltering behind skirts"—

helps to explain this one:—

"Several lady tram-conductors in the city declare they are denied the common courtesies far more by women passengers of the female gender than by men."

The insistence upon the sex of the uncivil females is necessary to distinguish them from the male civilians.

"Furnished house (small) wanted in Edinburgh; with ballroom, h. & c."—Scotsman.

Hot for the chaperons and cold for the dancers.

TO THE PRO-SHIRKERS.

[Thirty-nine Members voted against the Second Reading of the Military Service Bill.]

You that in civilian lobbies,

While the battle-thunder rolls,

Hug your little party hobbies,

So to save your little souls,

Treating England's deadly peril like a topic for the polls;

Half of you—the record's written—

Lately strode to Downing Street

And for love of Little Britain

Wallowed at the Premier's feet,

Urging him to check the wanton waste of our superfluous Fleet.

Had your passionate prayer been granted

And the Kaiser got his way,

Teuton crushers might be planted

On our hollow tums to-day,

And a grateful foe be asking what you want for traitors' pay.

Disappointed with the Navy,

You in turn were keen about

Putting Thomas in the gravy,

Leaving Thomas up the spout,

Lest if adequately aided he should wipe the strafers out.

Well, our memories may be rotten,

Yet they'll stick to you all right;

Not so soon shall be forgotten

Those whose hearts were fixed more tight

On the salvage of a fetish than the winning of the fight.

When the Bosches bite the gutter

And we let our tongues go loose,

Franker words I hope to utter

In the way of free abuse,

But at present I am badly hampered by the party truce.

O. S.

WHITTLING THEM DOWN.

Dear Mr. Punch,—I know you must be longing to have my analysis of the Derby figures. I hasten to comply, for I may say that I have never, since the War began, had finer scope for my individual talents. Never have I had—not even in the great Copper Controversy—a bunch of figures of which it may more truly be said that they are not what they seem, that there is more in them than meets the eye, and that they contain wheels within wheels. And first of all, Sir, I hope you will allow me to explain where I am in this matter; everybody's doing it; and you will then see at once the moral grandeur of my attitude. I am a convinced believer in the Voluntary System, always have been—on principle. But I am willing to sacrifice even that for victory. If it can be shown that by compulsion one single man can be added to our forces who would not have volunteered (even if he had been scientifically bullied), I will be willing to adopt conscription. But, Sir, it cannot be shown.

The crux of the situation admittedly lies with the figures of the Single Men. (In case of misapprehension I should make it clear that when I spoke above of "one single man" I did not mean one unmarried man, but one sole man). We have to begin our attack upon this figure of 651,160 unstarred single men unaccounted for. It seems a good many. But wait a bit. We shall now proceed to concentrate a powerful succession of deductions. It only needs a fearless and patriotic ingenuity.

Let us not disregard obvious facts. From this number we must subtract—

(1) Ministers of religion: 5 per cent.
(2) Mercantile Marine: 5 "
(3) Medically unfit: 40 "
(4) Criminals: 1-3/4 "
(5) Badged: 10 "
(6) Indispensables: 10 "

Total 71-3/4 per cent. You see we are already getting on. But before going any further we had better consolidate the ground already won by making certain additions, in case any one man has been counted twice. These are—

(1) Ministers of religion who are also medically unfit.
(2) Criminals in the mercantile marine.
(3) Ministers of religion in the mercantile marine.
(4) Criminals who are medically unfit.
(5) Indispensable criminals.
(6) Badged criminal ministers of religion.

These categories taken together may be put at 7-1/4 per cent. of our 71-3/4 per cent., and must be deducted from the deductions. There are also the blind, halt and maimed, deaf, dumb and inebriate, but I am willing to throw all of them in so as to be on the safe side.

So far we have to deduct, then, some 66-1/2 per cent. from our total. We must do better than that if we are to get on the right side of negligibility. So now we come to examine the canvass. A good many men were not canvassed, or at least misunderstood the canvasser. I know of one man in my constituency (unstarred, unbadged, fit, single and of army age) who thought the fellow had come to collect for Foreign Missions, to which he has a conscientious objection.

Along with these I propose to deduct the great class of what I shall call the Self-centred. These are they who not only were never canvassed, but didn't even so much as hear about it, who had probably given up newspapers as a war economy and were living quiet virtuous lives in out-of-the-way places. Add to them removals and conscientious objectors (less allowance for conscientious removals) and we have a total not short of 27-1/2 per cent.

Then again, as the supply of recruits becomes exhausted, it must always be remembered that we are dealing with a residuum. That is to say, those that remain are always growing more conscientious, more criminal, more unfit, more mercantile and so on. However, I count nothing for that, for I haven't much of my total left to dispose of, and I have still to deal with spoiled cards.

Everyone who has assisted at a contested election knows very well that many mistakes occur. I propose to allow 3 per cent. for illegible cards which prevented the canvasser from tracking his prey, 4 per cent. for those who failed to find the recruiting office owing to misdirection, but will be sure to find it before long, and 1/2 per cent. for sundries, such as men who were temporarily confined to the house.

Our final result is thoroughly satisfactory, and one that must give Compulsionists some food for thought, for however much they may wish to introduce the principle they cannot desire to reduce our forces in the field in the middle of a great war. In a word, we must deduct 101-1/2 per cent. from 651,160. That gives us an adverse balance of 9,767. This means that, if the present Bill is to go through and compulsion is definitely adopted, nearly half a division of our present army must be disbanded forthwith. It is just as well that we should see clearly what we are heading for.

It has given me great pleasure to have the opportunity of clearing up this vexed question.

I am, Yours as usual,

Statistician. Bis.

For neutrals

"Why do we torpedo passenger ships? Because we are being starved by the infamous English."

For natives

"Who says we are in distress? Look what our splendid organisation is doing!"

.............

THE IRREPRESSIBLES.

Nurse (of private hospital). "A message has just come in to ask if the hospital will make a little less noise, as the lady next door has a touch of headache."

EVEN.

["Even the food of the men was wholesome and abundant."—Report of a German Correspondent who visited the High Canal Fleet.]

Sing ho! for the Fleet in the Kiel Canal.

Where every man is the Kaiser's pal,

And lives upon beer and bread;

And they all have food, so help them Bill!

For every officer gets his fill

And even the men are fed.

His beard as long as his hair is short,

Von Tirpitz says with a mighty snort,

"We've money and men and boats;

We're here to-day and we're here to-morrow;

Pass up the beer and drink death to sorrow;

Why, even our Navy floats!

"Behind the locks of our snug retreat

We hurl defiance at Jellicoe's Fleet

From Rosyth down to Dover!

We look across at the wet, wet sea

And we drink our beer till even we

Are almost half-seas over!

"Our men can eat, and they even drink;

They walk and talk, and they almost think;

They can turn to the left and right;

And when we strike a blow in the back,

Or sink a liner or fishing-smack,

By Odin, they even fight!"

Two headlines that appeared side by side in the same issue of an Evening Paper:—

"WOMAN WILL PROBABLY BE TRIED IN CAMERA.
GERMAN FEARS FOR LENS."

"'Most of the world's real literature was written by poor authors in their garrets.'

'Quite so. Homer, for example, wrote in the Attic.'"—Evening Paper.

Did he now? And we were always taught that he wrote (or, rather, sang) in the Ionic.

From an article on the Clyde disputes:—

"Contrary to the instructions of the Munitions Ministry, peace-prices are sometimes reduced, with resulting friction."

Daily News.

We are glad to learn that the Scotch workmen do not belong to the peace-at-any-price brigade.

THE CONQUEST.

Every January so long as I can remember it has been difficult; but this year more so than ever. I cannot say why, except that last year was peculiarly eventful and momentous.

The odd thing is that one begins so well. For the first day, at any rate, one can do it quite easily; but it is after then that one has to be vigilant; and however vigilant one is there are off-guard moments when the fatal slip occurs.

Nor will any mechanical device assist you, for nothing can successfully defeat the wandering of the mind. Continuous concentration is an impossibility; there is nothing for it but habit—a new habit that shall be as strong as the old—or the total cessation of all correspondence and (O that 'twere possible!) all making out of cheques.

Still conquest comes sooner or later, and I have reached that point in my own struggle. I have at last finally got over the tendency to write 1915.

"As a result of the Labour Conference at Westminster yesterday, a resolution was sunk on Lake Tanganyika."—Western Daily Press.

The best place for it.

A NEW THEATRICAL VENTURE.

A friend of mine has started as manager of his first theatre these holidays. It may seem to you an unpropitious moment for such a beginning, but in many ways this special theatre is exceptionally well guaranteed against failure. The proprietor was kind enough to invite my presence at his opening performance. As a matter of fact I had myself put up the money for it.

Naturally I was anxious for the thing to be a success. The theatre stands on what you could truthfully call a commanding situation at one end of the schoolroom table. It is an elegant renaissance edifice of wood and cardboard, with a seating accommodation only limited by the dimensions of the schoolroom itself, and varying with the age of the audience. The lighting effects are provided in theory by a row of oil foot-lamps, so powerful as to be certain, if kindled, to consume the entire building; in practice, therefore, by a number of candle-ends, stuck in the wings on their own grease. These not only furnish illumination, but, when extinguished (as they constantly are by falling scenery) produce a penetrating aroma which is specially dear to the managerial nostrils.

The manager, to whom I have already had the pleasure of introducing you, is Peter. I have been impatiently waiting for the moment of Peter's first theatre, these nine years. Like marbles or Treasure Island, it is at once a landmark and a milestone in the present-giving career of an uncle. So I had devoted some considerable care to its selection.

In one respect Peter's theatre reminds me of the old Court in the days of the Vedrenne-Barker repertory. You recall how one used to see the same people at every performance, a permanent nucleus of spectators that never varied? The difference is that Peter's permanent nucleus are neither so individually agreeable nor in any true sense enthusiasts of the drama. Indeed, being painted on the proscenium, with their backs to the stage, the effect they produce is one of studied indifference. Nay more, a horrible suspicion about them refused to be banished from my thoughts; it was based partly upon the costumes of the ladies, partly on the undeniably Teutonic suggestion in the gentlemen's uniforms. However, I said nothing about this to Peter.

Despite the presence of these unpleasing persons, the opening performance must be pronounced a real success. Perhaps more as a spectacle than anything else. Scenically the show was a triumph; the memory of the Forest Glade especially will remain with me for weeks by reason of the stiff neck I got from contorting myself under Peter's guidance to the proper angle for its appreciation. But histrionically it must be confessed that things dragged a little. Perhaps this was due to a certain severity, not to say baldness, in the dialogue as spoken. Not having read the script, I have a feeling that it might be unfair to judge the unknown author by the lines as rendered by Peter, who was often pre-occupied with other anxieties. As, for example, the scene in the Baronial Castle between its noble but unscrupulous proprietor and a character introduced by Peter with the simple notice: "This is a murderer coming on now."

Baron. Oh, are you a murderer?

Murderer. Yes.

Bar. Oh, well, you've got to murder the Princess.

Murd. All right.

Bar. That's all of that scene.

Crisp, of course, and to the point; but I feel sure that there must have been more in the interview as originally written.

Perhaps, again, the cast was to blame for whatever may have been disappointing in the performance. Individually they were a fine company, passionate and wiry of gesture, and full of energy. Indeed their chief fault sprang from an incapacity to remain motionless in repose. This led to a notable lack of balance. However sensational it may be for the exit of every character to bring down the house, its effect is unfortunately to retard the action of the piece.

Personally I consider that the women were the worst offenders. Take the heroine, for example. Lovely she may have been, though in a style more appreciated by the late George Cruikshank than by myself; but looks are not everything. Art simply didn't exist for her. Revue might have been her real line; or, better still, a strong-woman turn on the Halls. There was the episode, for instance, where, having to prostrate herself before the Baron, she insisted upon a backward exit (with the usual result) and then made an acrobatic re-entrance on her knees.

Tolerant as he was, even Peter began at last to grow impatient at the vagaries of his company. Finally, when the Executioner (a mere walker-on of no importance whatever) had twice brought ridicule upon the ultimate solemnities of the law by his introduction of comic dives off the scaffold, the manager rang down the curtain. Not before it was time.

"They're lovely to look at," he observed, surveying the supine cast, "but awfully difficult to do anything with."

"Peter," I answered gratefully, "as an estimate of the theatrical profession your last remark could hardly be improved upon."

Of course he didn't understand; but, being dramatist as well as uncle, I enjoyed saying it.

Nervous Country Gentleman (as taxi just misses an island). "Do drive carefully, please. I'm not accustomed to taxis."

Driver "That's funny! I ain't used to 'em, neither. As a matter o' fact I've only taken this on for a bet."

"February 3.—A total eclipse of the sun, partly visible at Greenwich as a partial eclipse. Eclipse begins to be visible at Greenwich at 4.31 P. M.; ends after the sun has set."

"February 3.—A partial eclipse of the moon, partly visible at Greenwich. Begins at 4.31 P. M."—Churchman's Almanack.

This double obscuration will make navigation very difficult for sky-pilots.

BADGES.

My companion had the habit of muttering to himself and I was relieved when he leant over and spoke to me. He was a dry little man of middle age, with a nervous kindly face and eyes that twinkled with the voluntary spirit. I had seen him on summer evenings clipping his hedge and pruning his roses, for we lived nearly opposite to each other. Suddenly he emerged from his newspaper and said in a quick determined way, "What this country wants, Sir, is more buttonholes. The best suits have only two buttonholes; that is to say, only two that are superfluous, the rest are all needed by buttons. It's a scandal, Sir!"

"Isn't there one at the bottom of the waistcoat?" I asked.

"Quite useless," he said with much energy, though smiling very kindly. "Quite useless for the purpose. The matter," he added, "would not be so urgent if we had more sleeves. Worse even than the dearth of buttonholes is the lack of eligible sleeves. In peace time two sleeves may have been sufficient; to-day ... Well, you can sympathise." He looked (still smiling) at the khaki armlet that bound my arm and the Special Constable's badge that nestled in my overcoat.

He had the shy decisiveness of a man who seldom spoke his mind. If necessary I would have wrested his name from him and pretended a relationship with his wife. But he needed no encouragement.

"At the beginning, when one was just a special constable, it didn't matter so much. I wore my badge and my armlet when I was on duty and sometimes when I was not. Even when I joined our Volunteer Corps I was not seriously embarrassed. After all, one could alternate the badges and the armlets and, at a pinch, wear them all together. Then I became an unskilled munition worker, which meant three badges and two armlets. At first I wore two on my overcoat and three inside. Then I would give some of them a rest, generally to find that I was wearing the wrong ones on the wrong occasions. Altogether it was very confusing."

"So far," I said with some sympathy, "I can follow you. I am myself an unskilled War Office clerk; but you have forgotten Lord Derby's armlet, which at the moment has the place of honour with me."

"No," he said, "I have that too. And I have another badge. I earned it on New Year's Day."

He took off his spectacles and rubbed them mechanically. It gave him a very detached appearance and he spoke gently, without malice.

"I have an aunt," he said, "by self-election, a most worthy woman, who was my mother's cousin. It came to her ears that I had become a teetotaler for the duration of the war. It appears that there is a badge for temporary teetotalers. She brought me one. She begged me with tears in her eyes to wear it. I remonstrated. I pointed out that if every public and private virtue is to be symbolised in this fashion, people with few vices and a willing heart would soon be perpetually in fancy-dress."

"And what happened?" I asked.

"I wavered for a time and then happily I found a way out. A few days ago it occurred to me that there must be other means, as yet untried, of advertising one's patriotism. I saw a notice in a restaurant I sometimes go to, 'No Germans or Austrians Employed Here.' 'Happy proprietor,' I said, 'who can so trumpet his honesty without increasing either his badges or his armlets!' The fact is that it set me thinking. Eventually I hit on a plan. It was very disappointing to my aunt, but it answers wonderfully."

"May I ask?" I said; "it might be useful."

"Oh, certainly, certainly. We have bought a little enamelled plate and had it fixed to our gate. You may have noticed it. It has the words, 'No Bottles.'"

THE MASCOT.

Adoring Damsel. "And you will wear it always, won't you?"

Popular young Sub. "Thanks awfully. It's frightfully decent of you, and all that, but—er—you see, there's a lot of other little chaps waitin' to do their bit; I'm afraid he'll have to take his turn with the rest."

THE WATCH DOGS.

My dear Charles,—You didn't catch sight of any mention of me in despatches, did you? I have been rather too busy myself to read the list properly, but I did just have time to cast a casual eye over the "H's," and I didn't notice the name of "Henry" standing out in heavy-leaded capitals. It must be an inadvertence, of course. They must have said something about me, as, for instance: "Especially to be remarked is the noble altruism of Lieut. Henry, who on more than one march has been observed to take his pack, containing all his worldly goods, off his back and to hand it without ostentation to some lucky driver of a limber, saying, 'Take it, my lad; your need is greater than mine.'" Or again, referring to my later career: "The pen is mightier than the sword, but Lieut. Henry's indelible pencil, when engaged on official correspondence, is mightier than both." Or at least, at the very beginning of things, I'm quite sure the Mentioner devoted a passing phrase to me: "By the way, I have just received a consignment described on the Movement Order as 'Officer, one, Henry, Lieut.' Speaking frankly as between ourselves, what is it exactly? In any case I would gladly exchange for a dozen tins of bully beef."

Talking of despatches, I see that our old friend the Regimental Anarchist has not escaped notice. I never thought he would, for a less unnoticeable man I don't remember meeting. He is one of those big untidy fellows, very nice for purposes of war and all that, whom not the cleverest adjutant could manage to conceal on a ceremonial parade. His service equipment alone was notorious in the division. While we were still in England he and I used to share a billet. Every night the last thing I saw before going to sleep was the Anarchist trying on a new piece of personal furniture. He had at least a hundred aunts, and each of them had at least a hundred bright ideas; besides which few days went by but he paid a generous visit to the military outfitter. Never in my life shall I forget the sight of him during our last moments at home. While others were stuffing into themselves the last good meal they expected to taste for three years or the duration, he was putting on patent waterproof after patent waterproof. He stepped forth at last, sweating at every pore, and it wasn't raining at the time and didn't look like raining till next winter. The 38-lb. limit prevented his putting more than four coats into his valise, and his method of packing didn't economise space. If there had been any limit, however generous, to the amount of room an officer may occupy in the column of route we'd have had to go abroad without our Anarchist, and a much quieter and more respectable life we'd have had that way.

Even in our earliest days in B.E.F., when we were well behind the firing line, he started playing with fire. Thinking that we shared his low tastes he would gather us round him and lecture us on the black arts.—"This little fellow," he would say, fetching an infernal machine out of his pocket—"this little fellow is as safe as houses provided he has no detonator in his little head. But we will just make sure." A flutter of excitement would pass round the audience as he started unscrewing the top to make sure. "Of course," he'd continue, finding the screw a bit stiff and getting absorbed in his toy—"of course, if there should happen to be a detonator inside, you have only to tickle it and almost anything may happen." While he'd be struggling with the screw, the front row of the audience would be shifting its ground to give the back rows a better view. "You can't be too careful," he'd say, passing it lightly from one hand to the other in order to search for his well-known clasp-knife, "for if you're not careful," he'd explain, tucking the bomb under his arm so as to have both hands free to open the knife—"if you're not careful," he'd say, suddenly letting go the knife in order to catch the bomb as it slid from his precarious hold—"if you're not very careful" (getting to real business with the murderous blade), "very—very—careful...." But none of us were ever near enough by that time to hear what would happen if we weren't (or even if he wasn't).

And then those strange nights in the trenches, when he and I used to be on duty together! I would be waiting in our luxurious, brightly-lit gin-palace of a dug-out for him to join me at our midnight lunch. He'd come in at last, clad in his fleece lining, the only survivor of his extensive collection of overcoats, its absence of collar giving him a peculiarly clerical look. He'd sit down to his cocoa, but hardly be started on the day before yesterday's newspaper (just arrived with the rations) before the private bombardment would begin. I would spring to attention; he would go on reading. "Hush!" I'd say. (Why "Hush!" I don't know.) "What's all that for?" "Me," he'd say, turning to the personal column. And then I'd know that, seizing the opportunity of being unobserved, he'd been out for nocturnal stroll with a handful of bombs, seeking a little innocent pleasure. The gentlemen opposite, not being cricketers themselves or knowing anything about the slow bowler, had, as usual, mistaken him for a trench mortar and were making a belated reply.

Only his servant accompanied him on these jaunts. He was a nice quiet villain, whose lust for adventure had, I always imagine, been long ago satisfied by a dozen or so gentle burglaries in his civilian past. He didn't want to kill people; his job in life was to keep his master alive and well fed. So when the latter went out bombing he thought he might as well go out with him, and occupy himself picking turnips for to-morrow's stew.

When the Anarchist wasn't distributing bombs he was collecting bullets. Being untidy by nature, he didn't particularly care where they hit him, provided they didn't damage his pipe. That was all he cared about, his lyddite and his tobacco. I often wonder how it was he didn't get the two habits of his life mixed up—fill a pipe with H.E., light it and finish off that way. But he didn't; he has just gone on collecting lead, letting it accumulate about his person until it got too heavy to be convenient and then resorting to the nearest hospital to have it removed. I hear he's there now, the result, I gather, of a bit of a show. It was his servant who was walking about that unhealthy field at that imprudent time and found him. One would like to paint a romantic picture of the meeting, but I doubt if there was much romance about it. I am quite sure all the Anarchist cared about was his tobacco pouch and all the servant was interested in was the further collection of vegetables, just in case.

I can see our Anarchist, lying in his little white bed in the hospital, surrounded by his sevenpenny racing novels (with or without covers), his tins of navy-cut (some empty, some full), his fleece lining, his compass, his socks, his field-glasses, his ties, his revolver and his last month's letters (some opened, some not), all jumbled happily together, with his ragged old shaving-brush reigning proudly in the midst. I doubt if he knows he's been "mentioned," for one could never get him to take interest in any news which wasn't "sporting"; possibly he is made suspicious by the uncomfortable presence of unopened telegrams in all corners of his bed. But one thing I do hope, and that is that this bed is, at any rate, not strewn, inside and out, with unexploded hand-grenades.

Yours ever, Henry.

WARFARE AT THE BARBER'S.

"What do you think of the paper this morning, Sir?"

"Quite time we had compulsion, eh?"

....................

"No good shutting our eyes to facts."

"What we want is more energy."

....................

"Of course mistakes will happen"—

"And it's no good pouring cold water on enthusiasm."

....................

"I'm hoping for that 'forward push' in the Spring."

"Well, it will be a great relief when it's all over."

....................

PRUSSIAN DREAM OF PEACE IN THE SPRING.

PROVINCIAL PATRIOTS.

From Jim Figgis, Whitty Bridge, to George Roberts, South Farm, Sudborough.

Dec. 5th. 1915.

Dear George,—I hear the remount officer is coming round your part. I have a compact little bay horse, just the sort for the Army. We must all do our bit now, so here's our chance. The Vet says the horse has laminitis in his off fore foot, but it's all my eye. Anyhow he's the useful sort they require for the Army. They wouldn't look at me if I offered him, but you can get round them. Give me fifty quid and I'll send him over.

Your friend, J. Figgis.

From George Roberts to Jim Figgis.

Dec. 7th, 1915.

Dear Jim,—Yours to hand. No one can say that you're not a good patriot, and I won't be No. 2. But fifty quid for that little horse—not me. Say thirty and he's mine, sound or unsound.

Yours, G. Roberts.

George Roberts to the Hon. Mordaunt Fopstone, White Lion Hotel, Sudborough.

Dec. 10th, 1915.

Dear Sir,—Hearing you are looking out for horses for the Army I write to say I have one or two which I shall be pleased to place at your disposal and at a very reasonable price, as in these times we must all give up something for the country. I shall be pleased to see you at any time convenient, except Tuesday, when I have to be at our local Agricultural Show.

Yours to command,

G. Roberts.

From the Hon. Mordaunt Fopstone to George Roberts.

Dec. 11th, 1915.

Dear Sir,—Thank you for your letter. It is very satisfactory to find local people of your position anxious to help. I will call at your farm on Friday next and see the horses you refer to. With thanks,

Yours truly, M. Fopstone.

P.S.—I have been warned against a man named Figgis. Do you know him?

From George Roberts to the Hon. Mordaunt Fopstone.

Dec. 13th, 1915.

Dear Sir,—Friday will suit me very well for your call, at any time you please. You are quite right to avoid Figgis; he is one of the small horse-dealing class who are a discredit to our country districts. Any further information is at your service.

Yours to command, G. Roberts.

From the Hon. Mordaunt Fopstone to George Roberts.

Dec. 21st, 1915.

Dear Mr. Roberts,—I have now pleasure in enclosing cheque for £65 for bay horse. As stated to you when I called at South Farm, I was not in a position to go beyond £60 without further authorisation; this I have now obtained. Thanking you for the patriotic spirit you have shown in this little business,

Yours truly, M. Fopstone.

From the Adjutant, Royal Beetshire Hussars, Tickful Camp, to Messrs. Davison Bros., The Mart, Southtown.

Jan. 1st, 1916.

Please enter bay gelding, aged, sent herewith, in your next sale without reserve, as he is not sound and of no use to Army.

Memo. from Davison Bros. to Adjutant.

Jan. 17th, 1916.

Dear Sir,—Herewith please find cheque £5 4s. 3d. for bay gelding, being amount realised for same, less our commission and expenses.

Yours faithfully, Davison Bros.

The Times heads an article, "Unity in the Air." It deals, however, with the new Anglo-French Aviation Conference and has nothing to do with the latest Peter Pan.

GALLIPOLI-AND AFTER?

Sultan. "CONGRATULATE ME, WILLIAM. NO ENGLISH REMAIN. I'VE DRIVEN THEM ALL INTO THE SEA!"

Kaiser. "VERY CARELESS OF YOU. WHY, THAT'S THEIR ELEMENT!"