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PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 150.

May 3, 1916.

CHARIVARIA.

Sir Roger Casement, it appears, landed in Ireland from a collapsible boat. And by a strange coincidence his arrival synchronised with the outbreak of a collapsible rebellion.

Hard soap can now be obtained in Germany only by those who purchase bread tickets. The soft variety cannot be obtained at all, the whole supply, it seems, having been commandeered by the Imperial Government for export to the United States.

£175 worth of radium was lost last week in Dundee. The ease with which bar radium can be melted down and remoulded in the form of cheap jewellery affords, according to the local police, a clear indication that this was the work of thieves.

A conscientious objector has stated that he had even given up fishing on humanitarian grounds. We fear that his fish stories may have caused some fatal attacks of apoplexy among his audiences.

According to Sir Thomas Barlow "the importation of bananas has had a far-reaching effect on the digestion of our children." Only last Monday week the importation of six bananas had just that kind of effect on the digestion of our own dear little Percy.

Portugal has decided to expel German sympathisers of whatever nationality. Other clubs please copy.

From the Eastern Counties comes news that in last week's Zeppelin raid twenty turnips were "completely destroyed." And so the grim work of starving England into submission goes relentlessly on.

"That boy there," said the Lord Mayor at the Mansion House, in addressing some children from an orphanage, "can easily become a Lord Mayor." Cases of this sort are really not hard to diagnose when you are familiar with the symptoms, and the Lord Mayor had, of course, noticed the hearty manner in which the lad was attacking his food.

The latest Shakspearean discovery announced by Sir Sidney Lee is that the Bard was a successful man of business; but the really nice people who have lately taken him up have resolved not to let the fact prejudice them against him after all these years.

"Absence of the Polecat from Ireland" is the title of a vigorous article in the current number of The Field. While agreeing in substance with the writer, we cannot refrain from commenting on this unexpected departure of a peculiarly moderate organ from its customary restraint in dealing with the political questions of the day.

The Editor of The Angler's News makes public the request that fishermen will provide him with the particulars of any exceptionally big fish which they may catch. Strangely enough he does not suggest that the data should be accompanied, for purposes of verification, by the fish themselves. It is refreshing to know that there is a man left here and there who is not trying to make something out of the War.

One of the Zeppelins that recently visited England dropped one hundred bombs without causing a single casualty, and a movement is on foot to present the Commander with a pair of white gloves.

"What I wish to show Mr. Norman," says Mr. G. K. Chesterton in The New Witness, "is that the fantastic pursuit of the idée fixe ... leads to a reductio ad absurdum." One has often had occasion to notice the rapidity with which a young idée fixe will dart down a convenient reductio ad absurdum when closely pursued.

A writer in the current number of The Fortnightly Review has elaborated the theory that the War can be won without difficulty by breaking through the German line in the West. It is the ability to grasp these simple but fundamental truths that distinguishes the military genius from the War Office hack.

The majority of the larger railways have now announced their intention of serving no more meals on trains. While the reason has not been officially stated the authorities are said to be of the opinion that Zeppelins have on several occasions been able to reach important termini by following the smell of cookery.

The Perils of the Tyne.

"A ship's apprentice who attempted the rescue of a man in shark-infested waters to-day, at Newcastle, received the Shipping Federation's diploma and medal."

Morning Paper.

The Infallible Experts.

"In general (continued Count Andrassy), the battle has ceased to be of the nature of a siege, as it was intended to be at the beginning. It is a long-drawn-out and deadly combat between the French and German armies, and the victory of one will undoubtedly be the defeat of the other."—Yorkshire Post.

"It is a reasonable conclusion from these facts that ... the principal attack, supposing that it should actually have taken place, has already been made."

Col. Feyler in "The Sunday Times."

Delphinium Hybrids.

"What looks much handsomer than a sow of Delphiniums in the borders of your garden, and once planted they are always there."—Garden Work for Amateurs.

The only drawback is that it is apt to make such a litter.

"Before we are through with it, we may be obliged to have a war outright with Mexico, because the Defacto Government is none too friendly to us."—Bournemouth Guardian.

It is not perhaps generally known that President Defacto is a direct descendant of that well-known ruler, Señor A. Priori.

"Outside Dublin the county is tranquil. Mr. Asquith, and three minor cases of disturbance are reported."—Evening News.

We deprecate this attempt to import political prejudice into the situation.

"Two ladies obliged to remain in furnished house, Bournemouth, till let, offer free weekly accommodation to middle-aged healthy lady and dog in difficulties through war."

The Common Cause.

Even the pets are feeling the pinch of the Common Cause.

THE DIVINER.

Reporter studying a Member's expression as he leaves the house after a Secret Session.

DRESS ECONOMY AND THE CLAIMS OF ART.

To Lord Spencer on seeing his portrait by Mr. Orpen at the Royal Academy.

Here, at the Press View, ere the opening day

Admits the public on receipt of pay

And all the gallery like a murmurous shell hums,

I stand before your picture, awed and mute,

In reverent worship and an old, old suit

Of baggy ante-bellums.

For, when Britannia first in wrath arose,

I took a vow:—So long as these poor clo's

Together, though reduced to just a mesh, hold,

Never will I, till Victory's trump rings clear

(Save when I purchase military gear),

Cross any tailor's threshold.

Yet, gazing on the garb you figure in,

Shining and perfect as a new-born pin—

The frock-coat built to dazzle gods and men, Sir,

The virgin tie, the collar passing tall,

The flawless crease of trousers which recall

The prime of Bobby Spencer—

I hesitate to blame your lack of thrift;

I would not have your sacred feelings biffed

By harsh reflections from a patriot's war-pen;

Those rich externals which arrest the view

Were but adopted as essential to

The scheme of Mr. Orpen.

Such was the sacrifice you made to Art!

And there are other portraits, very smart—

Sitters who must have borne the same hard trial;

Who waived their loyal taste for cheap attire

And went, superbly tailored, through the fire

Of noble self-denial.

O. S.

UNWRITTEN LETTERS TO THE KAISER.

No. XXXVIII.

(From General von Falkenhayn.)

Almightiest War-Lord,—See how the Fates make sport with us! We began in February to make our great attack upon the fortified position at Verdun. In ten days, so we thought, our massed artillery, firing a ceaseless torrent of projectiles, would have shattered beyond recovery the lines of the enemy, and our irresistible infantry, breaking through like a flood, would have swept away all opposition, and would without doubt have taken the fortress and cleared our way to Paris and to decisive victory. So we believed, having, as it appeared, every reason for our belief, and having taken into account in our careful planning all the chances and vicissitudes to which men and battles are exposed. And now May is come with her buds and blooms, May, when, as your Majesty knows, the heart of every good honest German turns to thoughts of beer-gardens and draughts of foaming liquid, and so far as the capture of Verdun and the opening of the road to Paris are concerned we have done nothing that has any value except for our foes, who have had the satisfaction of seeing us beat ourselves to fragments against the steel wall of their defence. It must be confessed that German blood and German courage have been miserably wasted, and not even our resources, great as they are, can much longer stand the strain which has been imposed upon them.

Your Majesty asks me what under these circumstances it is best to do. Shall we break off our attacks at Verdun and direct our hammer-blows at some other part of the front? Theoretically there is much to be said from the purely military standpoint for such a course; but can your Majesty foresee what the moral effect would be upon our troops in the field and upon the Germans still left behind us in Germany? We might, of course, announce that we had now gained everything we had set out to gain, that the French had lost immense numbers of killed and wounded, that we had taken in unwounded prisoners the equivalent of an army corps, that our booty was incalculable, and that, in fact, the victory was definitely ours. But would Germany believe this statement—Reventlow, of course, would believe it, but then he would believe anything—and above all would the French believe it? I can promise your Majesty that they would believe nothing of the sort, and that they would give some excellent reasons for their disbelief. And the result would be that we should be held not only to have acknowledged our failure, but also to have made ourselves ridiculous in the sight of the whole world. That, I am certain, would be intolerable for your Majesty and for the German people, who have been fed upon a diet of victory, and would be beyond measure disquieted by such an admission of failure as I have mentioned. No, the only thing to do, now that we have been so deeply involved, is to persist in the struggle and hope that we may in the end wear out enemies who have hitherto shown no signs of fatigue.

Fortunately it cannot be said that your Majesty is involved in this lack of the success we all hoped for. Though you are nominally the chief Commander of our Armies it is known that in the actual operations your Majesty has played the modest part of an onlooker rather than a director. Formerly, that is before the breaking out of the War, you were a great planner of plans, and it was understood that, in case of war, you would lead your armies in the field and prove that a Hohenzollern can do anything. But now you have recognised your limitations, and no Emperor can well do more than that. You do not now thrust your advice upon your generals, whatever you may have done at the outset of the War, and, though you may once have dreamed of leading your hosts in a thundering charge upon the foe, you have long since abandoned such visions and have begun to realise that an Emperor is but a man and cannot know everything. This, at least, is my conviction, and I testify it to your Majesty with all the bluntness that befits a soldier who has been honoured by his Sovereign with a high command.

Most dutifully yours, Von Falkenhayn.

Good Hunting.

"The jungle sale held in Warrenpoint in aid of the Warrenpoint District Nursing Association realised the sum of £40. 3s."

Northern Whig.

"Young couple furnishing wishes to buy contents of 3 rooms, including piano, or part of same."—Edinburgh Evening News.

Their future neighbours are hoping that they will get one without a keyboard.

"There is scarcely a family who have not someone near and dear to them in the fighting line, and by substituting the task of knitting for that of sewing, the well-known lines of Ibid are particularly appropriate:—

'My tears must stop, for every drop

Hinders needle and thread.'"

York Herald.

Ibid, who is a close connection of that other voluminous author, Anon, seems on this occasion to have plagiarized from Hood.

Court Official. "I VENTURE TO REMIND THE ALL-HIGHEST THAT WE ARE APPROACHING THE ANNIVERSARY OF THE SINKING OF THE LUSITANIA. IS IT YOUR MAJESTY'S PLEASURE THAT THE CHILDREN SHOULD HAVE ANOTHER PUBLIC HOLIDAY TO CELEBRATE THAT GLORIOUS EVENT?"

Kaiser. "GO AWAY! I AM ENGAGED ON SOME VERY DELICATE CORRESPONDENCE."

First Traveller. "This 'ere's a terrible war, Bill."

Second ditto. "Yus. What's the price o' beer now?"

ON THE SPY TRAIL.

Jimmy's bloodhound, Faithful, had his fortune told the other day—really, I mean; not what the man next door says when Faithful keeps on singing to his cat at night from the bottom of an apple-tree.

Jimmy says the man next door often has gloomy thoughts as to what will happen to Faithful, and he gets up from his warm bed to tell them to him.

Jimmy says Faithful was not expecting to have his fortune told; he was just sitting quietly on the wall near the road, watching the day go by.

Everything was very nice and quiet and peaceful; there was a cat up each of three trees close by, and a hen up another, all being comfortable and quite all right where they were, thank you, because Faithful had inquired.

The man next door was being busy amongst his flowers; he was replanting some that had been planted right on the top of a place where Faithful had laid down some bones to mature.

Things were so quiet that Jimmy was just thinking about taking his bloodhound on the spy trail, when a woman came along with a little hand-organ slung round her neck and a cage containing two small green parrots for telling your fortune.

Bloodhounds are very fond of music, Jimmy says; they sing to it, at least Faithful does. Jimmy says Faithful lifted up his stomach and threw back his head; but he found it a little difficult to keep time at first, because, you see, the notes that were missing in the organ were not the same ones that were missing in Faithful's voice. Jimmy says it is just the same when two people singing a duet both have hiccoughs; unless they hiccough together you always notice something wrong.

The parrots were very clever; they would come out of the cage and perch on the end of a stick the woman held, and then pick a small blue envelope out of a box. Jimmy says that he doesn't think the parrots had ever seen a prize bloodhound like Faithful before, not even in their native haunts, for when Faithful tried to make a fuss of them and love them they kept flying about the cage and moulting their feathers at him.

Faithful picked up one of the feathers, and when one of the parrots came out of the cage to tell fortunes he tried to put the feather back again. But the parrot avoided him and went away.

Faithful did his best to catch it again; he has a very good nose for game, Jimmy says, and he soon tracked the parrot to its lair: it had joined the hen, and the hen was being surprised—you could hear it doing it, Jimmy says.

Jimmy says Faithful sat at the bottom of the tree and tried to look like a birdcage; but his presence seemed to disturb the woman so much that Jimmy had to put the chain on him and lead him away.

Jimmy says Faithful kept yearning to go back and help; he is a good yearner, Jimmy says, and he does it by pushing his head through the collar as far as he can stretch it, and then choking. Jimmy says the butcher is a good yearner too, but he does it by going red in the face and trying to burst his collar with his neck. He did it at Faithful this time. You see Faithful was quietly passing his shop and doing nothing at all to anyone—Jimmy had only just let him loose on the trail—when he caught sight of the butcher's sandy cat lying curled up in the window and going up and down at him with her side. Jimmy says cats are always doing something like that at his bloodhound, and then what can you expect if you will do it?

There was a fly-paper on the counter, and after old Faithful had driven the cat into a corner Jimmy saw him suddenly swing his tail at the fly-paper and get firm hold of it; then he squatted down on the counter and wagged the fly-paper at the cat like anything to try and mesmerise it. Jimmy says that when the butcher came into the shop, and Faithful stopped to turn round and see where things were, the butcher yearned at him like anything, and it only made him worse when old Faithful semaphored at him with the fly-paper.

There was only a bluebottle on the fly-paper besides Faithful, Jimmy says, so that it wasn't very crowded; but by the buzz the bluebottle kept on making you would think it owned the fly-paper. Jimmy says his bloodhound had never shared a fly-paper with a bluebottle before, and he kept stopping to answer the bluebottle back instead of keeping to the spy trail.

Jimmy says Faithful had just sent an ultimatum to the bluebottle when there came the sounds of the hand-organ from a house close by.

Jimmy says as soon as Faithful heard the music he seemed to stiffen all at once and become rigid. He looked splendid like that, Jimmy says. One paw up, his tail as straight as he could get it, and the fly-paper at half-mast—everything pointing to sudden death.

Jimmy followed Faithful as hard as he could, and was in time to see him stalking quietly hand over fist across a lawn while the woman was getting one of the green parrots on the end of the stick.

Jimmy knew the man who lived at the house, and who was having his fortune told. He had come there to live a tired life, Jimmy says, and when the War broke out he had put up a big flag-pole with a Union Jack on it as his share.

Jimmy says the parrot had just got the man's fortune in its beak, when Faithful took a standing jump from behind the woman at it. It was awful, Jimmy says. The woman gave a scream and grabbed at the parrot, the man grabbed at Faithful, and Faithful—well, Jimmy says he never knew quite what Faithful did or how he did it, but he emerged with the man's fortune sticking to the fly-paper.

Jimmy says bloodhounds are very sensitive and avoid a commotion; but the man and the woman were not used to his side action in running and they fell over one another.

Jimmy says it was a very funny fortune; it was in a special red envelope and he couldn't understand it at first. You see it only contained the names of some towns and villages, and Jimmy was just wishing that Faithful would leave music and parrots and fly-papers and fortunes alone, and catch German spies instead, when it all came to him because a friend of his mother's lived at one of the villages and some Zeppelin bombs had been dropped there.

The woman had given the man the names of the places where Zeppelin bombs had fallen, and old Faithful had been tracking them down all the time.

Jimmy's head just buzzed with thoughts as he ran to the police-station. They caught the man and the woman, and one of the policemen discovered the flag-pole on the man's lawn, and it turned out to be part of a wireless apparatus to send messages to Germany.

Jimmy says that, when the spies were nicely locked up and settled for the night, one of the policemen got the parrot to tell Faithful's fortune, and when they opened the envelope it said,

"Your face is your fortune."

Subaltern. "Well, what do you want?"

Tommy (formerly a cobbler). "The Cap'n's 'orse wants soleing and 'eeling, Sir."

A VERDICT REVISED.

Randolph the rash in cruel phrase defames

The "mediocrities with double names;"

But nowadays we find whole-hearted pleaders

Urging the claims of hyphenated leaders.

For what were Pemberton without the thrilling

Corollary and supplement of Billing?

While Billing by itself, pronounced tout court

And shorn of Pemberton, sounds bald and poor.

Without emotion you and I may any day

Light on a Jones unwedded to a Kennedy;

Likewise a Kennedy unlinked with Jones

Will fail to stir the marrow in our bones.

Mark you, moreover, how the order tends

To foster and promote euphonic ends;

For Billing Pemberton sounds flat and dull,

And Jones prefixed to Kennedy is null.

But Pemberton by Billing followed up,

And Kennedy with Jones to fill the cup,

Electrify the nation's tympanum

And strike the voice of sober Season dumb.

A quotation from Browning as rendered by The Daily Chronicle:—

"No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers,

The horrors of old."

We regret to see our respected contemporary has not yet abandoned its prejudice against the Upper House.

"A report was read from the Sanitary Inspector who has now joined the 3rd/4th Wilts Regt. This showed that 18 parishes had been infected under the Housing and Town Planning Act, leaving eight parishes still to be dealt with."—Wiltshire Advertiser.

In the interests of the uninfected parishes we trust that the Sanitary Inspector will deal faithfully with the Germs.

LUNCHEON CAUSERIES.

A young lady typist was overheard remarking in a City teashop the other day that she liked Silas Hocking better than Joseph, because the latter was "rather deep." The remark was significant of the new atmosphere of literary enthusiasm which the feminine invaders of business London have brought with them into the luncheon-hour. We are instituting a causerie for the special benefit of this large class of readers, i.e. those who get out of their depth in the transition from Silas to Joseph.

I want to introduce you to-day to a writer whose subtle genius defies analysis but demands reverent appreciation. Ruby L. Binns came into my own intellectual life at a rather critical stage in my reading. Like most young men of the early nineteen-noughts, I had fallen under the spell of Guy Beverley, whose Only a Mill Hand and Squire Darrell's Heir appeared to us the consummation of the novelettist's art. In those days every other young man you met was mouthing the great renunciation scene from the Mill Hand. Small marvel too! As I recall it even now something of the old glamour revives.

"Go!" cried Mary Ellen. "Though you are the Export Manager and I but a poor humble mill-girl, I would sooner beg my bread from door to door than seek it at your hand." She eyed him with pitiless scorn. Jasper Dare went out into the night.

Fine? Ay, and more than fine. But we young men of the nineteen-noughts made one big mistake. We thought Guy Beverley had scaled the summit of art; but art has no summit. We thought he had plumbed the depths of psychology; but psychology defies the plumber. I date a new epoch in my life from that day in 19— when I picked up my Daily Reflector and read the opening chapter of a new serial, Her Soldier Sweetheart, by Ruby L. Binns. That was on a Monday. By Wednesday of that week this unknown writer had revealed to me a New Idea and a New Style. The idea is familiar to most of you now, but in those days the daring conception that a common soldier might turn out to be the missing heir of a baronet rang like a challenge in the ears of the older romanticism. It is her style, however, that is Ruby Binns's most enduring gift to English prose literature. Lean, restrained, economical, it holds (for me) the very spirit of the English race and tongue. Listen:—

She went to the door, thinking she heard something. There was nobody there, so she went back to her work, thinking sadly of her soldier boy. "Cheer up," said Clarice; "perhaps he'll come back soon." "Perhaps," answered Yvonne wanly, "but it does not seem very likely, does it, dear?" The next moment the door opened and a tall soldierly figure entered the room.

English? It is like a May morning on Tooting Common. Beverley would have handled that situation well, no doubt. But could he—could anyone—have achieved the poignancy of that unaffected phrase, "It does not seem very likely"? I said that the depths of Art were unplumbable. True, but Ruby Binns has at least got lower than most.

Next week I want to speak of a new man and a new book, Stott Mackenzie and his Only a Trailer-Car Conductress.

THE BEAUTIFUL THING.

You see ugly things in London now-a-days. Oh, yes, but you see beautiful things as well. I saw one yesterday—one of the beautiful things.

It was a cold wet evening, not actually raining but very, very nearly. I stood at the place in Piccadilly where the 'buses stop. There was quite a little crowd waiting, as there always is at this time of day—women with parcels, work-girls going home, a few men. All of them looked tired, and many of them looked cross.

When a 'bus drew up at the curb all those people made a simultaneous plunge for it. Before it had finally stopped they were clinging like a swarm of bees to the steps and rails. It is an arduous game this 'bus-catching, though for those who are young and strong it should perhaps have a certain attraction, combining as it does the allurement of a lottery gamble with the charm of a football scrimmage.

There were only three vacant places, and these, after a desperate struggle, were secured by two athletic-looking girls and a red-haired schoolboy. The conductor waved back the disappointed boarders and they dropped off sulkily. I watched them a moment and then my eyes toward two soldiers, who were crossing the street. Fine, well-set-up men they were, and they carried themselves with the indescribable air of those who have crossed swords with Death and left their opponent, for the time at least, defeated. One of them had a green shade over his left eye. The other carried a stick and walked with a slight limp.

They took up their position a little to the side of the expectant crowd that was already beginning to sway and jostle at the sight of a fresh 'bus, which had just rounded the corner. Small chance for the new-comers, however slightly wounded, in such a mêlée, thought I.

The 'bus came rocking along, reeled to the left, staggered to the right, and came uncertainly to a shuddering rest beside the pavement.

And then it was that I saw the Beautiful Thing.

For of that little crowd, some twenty people in all, not a soul moved. Not a man, woman or child took so much as a step forward. They looked at the half-filled 'bus, they looked at the two soldiers, and waited, motionless.

Those two had pressed forward briskly enough, but as they mounted the steps, the man with the green shade giving a helping hand to his companion, the attitude of the crowd seemed suddenly to strike them. The lame man glanced over his shoulder, smiled and murmured something to his friend. His friend turned likewise and stared. He pushed his comrade through the doorway, turned again, and very solemnly raised his hand to his cap in salute. A second later he too vanished within the interior of the 'bus.

And then the rush began.

THE TRUMP CARD.

"Gold lace has a charm for the fair."

When William first became a Lieut.

R.N.V.R., in blue and gold,

Belinda smiled upon his suit

(Which formerly had found her cold);

His manly form and honest face,

She really liked them, I believe;

But, most of all, she loved the lace

Upon his sleeve.

Yet soon a rival courtier came—

A dashing dapper Lieut. R.N.;

And, as this paragon pressed his claim,

Oh, what could William hope for then?

How could a wobbly-braided swain

Vie with the actual Royal Navy,

Whose stripes were half as broad again

And straight, not wavy?

Then William swore (ah, Envy, ah!)

"Belinda shall be mine, she SHALL!"

And wrote a note to his papa,

Who'd just been made an Admiral:—

"Father, now that you'll fly at sea

A two-balled flag in place of pennant,

What do you say to taking me

As flag-lieutenant?"

When William next waylaid his fair,

He had his glittering "aiglets" on;

Rope upon rope of gold was there,

And now his rival's look was wan;

He tried a bitter sneer, to greet

This "peacock preening in the sun";

But Miss Belinda thought them "sweet"....

And William won.

MR. PUNCH'S POTTED FILMS. THE AMERICAN THRILLER.

THE EXPLOITS OF JEMIMA ANN. 159th EPISODE.

Jemima Ann, entering her 200 h.p. car, is handed a missive. Something suspicious in the appearance of the bearer determines her to take it to her friend, Professor Macpherson, the distinguished inventor.

In the meantime news has been brought to the members of the Scarlet Skull Gang that Macpherson has invented the most deadly silent pistol ever constructed. Determined to get the secret of this weapon, they proceed surreptitiously to his residence, taking with them an adjustable periscope.

Jemima Ann shows Macpherson the missive. While he is explaining to her the construction of the new pistol she detects the periscope. Macpherson continues his explanation, but makes a vital change in the arrangement of the various parts of the weapon.

The Scarlet Skull Gang, in their secret armoury, construct a pistol from the information clandestinely obtained through the periscope.

Macpherson has advised Jemima Ann to keep the appointment requested in the missive. He accompanies her to the corner, and then bids her to proceed alone without fear.

End of 159th episode. 160th episode to-morrow.

Disgusted Tommy (to prisoner). "You can't 'elp bein' a bloomin' Bosch, but yer might blow aht yer chest, or 'old yer 'ead up, or somethink! Lumme! I'm ashamed to be seen walkin' with yer!"

THE LATEST SOLAR MYTH.

Mr. J. H. Willis, a Norwich scientist, writing in The Morning Post, condemns the daylight-saving movement on the ground that too much sunshine is enervating and that life is more virile in Northern latitudes.

Though the daylight-saving measure, which ingenious Willett planned

To illume the work and leisure of the toilers of the land,

Has not yet convinced the nation, or unto the mass appealed,

Still without exaggeration it can claim to hold the field.

But of late a man of science—Mr. Willis is his name—

In a mood of flat defiance bans the daylight-saving game;

And, relentlessly pooh-poohing the delights of sunny days,

Recommends the prompt tabooing of the cult of solar rays.

All the hardy Northern races are efficient, in his view,

Just because they live in places where the sunlit hours are few,

And, conversely, peoples broiling in the horrid torrid zones

Have no grit or zest for toiling and no marrow in their bones.

There was once a commentator, if I rightly recollect,

Who, discussing the Equator, treated it with disrespect;

But his temperate impeachment, though it showed a mental twist,

Pales before the drastic preachment of the Norwich scientist.

Metaphorically speaking, it's a symptom of the Hun

To be always bent on seeking after places in the sun;

But I'd rather choose to follow what my deadliest foes applaud

Than to ostracise Apollo as an enervating fraud.

No, you don't convince me, Willis, with your scientific chat,

And my slangy daughter, Phyllis, says you're talking through your hat;

For, while many drug-concoctors merit death by sus. per coll.,

I believe the best of doctors is our old friend Doctor Sol.

Hours recorded on the dial, "hours serene," assuage more ills

Than the lancet or the phial or a wilderness of pills;

And if cranks of anti-solar leanings long for gloom, they should

Emigrate to circumpolar regions and remain for good.

Punch's Roll of Honour.

We record with sincere grief the death of Lieutenant Alec Leith Johnston, who was killed in action on April 22nd during the fight in which the gallant Shropshires recaptured a trench on the Ypres-Langemarck Road. Early in the War Mr. Johnston joined the Artists' Corps and saw service at the Front. Later he received a commission in the K.S.L.I., and a few months ago was in the list of wounded. He has for a long time been associated with Punch, and during the War has contributed many articles under the titles "At the Back of the Front" and "At the Front." His loss will be very keenly felt.

WANTED—A ST. PATRICK.

St. Augustine Birrell. "I'M AFRAID I'M NOT SO SMART AS MY BROTHER-SAINT AT DEALING WITH THIS KIND OF THING. I'M APT TO TAKE REPTILES TOO LIGHTLY."