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PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 150.

May 10, 1916.

CHARIVARIA.

Many graphic tales have been told of the immense loads of plunder carried off during the fighting in Dublin; but there has been looting on a large scale elsewhere, if one may believe the headline of a contemporary:—"Man arrested with Colt in his pocket at Bloomsbury."

Says a writer in The Daily Chronicle: "In one neighbourhood within the Zeppelin zone there are hundreds of partridges who defy the Defence of the Realm Act. Two or three hours before anyone else is aware that the baby-killers are approaching these bold birds go chuckle, chuckle, chuckle, as if there were an army of the more human sort of poachers about." Personally we have always felt that the section of the Defence of the Realm Act which forbids one to go chuckle, chuckle, chuckle, when the Zeppelins are approaching is superfluous as well as in inferior taste.

Dr. Walford Davis, in a lecture on "Songs for Home Singing," recently told his hearers how Major Tom Bridges saved a couple of battalions at the Front with two penny whistles. We feel bound to point out however that any attempt to save the nation with the same exiguous weapons would be too hazardous to be encouraged.

Owing to a lack of the necessary dyes there will soon be no more red tape available for the War Office and elsewhere. It is to be hoped, however, that the familiar and picturesque salutation with which staff officers are in the habit of taking leave of one another, "So long, Old Tape!" will not be allowed to become obsolete.

Attention has recently been drawn to the number of strapping boys who are idling their time away in cinema houses in the absence of their fathers at the Front. Their strapping fathers, of course.

According to the President of the Baptist Union, "you must hit a Londoner at least six times before he smarts." We do not presume to dispute this statement, but what we want to know is, how was the Londoner occupied while the President of the Baptist Union was conducting his extremely interesting experiment?

Owing to the scarcity of tonnage, Denmark shipowners have put into commission two 18th-century sailing vessels. Meanwhile in the neighbourhood of Mount Ararat there is, we learn, some talk of organising an expedition for the recovery of the Ark with a view to her utilisation in the cattle-carrying trade.

The Recorder of Pontefract states that in a recent walk he followed for three miles three men who were smoking, and counted sixty-two matches struck by them. It is reported that the gentlemen concerned have since called upon the Recorder to explain that it was in a spirit of war economy that they had dispensed with the services of the torch-bearer who had hitherto attended their movements.

There will be no Bakers' Exhibition this year, it is announced. Many chic models however, both in gáteaux and the new open-work confiserie, will be privately exhibited.

A contributor to The Observer draws our attention to the phenomenally early return of the swifts. But after all there must be something particularly soothing about England these days to a neurotic fowl like a swift.

It is rumoured that Mr. Birrell has lately thrown off one of his obiter dicta—to the effect that Mr. Asquith and his colleagues have expressed an ambition to go down in the pages of history as the "Ministry of All the Buried Talents."

It was a confirmed dyspeptic of our acquaintance who, on reading that in Paris they are serving a half-mourning salad consisting mainly of sliced potatoes, artichokes and pickled walnuts, expressed surprise at their failure to add a few radishes to the dish, so that they might be thoroughly miserable while they were about it.

According to a contemporary, Mr. H. B. Irving's Cassius "came very near to Shakespeare." A delightful change from the innumerable Cassii that are modelled, for instance, on Mr. W. W. Jacobs.

Sir Thomas Lipton's yacht, the Erin, has been sunk in the Mediterranean, and no doubt the Germans think they have done something to go bragh about.

Italians are being invited by means of circulars dropped from balloons to desert to the Austrians, the sum of 5s. 8d. being offered to each deserter. This is no doubt what is technically known as a ballon d'essai.

The House of Commons is giving serious consideration to the Daylight Saving Scheme. But certain occupants of the Treasury Bench (we are careful not to "refer to" them as members of the Cabinet) are said to be withholding their support till they know what it is that the surplus daylight is to be let into.

PAY PARADE.

Officer. "Have you made an allotment?"

Recruit. "Oh, no, Sir! I give up me fowls and cabbages the day afore I joined the army."

"London, April 6.—A Zeppelin airship attacked the north-east coast of England on Wednesday afternoon, but was driven off by our anti-Haircraft defences."

Daily Chronicle (Jamaica).

This subtle allusion to the former occupation of the Zeppelin crew has, we believe, caused much anxiety among the ex-barbers in the German Service, who fear that the A.A.C. will go for them bald-headed.

"April 23rd was ... the 300th anniversary of the birth of Shakespeare and of the death of Shakespeare."—Daily Paper.

And to think of all he accomplished in less than twenty-four hours!

At a Red Cross sale:—

"The exors. of the late Robert Dawson's calf made £6."—Eastern Daily Press.

We wonder if this generous gift came out of the pockets of the next-of-kine.

"For whoever was responsible for that blunder, which in most countries would certainly have evoked a cry of betrayal, the mainsheet of Nelson's Victory would be all too inadequate as a penitential white sheet and far too illustrious as a shroud."

The Leader (British East Africa).

We agree, but it would make a splendid halter.

THE WAY OF THOMAS.

Theory and Practice.

Scene.—Sand on the —— Frontier of —-. A Cavalry outpost recently arrived is sitting in a hollow in a vile temper, morosely gouging hunks of tepid bully beef out of red tins. Several thousand mosquitos are assiduously eating the outpost. There is nothing to do except to kill the beasts and watch the antics of the scavenger beetle, who extracts a precarious livelihood from the sand by rolling all refuse into little balls and burying them. It is very hot.

1st Trooper. Shoot the devils, I would. I can't understand their letting 'em go the way they do. The first one I meets I shoots. Killing our wounded the way they do.

2nd Trooper. Ay, and killing's not the worst they do, neither. You should ha' seen them, two poor fellows of ours wot was found. You wouldn't be taking no prisoners after that.

1st Trooper. If I 'ad my way I wouldn't take no prisoners. 'Tain't safe, for one thing. That was 'ow pore old Bill got done in; went to take a white-headed old devil prisoner as might have been his grandfather, and he up and strafed him in the stomach with a shot-gun. Don't care 'oo it is. They say the women's as bad as the men.

Corporal (darkly). Ah, shooting's too good for 'em, I say, after wot they done.

1st Trooper. They do say they're starving now. Living on grass, 'alf of 'em; specially after that lot of camels wot was captured.

Corporal (darkly). Ah, let 'em starve, I say. Starving's too good for 'em after wot they done.

2nd Trooper. That's just it. They won't let 'em starve. As soon as they've finished killing our wounded they comes into our camp with all their families, and we feeds 'em up with dates and biscuits and probably lets 'em go again.

1st Trooper. We're too soft-'earted, that's wot we are. Them Germans wouldn't carry on like that; they'd shoot 'em quick and no more said.

2nd Trooper. Ay, you're right there, and when we gets home the first thing we shall find is a relief fund to provide food for 'em.

Corporal. Well, they'd better not come near this post; they won't get no dates 'ere.

Sentry. Corporal, I can see 'alf-a-dozen of them blighters coming along about a mile away. Shall I give 'em one?

Corporal. No, you idiot. Let's 'ave a look at 'em first.

[Enter a middle-aged Arab, dressed in the most indescribable rags and in the last stage of exhaustion. He is followed at long intervals by his family to two generations, who watch his reception anxiously from afar.]

Arab (falling flat on his face at sight of the Corporal). Bimbashi, bimbashi, mongeries, mongeries.

Corporal. Yes, I'll bash yer all right. Grey-'eaded old reprobate, you ought to know better.

Arab (in an anguished voice). Mongeries, mongeries.

1st Trooper. Lord, he do look thin, por beggar. Mongeries—that means food, don't it? 'E looks as if 'e hadn't eaten nothing for weeks. 'Ere, 'ave a biscuit, old sport.

[Arab makes a spasmodic wriggle towards him.]

2nd Trooper. Look out, Bill, 'e's going to bite your leg.

1st Trooper (with dignity). No, 'e ain't; 'e's a-going to kiss my boots. Gorblimy, 'e's a rum old devil!

Corporal (suddenly remembering his duty). 'Ere you, take your clothes off. Efta aygry. Strip.

[The Arab undoes his rags, which slip to the ground.]

2nd Trooper. Blimy, Alf, look at 'em. I never see such a thing in my life. Look at that big one on his neck.

1st Trooper (suddenly). I say, old chap, don't you never 'ave a bath?

2nd Trooper. Lord, though, ain't he thin? 'E's a fair skeleton.

[The Arab puts on his clothes again and falls exhausted with the effort.]

Corporal. Pore old feller, 'e's fair done; give 'im a biscuit, Alf.

1st Trooper. Try 'im with some bully; they say they won't eat that, though.

2nd Trooper. Won't 'e! I never seen the stuff go so quick. 'Ere, old feller, don't eat the tin.

Corporal. Don't give 'im any more or 'e'll kill 'isself. Let's see if his family can do the disappearing trick as quick as 'e can. Poor devils, they've been through something. 'Ere, you family, mongeries. Tala henna.

[The family are brought up and fed on the day's rations.]

2nd Trooper. Lord, Alf, look at this kid; 'is legs ain't as thick as my finger; cries just like they do at 'ome too. 'Ere, 'ave a bit o' jam.

Corporal. Take 'em back to camp now and 'and 'em over. Come on, old boy; you're all right. Lord, ain't they pretty near done. Lucky they found us when they did.

The Better Half.

"Thames Ditton.—Attested man called up willing to let half house, or take another lady in similar position."—Daily Telegraph.

"WE GIVE OUR SONS."

Such our proud cry—a vain and empty boast;

Love did not ask so great a sacrifice;

The first réveillé found you at your post;

You knew the cost; clear-eyed you paid the price;

Some far clear call we were too dull to hear

Had caught your ear.

Not ours to urge you, or to know the voice;

No stern decree you followed or obeyed;

Nothing compelled your swift unerring choice,

Except the stuff of which your dreams were made;

To that high instinct passionately true,

Your way you knew.

We did not give you—all unasked you went,

Sons of a greater motherhood than ours;

To our proud hearts your young brief lives were lent,

Then swept beyond us by resistless powers.

Only we hear, when we have lost our all,

That far clear call.

A Non-Stop Service.

The following announcement was recently made at a Liverpool church:—

"The service to-night will be at six o'clock, and will be continued until further notice."

"Mr. Butcher expressed his thanks to Mr. Wood for his kind words, and said it was a great satisfaction to know that his efforts had been appreciated, and very gratifying to be thanked by one of the staff. He might reply in the words of Betsy Twigge, 'Changing the name, the same to you.'"

Ashbourne Telegraph.

We note, but do not approve, the change.

"Washington, Friday.

Sir Cecil Spring Rice has been instructed to apologise for the action of the British Governor at Trinidad in failing to return the call of the Secretary to the Treasury, Mr. McAdoo, on the latter's visit on board the American cruiser Tennessee."

Exchange Telegraph.

Much McAdoo about nothing.

The Evening News publishes an account of a conversation between "Prince Henry of Prussia (the Kaiser's brother) and Admiral Issimo, of Germany." The Issimos are a most distinguished fighting family (of Italian origin), and whenever they have adopted either a military or naval career have invariably come to the very top.

WAKE UP, ENGLAND!

The Sun (to Householder). "NOW, THEN, WHY WASTE YOUR DAYLIGHT? SAVE IT AND GIVE IT TO THE COUNTRY."

[If only for the sake of economy in artificial light during War-time, the Daylight-saving scheme should have the support of all patriots.]

THE WATCH DOGS.

XXXIX.

My dear Charles,—There comes a time in the life of the military motor when, owing to one thing or another (but mostly another), it becomes a casualty and retires, on the ground of ill-health, to the Base. As such it is towed into the nearest workshops; but, before it departs to the Base there arrive, from all corners of the Army area, drivers of other similar motors, coming, as you might say, "for a purpose." These are the vultures who have got to hear of the affair, are sorry indeed that such mishaps should occur, but, stifling their sorrow, see their way to snaffle some little benefit for themselves.

One vulture will come to exchange old lamps for new, another to do a deal in magnetos, and a third, may be, to better himself in the matter of wheels. There will be some squabbling, and, when the work is done, the last state of that casualty will be worse than the first, and it will proceed to the Base a melancholy collection of all the most dilapidated parts in the area, for which even the most optimistic authority at the back of beyond will see no useful future.

Yesterday the following interview took place at my little office, which is also my little home and is very handsomely and elaborately furnished with a system of boxes, some to sit on, some to write on and some to go to sleep in.

"An officer to see you, Sir," said the orderly, and in there came a representative from Signals who was pleased to meet me. I put aside my work in order to deal with him politely, firmly and once and for all.

"If," I said haughtily, "you are the gentleman who rings me up on the telephone every morning at 7 A.M., goes on ringing me up till I creep to the instrument and murmur 'Hello!' and then tells me that is all and will I please ring off, then I too am glad we have met at last."

He denied the suggestion so hotly that I unbent a little. I asked him to be seated, and offered him a part of my bed for the purpose.

"It's like this," he began.

"Is it?" said I. "Then no doubt you want me to sign an Army Form and take all the responsibility?"

"For what?" he asked.

"I'm sure I don't know," I answered; "and it doesn't much matter, for I shall only pass it on to someone else, please."

For once it wasn't an Army Form. Was I not, he ventured to ask, the proprietor of a small car?

"What was once a small car before it met what was once a large telegraph pole," I said thoughtlessly.

He was glad to hear this, as he too was the owner of a small car. We shook hands on that, though we knew all the time that H.M. Government was the owner of both. H.M. Government not being present, however, to insist on its rights, we were able to do a quiet swank. In the course of it he mentioned, quite by the way, the matter of shock-absorbers. He had reason to believe that my car could spare his car a couple of these.

I saw the need for hedging. "That telegraph pole I mentioned just now wasn't really very large," I explained, "and it came away quietly, offering no resistance."

He smiled knowingly at that.

"Were you," I continued, fixing a cold and relentless eye upon him—"were you equally lucky with your—your—?"

"Small lorry," he said, with a faint blush. "A tiny lorry, in fact."

"Not more than a dozen tons or so?" I suggested. "No doubt it passed quite gradually over you, frightening more than hurting you, and you were able to walk home with remainder of small motor in pocket of greatcoat?"

He didn't go into that subject. "By the way," he said, "I happened to be round at the workshops just now——"

"Did you, indeed?" I took him up. "Then let me tell you at once that the wreckage in the workshop's yard was not my small car, so you may abandon any hopes you had built upon that."

He appeared to be surprised at the attitude I adopted.

"No," he said slowly—"no, I knew that wasn't your car."

I thought rapidly. "It was yours," I hazarded, "and your idea was to re-equip that battered wreck at the expense of my very slightly injured property?"

He smiled shamelessly.

"You are a most unscrupulous officer," I said, "and I'm beginning to think you are the voice which gets me out of bed—I mean, interrupts my work—every morning at dawn."

"No, really," he replied, glad to have something to be honest about. "At that hour I am always in—at work myself."

We shook hands again on that and I offered him a cigarette.

"Have one of mine," said he.

"No, no," I pressed; "you have one of mine."

Again, if the truth had been admitted, H.M. Government was the rightful owner of both.

"Of course," he explained, "you saw my little 'bus from quite its worst aspect in that yard."

I was for getting to business. "I want," said I, "a back axle-shaft, a head-light, a wind-screen and some mud-guards. What's yours?"

"I could do with a spare wheel-holder, a horn, a couple of yards of foot-board," he said. "Two shock-absorbers and at least one wheel I must have."

A little discussion proved that between us we could put up a very decent car. The only difficulty arose from a doubt as to what was to happen when we went out in it. It would still be a two-seater, and neither of our chauffeurs was small enough to be carried in the tool-box. Who was going to drive, who was going to sit by and, when occasion demanded, step out and do the dirty work? Neither of us seeing his way to give in on these points, we had to think of some other solution.

"You mentioned the workshops just now," I said. "Were you going on to say that the officer in charge told you of another small car which was in trouble?"

"He did," said Signals.

"Same here," said I. "Did he then recommend you to get what you wanted off that other car?"

"He did," said Signals.

"Same here," said I. "And did you also ascertain that this officer in charge possesses a small car of his own rich in standard parts?"

"I did," said Signals.

"Same here," said I. "Let us go out and look for that——"

"Officer in charge," said Signals.

"No," said I, "his car." I felt that we were justified, in the circumstances, in dividing it between us.

But there is no limit to these officers in charge of workshops. We had the greatest difficulty in finding his car at all, and, when we did, it had the appearance of being deliberately concealed. Worse still; when we found the car we found also a sentry standing over it, with rifle and fixed bayonet. Though we took this to be a direct insult to ourselves, we were too proud to go and expostulate with the officer himself about it.

Yours ever, Henry.

Unfortunate position of once popular Berlin naval battle artist, whose occupation has vanished through his having rashly sunk the entire British Fleet at an early stage of the war.

The conscientious special.

The ingenious bank manager.

And the cautious burglar.

Who lacked staying power.

A LETTER.

(From Captain Claude Seaforth to a novelist friend.)

My dear Man,—You asked me to tell you if anything very remarkable came my way. I think I have a story for you at last. If I could only write I would make something of it myself, but not being of Kitchener's Army I can't.

The other day, while I was clearing up papers and accounts and all over ink, as I always get, the Sergeant came to me, looking very rum. "Two young fellows want to see you," he said.

Of course I said I was too busy and that he must deal with them.

"I think you'd rather see them yourself," he said, with another odd look.

"What do they want?" I asked.

"They want to enlist," he said; "but they don't want to see the doctor."

We've had some of these before—consumptives of the bull-dog breed, you know. Full of pluck but no mortal use; "done in" on the first route march.

"Why don't you tell them that they must see the doctor and have done with it?" I asked the Sergeant.

Again he smiled queerly. "I made sure you'd rather do it yourself," he said. "Shall I send them in?"

So I wished them further and said "Yes;" and in they came.

They were the prettiest boys you ever saw in your life—too pretty. One had red hair and the other black, and they were dressed like navvies. They held their caps in their hands.

"What's this rubbish about not seeing a doctor?" I asked. You know my brutal way.

"We thought perhaps it could be dispensed with," Red Hair said, drawing nearer to Black Hair.

"Of course it can't," I told them. "What's the use to the Army of weaklings who can't stand the strain? They're just clogs in the machinery. Don't you see that?"

"We're very strong," Red Hair said, "only——"

"Only what?"

"Only——" Here they looked at each other, and Red Hair said, "Shall we?" and Black Hair said, "Yes;" and they both came closer to me.

"Will you promise," said Red Hair, "that you will treat as confidential anything we say to you?"

"So long as it is nothing dangerous to the State," I said, rather proud of myself for thinking of it.

"We want to fight for our country," Red Hair began.

"No one wants to fight more," Black Hair put in.

"And we're very strong," Red Hair continued.

"I won a cup for lawn-tennis at Devonshire Park," Black Hair added.

"But," said Red Hair.

"Yes?" I replied.

"Don't you believe in some women being as strong as men?"

"Certainly," I said.

"Well then," said Red Hair, "that's like us. We are as strong as lots of men and much keener, and we want you to be kind to us and let us enlist."

"We'll never do anything to give ourselves away," said Black Hair; but, bless her innocent heart, she was giving herself away all the time. Every moment was feminine.

"My dear young ladies," I said at last, "I think you are splendid and an example to the world; but what you ask is impossible. Have you thought for a moment what it would be like to find yourselves in barracks with the ordinary British soldier? He is a brave man and, when you meet him alone, he is nearly always a nice man; but collectively he might not do as company for you."

"But look at this," said Red Hair, showing me a newspaper-cutting about a group of Russian girls known as "The Twelve Friends," who have been through the campaign and were treated with the utmost respect by the soldiers.

"And there's a woman buried at Brighton," said Black Hair, "who fought as a man for years and lived to be a hundred."

"And think of Joan of Arc," said Red Hair.

"And Boadicea," said Black Hair.

"Well," I said, "leaving Joan of Arc and Boadicea aside, possibly those Russians and that Brighton woman looked like men, which it is certain you don't. But any way we must be serious. What would your people say?"

"We left word," said Red Hair, "that we were going off to do something for our country. They won't worry. Oh, please be kind and help us!"

Here all four of their beautiful eyes grow moist.

I could have hugged both of them, but I kept an iron hand on myself.

"You nice absurd creatures," I said, "do be reasonable. To begin with, passing the doctor is an absolute necessity. That shuts you out. But even if you got through how do you think you would be helping your country? All the men would be falling in love with you; and that's bad enough as it is after working hours; it would be the ruin of discipline. And you could not bear the fatigue. No, go back and learn to be nurses and let your lovely hair grow again."

They were very obstinate and very unwilling to entertain the thought of drudgery such as nursing after all their dreams of excitement; but at last they came to reason, and I sent for a cab and packed them off in it (I simply could not bear the idea of other people seeing them in that masquerade), and told them that the sooner they changed the better.

After they had gone the Sergeant came in about something.

I said nothing, and he said nothing, each of us waiting for the other.

He moved about absolutely silently, and I dared not meet his glance because I knew I should give myself away. The rascal has not been running his eye over young women all these years without being able to spot them in a moment, even in navvy's clothes.

At last I could stand it no longer. "Damn it," I said, "what are you doing? Why don't you go? I didn't send for you." But still I didn't dare look up.

"I thought perhaps you had something to say to me, Sir," he said.

"No, I haven't," I replied. "Why should I? What about?"

"Only about those two young men, Sir," he replied.

"Get out," I said; but before he could go I had burst into laughter.

"Better not mention it," I managed to say.

He promised.

There—won't you find that useful?

Yours, C. S.

A VERY RARE BIRD.

Brown lives next door but one to me. His speciality is birds, and he must be a frightful nuisance to them. I shouldn't care to be a bird if Brown knew where my nest was. It isn't that he takes their eggs. If he would merely rob them and go away it wouldn't matter so much. They could always begin again after a decent interval. But a naturalist of the modern school doesn't want a bird's eggs; he wants to watch her sitting on them. Now sitting is a business that demands concentration, a strong effort of the will and an undistracted mind. How on earth is a bird to concentrate when she knows perfectly well that Brown, disguised as a tree or a sheep or a haycock, is watching her day after day for hours at a stretch and snap-shotting her every five minutes or so for some confounded magazine? In nine cases out of ten she lets her thoughts wander and ends half unconsciously by posing, with the result that most of her eggs don't hatch out.

Brown has a highly-trained sense of hearing. You and I, of course, possess pretty good ears for ordinary purposes. We can catch as soon as anyone else that muffled midnight hum, as of a distant threshing-machine beneath a blanket, which advertises the approach of the roaming Zepp. From constant practice, too, we have learnt, sitting in our drawing room or study, to distinguish the crash of the overturned nursery table upstairs from the duller, less resonant thud of baby's head as it strikes the floor. But can we positively state from the note of the blackbird at the bottom of the garden whether it has three, four or five eggs in its nest, or indeed if it is a house-holder at all? No, we cannot; but Brown can.

Even specialists, however, occasionally make mistakes. A day or two ago, just as dusk was falling, Brown entered my house in a state of considerable excitement and informed me that a pair of reed-warblers were building in my orchard.

"Are you sure?" I asked.

"Quite," he replied. "I have not actually seen the birds yet, but I have heard them from my own garden, and of course the note of the nesting reed-warbler is unmistakable."

"Of course," I agreed.

"It is a most extraordinary occurrence," he continued, "most extraordinary."

"You mean because there are no reeds there?"

"Exactly."

I was quite certain in my own mind that there were no reed-warblers either, but I felt it would be impertinent for a layman like myself to argue with Brown.

"There!" he exclaimed, darting to the open window. "Can't you hear it?"

I listened. "Oh, that," I said; "that's——"

"The mating song of the male reed-warbler," interrupted Brown ecstatically. "Now, whatever happens, don't let them be disturbed. Don't even try to find the nest, or you may alarm them. Leave it all to me. I shan't have a free morning till Saturday, but there's no hurry. I'll bring my camera round then, and when I've located the spot they're building in I'll rig up a hiding-place and take some photos. Don't let anybody go near them; the great thing is to make them feel quite at home." He was gone before I could explain.

It is rather an awkward situation, because, when Brown comes on Saturday morning, I am afraid that if he secures any really successful photos they will prove a disappointment to him. They will represent my gardener, Williams, trundling a barrow, the wheel of which is badly in need of oil.

Tercentenarians.

"It is one of the most marvellous of doubles that William Shakespeare and Miguel de Cervantes died on the very same day of the same year—on the 23rd day of April, 1916."

The Leader (B.E. Africa).

ROYAL ACADEMY-FIRST DEPRESSIONS.

Gerald Kelly. The Bird. "Lucky thing I'm stuffed or I'd have fallen off this perch long ago!"

Nurah Cundell. Women Workers on the land playing with their week's wages. Note the Physical Development Produced by the open-air life.

Robert Burns. The lady spy, having finished her performance of the hymn of hate, sets the signal lights and awaits confidently the arrival of the German fleet.

Sir E. J. Poynter, Bt., P.R.A. The shell-worker's mid-day rest.

W. Orpen, A.R.A. and A. S. Cope, R.A. Lord Spencer. "Not bad, but I fancy I take The Tailor and Cutter's prize."

This is not in the Academy, but represents the Spirit of Allegory luring ambitious artists to their doom.

"WHEN THE BOYS COME HOME."

Many women who are taking over men's work may not feel inclined to return to their former occupations after the War. Their work in that case will have to be done by men.

Ex-soldiers Waiting in the Consulting-boom of Their Panel Doctor To Be Treated for "housemaid's Knee."

Male nurse receiving the glad eye from a military man-killer.

THE SOLDIER'S SPRING.

On stormy days I get quite warlike;

I find it easy to be fierce

In winter, when the land is more like