E-text prepared by Jonathan Ingram, David King,
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PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
Vol. 150.
March 22, 1916.
"How is it you're not at the Front, young man?
"'Cause these ain't no milk at that end, mum."
CHARIVARIA.
Portugal is now officially at war with Germany, and the dogs of frightfulness are already toasting "der Tagus."
At first the report that Enver Pasha had gone to pay a visit to the tomb of the Prophet at Medina caused a feeling of profound depression in Constantinople; but it is now recognised that there was no other course open to him, as Mahomet was not in a position to visit the Pasha.
Sven Hedin is reported to be at Constantinople, on his way to the Turkish Front. It is supposed that he will undertake the writing of the official despatches, a duty to which the innate modesty of the Osmanli prevents him from doing full justice.
A salmon containing a label marked "U 100" was recently caught in the Avon. No trace of the crew has been found.
It has been discovered in Germany that General Hindenberg is descended from Charlemagne, and an attempt by certain admirers of the Prussian General to visit the scenes of his ancestor's exploits has only been abandoned as the result of an unaccountable opposition on the part of the French.
"Bigamy," declares Mr. Justice Low, "is as low a form of crime as drunkenness." On the other hand there is this to be said for it, that it is seldom found, like drunkenness, to develop into a habit.
A large number of German barbers, it is said, have become naturalized since the commencement of the War, and are now engaged in capturing the trade from the British barbers, many of whom have been taken for military service. Not for nothing, it seems, did the Kaiser say in one of his famous speeches, "The razor must be in our fist."
Mr. Tennant told the House of Commons last week that the War Office had 3,000,000 goat skins. As the statement has given rise to a certain uneasiness it should be explained that all the goats have been safely extracted.
Notwithstanding reports to the contrary, says an official German telegram, the new submarine warfare is in full swing. It should only be a matter of time before those responsible for it find themselves in a similar situation.
A draughtsman of Babylonian and Assyrian antiquities has been discharged by the British Museum in the interests of economy. The artist, it is reported, has already had several attractive offers of employment as a Parliamentary cartoonist.
Onions, we are told, have reached the unprecedented price of thirty shillings a hundredweight, and several of the old established onion bars in the City may have to close their doors.
It is useless, Mr. Hughes warns his English admirers, to defeat Germany in the field unless adequate steps are also taken to stop her inroads upon the Empire's trade. What is wanted is, of course, a counter-stroke.
A well-informed neutral states that the Grand Admiral Tirpitz's unexpected retirement was caused by a rush of blood to the hands.
Another Bulgarian Atrocity.
"The position in Monastir is intolerable, owing to the orgies of the Bulgarian comitadjis. The Greek refugees are in a pitiable plight, especially now the Greek consul has 1 ft."—Balkan News.
Thus crippled he cannot, of course, display his usual activity.
THE KAISER ON KILIMANJARO.
Correspondence in The Times has recalled the fact that Kilimanjaro, from whose neighbourhood the enemy has just been expelled, was included in German East Africa at the special desire of the Kaiser (then Prince William of Prussia). It appears that he took a peculiar interest in the fauna and flora of that district. Incidentally, the highest peak of Kilimanjaro (19,000 feet) is named Kaiser Wilhelm Spitze. The author of these lines does not claim a close acquaintance with the natural history and botany of this region, and cannot therefore vouch for the accuracy of his details.
O mountain of the sounding name,
Kilimanjaro!
Almost as loud as my own fame,
Kilimanjaro!
Plucked from my Empire's jewelled hem
I deemed you once the fairest gem
In my Colonial diadem,
Kilimanjaro!
Not for your height, though you are high,
Kilimanjaro!
And practically scrape the sky,
Kilimanjaro!
But for the beasts and birds and flowers
That nestle in your snowy bowers
I loved you best of all my dowers,
Kilimanjaro!
In one of my Imperial jaunts,
Kilimanjaro!
I looked to penetrate their haunts,
Kilimanjaro!
It was among my dearest hopes
To slay canaries on your slopes
Or trap elusive antelopes,
Kilimanjaro!
I had a passionate wish to snare
(Kilimanjaro!)
Your local beetle in his lair,
Kilimanjaro!
O'er precipices stiff with ice
(Perils for me are full of spice)
To cull your starry edelweiss,
Kilimanjaro!
Alas! the lovely vision fades,
Kilimanjaro!
Never amid your musky glades,
Kilimanjaro—
Never shall I (Gott strafe Smuts!)
Surprise your monkeys gathering nuts
Or chase your wombats' flying scuts,
Kilimanjaro!
And when, as I suppose it must,
Kilimanjaro!
My spirit sheds its mortal crust,
Kilimanjaro!
They'll find beneath my mailéd vest
Your name indelibly impressed
(Along with Calais) on my chest,
Kilimanjaro!
O.S.
"With the use of the various kinds of periscopes we could see quite clearly every movement on the German side, and even hear them talking."—Daily Chronicle.
Try our new periscope, with telephone-attachment.
From a sale catalogue:—
"Remains of Summer Waistcoats, from 3/11."
Nothing doing. Our motto is Vestigia nulla retrorsum.
UNWRITTEN LETTERS TO THE KAISER.
No. XXXVI.
(From Herr Wolfgang Offenmaul, an actor).
Most Gracious Majesty,—How strangely and uncomfortably the Fates sport with us! It is but two years ago, I remember, that it came into my head to look forward to the far-off day when I should shake off the stage and all its agitations, its triumphs, its disappointments and even its jealousies and its quarrels, and should be able to live my own life in the pleasant and happy world of reality. But I put the thought by, for much still remained to me to be endured and achieved in my profession, and I thought that some day, if matters turned out favourably, I might have the supreme glory of impersonating Hamlet or Macbeth under the very eye of your Imperial Majesty and of noting that you were not displeased with the performance of one of the most devoted of your subjects. This hope, springing up in my breast, gave me new strength and a fresh joy in the often dull round of my daily task, for in matters of the stage your Majesty, being, as we often say among ourselves, the greatest actor of us all and having from the earliest years imbibed the love of the footlights and the limelight, is an incomparable judge of the true histrionic art, and a word of praise from you is worth columns and columns in the newspapers. It is to us as when a cobbler's boots are praised by a rival cobbler.
And there is another point which then kept me from giving way any further to my dreams of retirement from the theatre. Real life, so calm for the most part and so regular, is but a dull thing to those who live a fictitious life on the boards, in the midst of excitements and honour and crimes, with murder and sudden death awaiting them, as it were, round the corner. After Hamlet has seen his mother's death, has killed Laertes and the King and has himself expired, what is it to him to come to life again and to sit down, without his royal trappings to a supper of sausage and potatoes, while his wife sits by and darns his stockings and the baby begins to cry in its cot? So thought I, and resolved to continue my career of acting, though I acknowledged that some day, perhaps, in the very distant future, retirement might have its attractions.
All this was before the War broke out. When that happened I, like the rest, was seized and thrust into a uniform and made to remember my drill and was presented with a rifle and a bayonet. Finally, with my regiment I was marched off to the Front in France, where I still linger in daily expectation of death. Dreadful things have I seen, men blown into nothingness by shells, men pierced through and through by the steel, women murdered and worse than murdered, and children crushed under fallen walls—sights I cannot bear to think of, though they force themselves upon me and murder sleep. I was, perhaps, unduly contemptuous of real life, but now I abhor it and try in vain to put it away from me. I desire with a full-hearted longing to return to that life of imagination where the most dreadful bloodshed ends at about eleven o'clock every evening, without leaving any impression on those who take part. Yes, give me again the life of the theatre and remove far away this brutal scenery of trenches and shells and bombs and quick-firers and men summoned from peace and ease to cut one another's throats because a histrion Kaiser has so willed it and none of his subjects dared to say him nay. To get away from this and never to return to it I would willingly consent to play the First Murderer in Macbeth for the remainder of my life. It would be an innocent and an honourable occupation compared with what I am forced day by day and night by night to endure.
Yours, in respectful despair, Wolfgang Offenmaul.
ANOTHER CONSCIENTIOUS OBJECTOR.
Mr. McKenna. "PREMIUM BONDS TO HELP TO WIN THE WAR! OH, MY DEAR FRIENDS! THINK OF OUR MORAL PRINCIPLES!"
THE WATCH DOGS.
XXXVI.
My dear Charles,—I am afraid you'll be worrying about me again, wondering why I'm lying doggo, what mischief I'm up to, or whether anything has happened to me. Something has happened, but I'm not quite sure myself what it is. Anyhow, I'll tell you all I know. It wasn't in the Gazette proper; it was in the "Memoranda." It referred to a Second Lieutenant (Temporary Lieutenant), intimating that he was to hold the acting rank of Captain while engaged in present duties, which looks to me as if they are giving nothing away but want to keep in with me till they have settled up matters with the Bosch. When the trouble shows signs of being about to end, they'll either make me a Temporary General and hand me over to the enemy as a sop, or else they will turn round on me and tell me that, being a Temporary Memorandum, I'm nothing at all; am I going quietly or must they put the handcuffs on me? As the saying is, "it ain't 'ardly safe"; at any moment one may find oneself in a bowler hat being jostled by the crowd and wholly estranged from Mr. Cox, of Charing Cross. Meanwhile I'm a Captain, or parading as such, and I carry in my pocket a leash of "crowns" and a yard of braid (with adhesive back) in case of further developments.
Talking of civilian hats, by the way, my particular class of soldier, never spoilt by over-fussing, has dismal expectations as to the finale. We feel that, when the other side sees light and is prepared to submit to judgment, with costs, we shall be the last to leave for home, and when we get there all the beer will be sold out.
Meanwhile I'm going along nicely, and by saying nothing but looking a lot I've created quite an air of importance around me, which induces all sorts of regimental officers to salute me at first sight and to wish they hadn't on further acquaintance. It's an ever-increasing difficulty, this matter of saluting: in a part of the world where there's a General round every other corner I can never make up my mind on the spur of the moment what to do about Majors and suchlike. Some like a salute, others don't. I have invented a gesture of my own which is entirely non-committal and gives satisfaction to both. Those who don't look for a salute put it down to an excess of geniality; those who do expect one put it down to ignorance combined with anxiety to please.
Only once has it got me into trouble so far. The occasion is worth mentioning, since I was at the time talking to a General in a public place. (Yes, there we were, talking away about nothing in particular, "conversing," I might say, just as it might have been you and myself passing the time of day. Very impressive). A Major, one of the expectant sort, came up from behind the General; when he was within distance of the august back he saluted it. It was one of those salutes which could be felt, but, as it happened, the General didn't feel it. The problem at once arose, what was I to do, with the Major's stony eye full upon me? The waggle, obviously, but in a modified degree, since it doesn't do to be fidgetting with your hands when you're being talked to by your elders and betters. I went through the motions, therefore, meaning them to mean that, though I was chatting with a General, yet I wasn't above saluting a Major. He mistook the movement, however, and thought that I thought that, because I was chatting with a General, therefore he'd saluted me! My goodness, we nearly lost the War that time!
But don't you believe all this talk about military discipline. Take the case of my own Colonel, for instance, a man who, before he took to staff work, had probably dug enough trenches, put out enough barbed wire and, generally, made enough mess of respectable agricultural land to earn for himself a special vote of censure from the United Association of French and Belgian Farmers. Now, there's a soldier, if ever there was one; but are his orders obeyed when they don't fit in with the convenience of his subordinates?
You shall judge for yourself. The other day he made up his mind, not casually or by the way, but in writing, duly signed, sealed and circulated, that "The moon will rise to-morrow at 4.43 A.M." Did the moon comply? No, Sir, it did not; I'm told it was absent from parade altogether. Did my Colonel put it under arrest? Did he even call for its reasons in writing? Again, no. On the contrary, he weakly gave in, saying that he'd got the time out of an almanack supplied by his Insurance Company, and that "the man from the Insurance" was to blame for sticking the pages together and getting him into an inappropriate month. What I say is an order's an order, and it is nothing to do with the moon where the Colonel gets his ideas from.
Call it fear or favour, I only know that when I'm informed that I am to rise at 5 A.M. to-morrow morning, and, with no intention of disobeying, I ask very quietly and very politely if they remember that this is March and not July, at the very least I shall be told that I ought to be ashamed of being a civilian instead of openly behaving as such. Yours ever, Henry.
ANOTHER INDISPENSABLE.
The war artist's model.
Herodias?
"Any lady requiring Head of two Parlourmaids or Under Parlourmaid, we know of several."—Morning Paper.
"Bombardier G. Dougherty, R.A.M.C. ... has been given the D.C.M. ... for twice repairing telephone wires under a terrific storm of fire."—Morning Paper.
Conscientious objectors will note the new rank and duty of R.A.M.C. men.
"Two large jewel robberies in London, in which property to the value of several thousands of pounds has been stolen, are being invested by the police."—Morning Paper.
In Exchequer Bonds, no doubt. But we hope they have reserved a few pairs of bracelets for the thieves when they catch them.
MR. JOHN'S PORTRAIT OF MR. GEORGE.
The generally favourable opinion of Mr. Augustus John's striking portrait of Mr. Lloyd George is not shared by everybody. The following criticism of the picture has reached us, and as it represents a point of view which, so far as we know, has not found sympathy in the Press opinions which have already appeared, we print it for the edification of the artist, the sitter and any others who may have a few moments to devote to the subject.
I should like to say (writes our correspondent) on behalf of myself and of many worthy members of my congregation that Mr. Augustus John has missed a great opportunity in painting his portrait of our greatest Welshman.
In the first place, surely it lacks dignity. In it Mr. Lloyd George, who is pre-eminently a man capable of looking you straight in the eye, is depicted as looking someone else obliquely in the eye. I would that his strong features had been accompanied by a direct and thoughtful gaze, instead of that petulant side-glance, which to all of us who know the smiling candour of the Minister of Munitions is so foreign an expression.
I cannot speak with authority about the sitter's raiment. At the same time I must register my dislike of these clothes, which appear to have the mud of the golf-links still fresh upon them. Surely the artist should have persuaded Mr. Lloyd George to wear his black coat and vest for the occasion.
Hanging from a cord is something in the nature of an aid to vision. I cannot determine whether it is a pince-nez or a monocle. The uncertainty is irritating. Is it possible that the Minister has taken to wearing a single eye-glass? If so, why has not the artist put it in the sitter's eye? And as to the hair—Heaven forbid that I should cast any reflection upon any man of Mr. Lloyd George's age possessing abundant locks; on the contrary, I congratulate him; but in all my experience I have never yet known a portrait to be taken without the sitter being requested first of all to brush his hair. Why has Mr. Augustus John flown in the face of all precedent by neglecting this simple yet desirable precaution?
I feel very strongly that nothing in the portrait indicates the sitter's nationality, his profession, his love of home, his favourite recreation or his religious convictions. These, I venture to say, are grave omissions. The picture is sadly wanting in suitable accessories. If I had been painting it I should have put a simple yellow daffodil in the Minister's buttonhole, and pictured through an open window a sunlit bed of leeks, with perhaps a goat gambolling among them. I should have represented the Minister of Munitions in his study practising putting with a small bomb. And on the wall should have been a life-size portrait of the Rev. Dr. Clifford.
Officer at Front (reading letter from home). "The other day we went to see the ruins of a house which had been bombed by a Zeppelin. You can't imagine what it was like!"
"The elements so mixed" again.
"The air is the new element, and all the evidence suggests that we are at sea in it." Star.
Le Mouton Enragé.
"Sheep, and also other wild animals, have a trying time in procuring their necessary food."
That's what makes them so wild.
A Hero at Zero.
"Fish for the Canadian troops. The supply has been organised by Major Hughie Green, who is known as the 'Canadians' Fishmonger-General,' and has travelled in a frozen condition 2,000 miles across the Dominion."—Daily Mirror.
"A young farm hand who appealed to the Coalville Tribunal for exemption yesterday, when asked whether an older brother could not take his place on the farm, replied that his brother's feet were too small for work on the land."—Morning Paper.
We hope that his own are not too cold for work in the trenches.
"Mr. Mark Blow will be known henceforth as 'Mr. Mark.'"—Theatrical Paper.
The Blow may have fallen, but this British Mark shows no decline.
THE NEW PATRIOTISM.
Epoch-Making Assembly.
A public meeting, summoned under the auspices of the Candid Friends of England, has just been held at the Hall of the Grousers' Company, in Little Britain. The chair was taken by Mr. Outhwaite.
The Chairman, opening the meeting, said that the inception of the League was due to a number of public-spirited men who had come to the conclusion, very unwillingly, that the country was still insufficiently instructed as to the inherent and abysmal incapacity of every member of the Government. (Cheers.) It was true that certain sections of the Press did what they could to point this out, and there was also the noble, patriotic and self-sacrificing work carried on in the House at Question-time. (Loud cheers.) But he was sorry to say that there still remained a considerable and, alas! not wholly negligible number of persons in the country who hugged the quaint superstition that a Cabinet Minister could be earnest, capable and diligent. It was these benighted folk whom they desired to reach and convert. Not till every Englishman had been convinced that England was rotten could he (the speaker) and his friends rest content. (Frantic applause.) They were met to-day to listen to the views of various eminent gentlemen as to how best to spread this gospel.
Sir Arthur Markham, who was received with cheers, said that no one who had followed his recent speeches could be in any doubt as to the turpitude and sloth of the men whom a mischievous caprice had set at the head of this country's affairs. He for one should never cease to clamour for their dismissal. He begged to move a resolution that in the opinion of that important and representative meeting a complete change of Government was instantly necessary. (A Voice: "Not only now, but always.") No doubt there was something in what that gentleman said, but for the present perhaps "always" had better be omitted. The essence of the truest patriotism was distrust of one's rulers and dissatisfaction with one's country. (Hear! Hear!).
Mr. Austin Harrison, in seconding, said that the finest heritage of an Englishman was freedom of speech, and the more that freedom became licence the finer the Englishman. (Cheers.) By freedom of speech he meant the right to say instantly whatever came into one's head, particularly if it appeared to belittle one's own country. Because one could not belittle England really. England was too great for that. But it was salutary to try. It was also valuable to our Allies, because it tended to prove to them how much in earnest and how united we must be.
A great sensation was now caused by the appearance of "An Englishman" from Carmelite Street. This gentleman, who, like the man who dined with the Kaiser, desiring his anonymity to be respected, wore a John Bull mask and brandished an ebony cane, made the Prime Minister the special mark of his attack. What, he asked, could be expected of a politician so crafty and lost to shame as to bid the House wait and see? Was it not the very essence of good statesmanship to blurt out everything at once? Only a craven time-server would say wait and see. Waiting was a contemptuous proceeding wherever practised, and seeing required eyes, which Heaven knows the Premier woefully lacked. (Cheers.) What right had an incorrigible hoodwinker such as Mr. Asquith to advise anyone to see? It was monstrous. Let the people get rid of this impostor without a twinge of compunction, and the sooner the better. As to swapping horses in mid-stream being unwise, perhaps it was, but it was not unwise in the way that waiting to see was. (Applause.)
Another masked gentleman, who was understood to be "Callisthenes" of Oxford Street, now rose to make a few useful suggestions. He said that as the only journalist who wrote what was practically the leading article in four evening papers every day, he surely was entitled to speak with some authority. The question was how to get it into the country's head that England's only chance for recovering her self-respect and winning the War was to cry stinking fish? (Loud cheers.) Well, the best way was to keep on saying it in and out of season. His experience had taught him that everything will bear saying not merely three times, but three thousand times and three.
Mr. Amery said it was ridiculous to suppose that any Cabinet Minister wished the War to end or England to be victorious. The contrary was an axiom on which the whole future of his political creed was based. One had but to look at them to see how flabby and vacillating they were and how devoted to the pickings of office.
Mr. Hogge said that the Chairman in his opening remarks had disregarded one of the most valuable media for spreading the blessed news that England was at her last gasp, throttled by place-hunters and parasites. That was the variety stage. It was wonderful what a good comic song could do. He had heard one only the night before, in which its singer had been vociferously applauded at the end of a verse which stated that there were now no German spies in England because they had all been naturalised and given War Office clerkships. That was the kind of home truth which the public appreciated and even paid their money to hear. There could not be too many songs of that kind.
Mr. Bernard Shaw said that another way was to induce publishers to issue new and amended editions of those popular writers who had been betrayed by impulsiveness or short-sight into eulogies of England. He remembered several such unfortunate outbursts in the works of the national poet. There was, for example, that ill-balanced utterance of the dying John of Gaunt in praise of our little isle; but of course one could not expect the intellect to be at its best just before dissolution. Still, they would all agree that Shakspeare would be the wholesomer without that passage. (Cheers.)
The Chairman then put the resolution to the meeting and it was carried unanimously. In bidding the gathering farewell the Chairman impressed upon them that their rule of life should be a constant and voluble mistrust of our leaders. It should be a point of honour with them to deny that the First Lord of the Admiralty could possibly know anything about the Navy, or wish it to succeed; that the Chancellor of the Exchequer could possibly know anything about finance; or the Prime Minister have the elements even of common intelligence. (Loud cheers.)
The meeting then broke up singing either "For they (the Cabinet) are wholly bad fellows," or "Fool Britannia, Britannia's fooled and slaved."
Fashions for Fathers.
"The bride was given away by her father, who was daintily gowned in a pale blue silk dress, with veil and orange blossoms lent by the bride's eldest sister."—Provincial Paper.
"Very often it happens that a blank space is seen in the press, especially in the Sheung Po, the organ of the Seventy-two Guilds. It is surprising to see to-day's issue of that paper. A space, about one and a half feet long and six feet wide, is vacant. Only five words remain in that space, namely, 'Taken away by the Censor.'"—South China Morning Post.
Some of our censors should go to China. They would have real scope there.
"The French Government emphatically and categorically denounce as lies many statements made in the German official reports on the fighting in the Verdun theatre. Although, they say, the Germans usually travesty the truth, they have not before issued such fragrant lies."—Provincial Paper.
Their offence is rank; it smells to heaven.
DRESS "AS USUAL."
(A Protest from Mr. Punch.)
The National Organising Committee for War Savings has issued an appeal against extravagance in women's dress.
Certain ladies—just a section
Of our spindle side—
Swerving in a wrong direction,
Dress have deified;
And, as incomes grow more slender,
Bring discredit on their gender
By refusing to surrender
Fashion for their guide.
Most of England's wives and daughters
Play a noble part,
In the very deepest waters
Never losing heart;
Danger and privation braving,
Nursing, helping, toiling, slaving,
Thinking vastly more of saving
Than of looking smart.
Highly-paid officials slate us,
Dwelling on the ills
Which infallibly await us
In our empty tills;
But these frenzied fair ones, furious
in the quest of the luxurious,
Still pursue a most injurious
Cult of frocks and frills.
True, our Ministerial teachers
Fail us in the fight,
For the practice of the preachers
Sins against the light;
Still "Two Wrongs"—for so the sages
Crystallize the lore of ages
Gathered at successive stages—
"Do not make a Right."
Birds of Paradise are grateful
Under skies serene;
But the human type is hateful
On a tragic scene;
When the outlook's drear and cloudy
Punch would rather see you dowdy
Than extravagant and rowdy
In your dress and mien.
True simplicity is tasteful;
Think before you spend;
Woeful want attends the wasteful
In the bitter end;
You who, when the world is mourning,
All remonstrance lightly scorning,
Only think of self-adorning,
Sadden Punch, your friend.
Let Sleeping Birds Lie.
"Someone had said it was 'far better to have the birds driven over one than to have to wake them up.'"—Scottish Paper.
"The Council of the Poetry Society has confirmed the appointment of Mr. Galloway Kyle as acting editor of the 'Poultry Review.'"
Now that official action has been taken we may expect an increase in the number of lays.
Exhilarated Visitor (leaving Club). "The feller who caught that fish's dem liar."
EYE-WASH.
(A Military Episode in Two Scenes.)
Scene I.—The outskirts of a wood. Time, during an inspection of our Battalion "at its duties."
Second-Lieutenant Wood and his platoon are erecting a wire entanglement. To them enter Second-Lieutenant Brown in great excitement.
S.-L. Brown. I say——
S.-L. Wood. Run away, dear. No time for you. Brass hats expected in large numbers.
S.-L. B. I've lost my platoon.
S.-L. W. Have you looked in all your pockets, Freddy?
S.-L. B. I sent it up under the Sergeant, and he must have mistaken the place, strafe him! And I told the Adjutant I'd be the other side of this wood, doing Visual Training, when the General came round.
S.-L. W. (impressed at last). My hat, you're in for it! Look out, here they come.
Second-Lieutenant Brown fades into the landscape.
Enter the General and the C.O., with Staff-Captain, Adjutant and Sergeant-Major. The Platoon labours on and takes no notice. Second-Lieutenant Wood comes to attention and salutes. The General remarks on the fine physique of the men, inspects the wire entanglement and explains how he used to do it when he was a subaltern. Private Hogg, a recruit unused to Generals, stands gazing awestruck, but catches the Adjutant's eye and, gets on feverishly with his work. The cortège passes on, and the platoon heaves a sigh of relief and stands easy.
Re-enter Second-Lieutenant Brown.
S.-L. W. Go away, my good man; we've nothing for you.
S.-L. B. I say, like a good chap——They confer earnestly. Curtain.
Scene II.—The other side of the wood. Time, two minutes later.
Enter Second-Lieutenant Brown at the double with Second-Lieutenant Wood's platoon. He hurriedly gets it to work at Visual Training.
Enter General, with suite as before. The platoon carries on, taking no notice. Second-Lieutenant Brown comes to attention and salutes. The General praises the appearance of the men and explains how Visual Training was taught before the Crimean War. The Adjutant suddenly recognises Private Hogg and develops a nasty cough.
The General (to C.O. as they move away). But do you think, Colonel, that either of those smart young officers of yours would keep their heads in a sudden emergency?
The Adjutant restrains a natural desire to wink at the Sergeant-Major.
Curtain.
Tommy (home on leave). "Come on, Miss, hurry up with the lift! I've only got five days."
NURSERY RHYMES OF LONDON TOWN.
I.—KINGSWAY.
Walking on the King's Way, lady, my lady,
Walking on the King's Way, will you go in red?
With a silken wimple, and a ruby on your finger,
And a furry mantle trailing where you tread?
Neither red nor ruby I'll wear upon the King's Way;
I will go in duffle grey with nothing on my head.
Walking on the King's Way, lady, my lady,
Walking on the King's Way, will you go in blue?
With an ermine border, and a plume of peacock feathers,
And a silver circlet, and a sapphire on your shoe?
Neither blue nor sapphire I'll wear upon the King's Way;
I will go in duffle grey, and barefoot too.
Walking on the King's Way, lady, my lady,
Walking on the King's Way, will you go in green?
With a golden girdle, and a pointed velvet slipper,
And a crown of emeralds fit for a queen?
Neither green nor emerald I'll wear upon the King's Way;
I will go in duffle grey so lovely to be seen,
And Somebody will kiss me and call me his queen.