PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 158.

May 19th, 1920.

CHARIVARIA.

A Swedish scientist has invented a new building material called sylvenselosit. It is said to cost one-fifth the price of the building material in use in this country, which is known to the trade as wishyumagetit.

A folding motor-car is said to have been invented which has a greater speed than any other car. The next thing that requires inventing is a folding pedestrian to cope with it.

Berlin manufacturers are experimenting in making clothing from nettles. This is a chance that the nettle has long been waiting for.

A business magazine suggests that a series of afternoon chats with business men should be arranged. Our war experience of morning back chats at the grocer’s is not encouraging.

The capture of General Carranza, says a Vera Cruz message, was a mistake on the part of General Sanchez. We trust this does not mean that they will have to start the thing all over again.

Those who understand the Mexican trouble say it is doubtful whether America can deal with this war until the Presidential election is over. One war at a time is the American motto.

We gather from a contemporary that people who have been ordering large stocks of coal in the hope of escaping the new prices will be disappointed. Still, they may get in ahead of the next advance.

The inventor of the silent typewriter is now in London. We seem to know the telephone which gave him the idea.

A man at Bow Street Court complained that the Black Maria which conveyed him there was very stuffy. Some prisoners say that this vehicle is so unhealthy as to drive custom away from the Court.

Fruit blight threatens to be serious this year, says a daily paper, and drastic action should be taken against the apple weevil. A very good plan is to make an imitation apple of iron and then watch the weevil snap at it and break off its teeth.

One North of England workman is said to be in a bit of a hole. It seems that he has mislaid his strike-fixture card.

Immediately after a football match at Londonderry, one of the players was shot in the leg by an opponent. The latter claims that he never heard the whistle blow.

Dr. Eugene Fisk, President of the Life Extension Institute, promises by scientific means to prolong human life for nineteen hundred years. If this is the doctor’s idea of a promise we would rather not know what he would call a threat.

Wood for making pianos, says a weekly journal, is often kept for forty years. “And even this,” writes “Jaded Parent,” “is not half long enough.”

With reference to the man who was seen laughing at Newport last week, it is only fair to point out that he was not a ratepayer, but was only visiting the place.

Larry Lemon, says The Sunday Express, is considered to be better than Charlie Chaplin. As he is quite a young man, however, it is possible that he may yet grow out of it.

The Clerk of the oldest City Company writes to The Times to say that his Livery has resolved to drink no champagne at its feasts. Meanwhile other predictions as to the end of the world should be treated with reserve.

After the statement in court by Mr. Justice Darling people contemplating marriage should book early for divorce if they want to avoid the rush.

“Why Marry?” says the title of a new play. While no valid reason appears to exist many declare that it is a small price to pay for the satisfaction of being divorced.

Three-fourths of the public only buy newspapers to read the advertisements, says a contemporary. It would be interesting to know what the others buy them for.

“Few people seem to realise,” says a cinema gossip, “that Miss S. Eaden, the American film actress, is fond of tulips.” We are ashamed to confess that we had not fully grasped this fact.

It appears that one newspaper has decided that May 24th shall be the opening date for ceasing to notice the cuckoo. Will correspondents please note?

“Things are unsettled in Ireland,” says a gossip writer. We think people should be more careful what they say. Scandal like this might get about.

A certain golf club has petitioned the local Council for permission to play golf “in a modified form.” Members who recently heard the Club Colonel playing out of the bunker at the seventh declare that no substantial modification is possible.

A new invention for motorists makes a buzzing sound when the petrol tank is getting low. This is nothing compared with the motor-taxes invented by the Chancellor of the Exchequer, which make the motorist himself whistle.

In the opinion of a weekly paper no dog can stand the sound of bagpipes without setting up a howl. This only goes to prove, what we have always contended, that dogs are almost human.

Visitor. “Why does your servant go about the house with her hat on?”

Mistress. “Oh, she’s a new girl. She only came this morning, and hasn’t yet made up her mind whether she’ll stay.”

THE LIBERAL BREACH.

(As viewed dispassionately by a looker-on.)

When dog with dog elects to fight

I take no hand in such disputes,

Knowing how hard they both would bite

Should I attempt to part the brutes.

So in the case of man and wife

My rooted habit it has been,

When they engage in privy strife,

Never to go and barge between.

Nor do I join the fighting front

When Liberal sections disagree,

One on the Coalition stunt

And one on that of Freedom (Wee).

Though tempted, when I see them tear

Each other’s eyes, to say, “Be good!”

As an outsider I forbear,

Fearing to be misunderstood.

Fain would I use my gift of tact

And take a mediatorial line,

But shrewdly recognise the fact

That this is no affair of mine.

Yet may I venture to deplore

A great tradition cheaply prized,

And yonder, on the Elysian shore,

The ghost of Gladstone scandalised.

But most for him I mourn in vain

Whom Fate has dealt so poor a fist

(Recalling Shakspeare’s gloomy Dane,

That solid-fleshed soliloquist)—

O curséd spite that he was born

(Asquith, I mean) to close the breach

And save a party all forlorn

By mere rotundity of speech.

O. S.

A LIAR’S MASTERPIECE.

My friend Arthur’s hobby is the stupendous. He conceives himself to be the direct successor of the mediæval travel-story merchants. War-tales, of course, are barred to him, for nothing is too improbable to have happened during the War, and all the best lies were used by professionals while Arthur was still serving. Once, however, in his career he has realised his ambition to be taken for a perfect liar, and that time he happened to be speaking the simple truth. I was his referee and he did it in this wise.

When Allenby was making his last great drive against the Turk, he was no doubt happy in the knowledge that Arthur and I were pushing East through Bulgaria to take his adversary in the rear. We pushed with speed and address, but just when it looked as if we should exchange the tactical for the practical we stopped and rusticated at the hamlet of Skeetablista, on the Turco-Bulgarian frontier.

Skeetablista was under the control of Marko and Stefan and an assorted following of Bulgar cut-throats. Although the mutual hatchet had been interred a bare three weeks we found ourselves among friends. Thomas Atkins was soon talking Bulgarian with ease and fluency, while his “so-called superiors,” as the company Bolshevik put it, celebrated the occasion by an international dinner in Marko’s quarters. The dinner consisted chiefly of rum (provided by us) and red pepper (provided by Marco and Stefan).

These latter were bright and eager youths from Sofia military academy, and while the rum and red pepper passed gaily round they talked the shop of their Bulgarian Sandhurst in a queer mixture of English and French. They made living figures for us of the Kaiser, who had inspected them not long before, of Ferdie and of Boris his son, and told moving tales of British gunfire from the wrong end. We countered with Kitchener, Lloyd George and the British Navy, while outside in the night the Thracian wolves howled derisively at both alike.

“I should like plenty to travel away and see the other countries,” said Marko, rolling us cigarettes after dinner. “This is a good country, but ennuyant. ’Ow the wolfs make plenty brouhaha to-night, hein? Stefan, did you command the guard to conduct our frien’s ’ome?”

Stefan waggled his head from side to side in assent.

“Yes,” continued Marko, “to see Italie, Paris, Londres. Particulierly Londres.”

“I live in London,” Arthur remarked.

“You live?” said Marko with interest. “Tell me, ’ow great is Londres?”

“How great?” repeated Arthur, doubtful what kind of greatness was indicated, moral or material.

“Oui, ’ow great? From one side to the other side?”

“Oh, I see,” replied Arthur, and took thought. “About twenty-five kilometres, I suppose.”

“Twenty-five!” Marko’s eyes rounded with astonishment. “Écoute, Stefan; vingt-cinq kilomètres.”

“But—but,” demanded Stefan, “’ow many people is there?”

“About six millions,” replied Arthur, swelling with pleasure. At last he had found his incredulous audience.

“But that is a nation! I do not know if there are so many in all Bulgarie,” cried Marko. “’Ow do they travel? No droski could go so far—it is a day’s march. But perhaps you ’ave tramway? In Sofia we ’ave tramway,” he added, not without pride.

“There are trams, but most of the people travel in buses——”

“Bussesse?” interjected Stefan. “Qu’ est-ce que c’est, bussesse?”

“Lorries—camions. Big automobiles containing many people. And there are also underground railways, railways under the ground in a tunnel. You know tunnels?”

“Oui, galleria. But a railway under a town—mon Dieu!” said Marko, appalled. “’Ow do the people descend to it?”

“In lifts—ascenseurs. From the street.”

Stefan nodded assent. “I ’ave seen ascenseurs at Sofia,” he said.

“In these tunnels,” continued Arthur, visibly warming to his work, “trains go to all parts of the town every three minutes, and the cost is only twenty statinki. The streets above are paved with wood.”

“With wood! Kolossal!” said Marko, forgetting our prejudice against Bosch idiom in his wonder at this crowning marvel.

To what lengths of veracity Arthur would have gone I never knew, for at that moment a trampling of feet and a hoarse command outside announced the arrival of our escort, and Marko, still in a sort of walking swoon of amazement, went out to give them their orders.

Stefan regarded us with twinkling eyes.

“Ah, farceur!” he remarked, shaking his finger waggishly at Arthur. “I know all the time you make the joke, but poor Marko, you ’ave deceived ’im absolument. Railway under the ground, streets of wood, ’e swallow it all. Oh, naughty Baroutchik!”

The wolves did not come near us and our escort on our way home, but they could have had Arthur for the taking. At the moment he had nothing left to live for.

“Johannesburg tramway men started a lightning strike on Thursday owing to the suspension of a conductor.”—Daily Paper.

It seems a logical reason.

“Do not waste any time in entering for our ‘Hidden’ Geography Competition.”—Daily Paper.

Thanks for the advice; we won’t.

“Linacre Lecture.—Dr. Henry Head, F.R.L., ‘Aspasia and Kindred Disorders of the Speech.’”—Cambridge Calendar.

Yet this is the lady who is supposed to have inspired the most famous of Pericles’ orations.

“Furnished Railway Carriage in Surrey garden to Let; 3 beds; company’s water, gas-cooker, and light: 2gs. weekly.”—Daily Paper.

Miss Daisy Ashford seems to have foreseen this development when she wrote of Mr. Salteena’s “compartments.”

THE RELUCTANT THRUSTER.

Mr. Asquith (performing the function of a battering-ram). “I CONFESS THAT AT MY TIME OF LIFE I SHOULD HAVE PREFERRED A MORE SEDENTARY IF LESS HONORIFIC SPHERE OF USEFULNESS.”

Profiteer (after trying a variety of patterns without success). “Well, it looks pretty ’opeless when they won’t ’ave a gold fly. What do they expect—diamonds?”

THE PERSONAL TOUCH.

(By our tireless Political Penetrator.)

For some time past, I understand, the Government has been considering steps to bring the personalities of Cabinet Ministers more prominently into the public eye. “We are not sufficiently known,” said Sir William Sutherland, who has the matter in hand, “as living palpitating figures to the man in the street. We do not grip the nation’s heart. We lack pep.”

I told him that it was a pity about pep. I felt that the Government ought to have pep. and plenty of it. If possible they ought to have vineg. and must. too.

“You are right,” he said. “Occasional paragraphs in the Press, snapshots which take us very likely with one leg stuck out in front as if we were doing the goose-step, rare provincial excursions and bouquets from admiring mill-girls are all very well in their way, but they are nothing to constant personal appearances at stated times and in stated places before an admiring mob. The heroes of sport are overshadowing us,” he continued with a sigh, pushing me over a box of cigars.

“What are you going to do about it?” I asked, lighting one and putting another carefully behind my ear.

“You must remember first,” he replied, “that this is quite a modern difficulty. Statesmen of the past used to make their leisurely progress through the town surrounded by retainers on horseback, or in sedan-chairs, beautifully dressed and scattering largesse as they went. Thomas à Becket, the great Primate and Chancellor, used to have poor men to dine with him and crowds thronging round to bless him. To-day, I suppose, Joe Beckett in his flowered dressing-gown would be a more popular figure than Lord Birkenhead and the Archbishop of Canterbury, if you can imagine them rolled into one. In Charles II.’s reign, when politicians used to play pêle-mêle where the great Clubs are now, anyone could rub shoulders with my lord of Buckingham and, if he was lucky, get a swipe across the shins with the ducal mallet itself. That is the kind of thing we want now.

“I had thoughts of running popular excursions down to Walton Heath, but I am not sure that the people would care to go so far even to see Sir Eric Geddes carrying the home green and Lord Riddell—the Riddell of the sands, as we call him affectionately down there—getting out of a difficult bunker. So I am trying to arrange for a few putting greens in railed-off spaces in St. James’s Park near the pelicans, and we also propose to hold there on fine summer days the breakfast parties for which the Prime Minister is so famous. We shall make a point of throwing not only crumbs to the birds, but slices of bread and marmalade to the more indigent spectators. We shall also try to get two or three open squash racket courts in Whitehall, so that on hot summer days the most carping critic who watches a rally between Mr. Austen Chamberlain and the Secretary of State for War will have to admit that we are doing our utmost to eliminate waste-products.”

“But what about the clothes and the stately progress and the largesse?” I asked; the largesse idea had struck me with particular force.

“We are thinking of goat carriages and overalls for economy,” he said, “and the largesse cannot, I am afraid, be allowed for in the Treasury Estimates. But we shall certainly scatter a handful or two of O.B.E.’s as we go.”

“And how will you deal with the country and the outer suburbs?” I asked when my admiration had partially subsided.

“Ah, there you have the Cinema,” replied Sir William enthusiastically. “We are going to make great strides with the Cinema. Our first film, which is now in preparation, deals with the Leamington episode and has been very carefully staged. It has been necessary, of course, in the interests of art to elaborate the actual incidents to a certain extent. Coalition Liberals, for instance, were obliged to board the train in the traditional manner of the screen, leaping on to it whilst in motion and climbing, some by way of the brakes and buffers, some along the roofs of the carriages, into their reserved compartment. Then again we could not reassemble the actual gathering of Wee Frees to represent the enemy, but we secured the services of actors well trained in Wild West and “crook” parts, capably led by those two prominent comedians, Mr. Mutt and Mr. Jeff. The film ends, of course, with the second meeting at the Central Hall, Westminster, when Messrs. Mutt and Jeff again appear as comic and objectionable interrupters, and are ignominiously hurled into the street.

“Very soon we hope to have all important Parliamentary debates filmed. It will be essential, of course, to provide some comic relief, and we are relying confidently on certain Members to practise the wearing of mobile moustaches and to take lessons in the stagger, the butter slide, the business with the cane and the quick reversal of the hat.”

“In short you think politics should be more spectacular?”

“That’s it,” he said. “Hobbs the mammoth hitter and a little less of the Leviathan.”

Greatly impressed I bit off the end of his second cigar and went back to the office to look up Leviathan.

V.

Farmer. “Dear me! C-can I do anything?”

Airman. “Thanks, but really I think I’ve done all there is to be done.”

An Optimist.

“The pastor of the —— Congregational Church has been ordered by his medical adviser to take a rest. The rev. gentleman is therefore spending a fortnight’s holiday in Ireland.”—Provincial Paper.

“During the period of waiting before the bridal party appeared, the organist played Wagner’s ‘Bridal Chorus,’ and ‘Cradle Song’ (Guilmant).”—West Country Paper.

The organist seems to have been rather a forward fellow.

With the Polo-season imminent we feel that we must not withhold from intending players the admirable and disinterested advice given in an Indian Trade circular:—

“The skill of a polo player lies in his well management of horse in the turmoil of Play. Ill-weighed Polo sticks make the situation worse if the horse is not so kept.

We try our best to construct Polo sticks in such a way as may help the player in the blur of game and put him in a more progressing mood.

Make a real pleasure of your game and not labour as other sticks than ours would tend to make it. A fond player would like to give anything for a good stick.”

HOME-SICKNESS;

or, The Sinn Feiner Abroad.

(After “The Lake Isle of Innisfree,” with sincere apologies to Mr. W. B. Yeats.)

I will arise and go now to Galway or Tralee

And burgle someone’s house there and plan a moonlight raid;

Ten live rounds will I have there to shoot at the R.I.C.

And wear a mask in the bomb-loud glade.

And I shall have great fun there, for fun comes fairly fast,

Bonfires in the purple heather and the barracks burning fine,

There midnight is a shindy and the noon is overcast

And evening full of the feet of kine.

I will arise and go now, for always in my sleep

There comes the sound of rifles and low moans on the shore;

I see the sudden ambush and hear the widows weep,

And I like that kind of war.

Evoe.

AURAL TUITION.

The only other occupant of the carriage was a well dressed man of middle age, clad in English clothes, but from many slight signs palpably a foreigner of some sort.

Soon after the train started I noticed that his mouth and throat were twitching and I surmised that he was about to speak. But speech is no term in which to describe the queer animal, vegetable and mineral sounds which issued from him. First his mouth opened slightly and he seemed about to sneeze. Next I was conscious of a scraping noise in his throat, accompanied by a slight ticking. It appeared that he was going to have a fit and I regretted that we were alone. The noise grew louder, took on speed and rose in a crescendo almost to a screech. Then a few more scrapes, as of a pencil on a slate, and I began to detect that he was speaking. His lips did not move, so that his voice had a curiously distant sound. Nevertheless the words were clearly audible.

The following is what he said in a low, metallic monotone: “Good morning, Sir. I am very pleased to meet you. Can you tell me what o’clock it is? I am much obliged. I wish to descend at Manchester. At what hour do we arrive there? There are few passengers to-day. The weather is fine. I beg your pardon if I do not make myself clear. I do not speak English perfectly as yet. No doubt I have need of much practice. Can I send a telegram from the next station? Is there a good hotel at Manchester? Will you do me the favour——”

“Stop,” I cried, after having several times opened my mouth to answer one or other of his questions.

As soon as I spoke the words ended with a sudden click; the voice descended and became a scrape; at last silence.

“My dear Sir,” said I, “I shall be happy to give you any information I can if you will ask one question at a time. You evidently speak English very well indeed.”

His face lighted with approval of the compliment and then the whole performance began over again. Once more the wheeze, the scrape, the screech, the tick and all the rest of it. I became terrified at these painful impediments in his speech.

I remembered that somebody had once told me what to do on such occasions. It was either to throw the patient upon his back and move his arms up and down in a travesty of rowing or to slap him violently on the back. Seeing that the stranger was several times larger than myself I chose with diffidence the latter course. Rising to my feet I turned him round and thumped his back vigorously. He received the treatment with amiable smiles. Next he produced from his pocket a booklet, which he handed to me with a polite bow, desisting entirely from his menagerie noises.

I am of a nervous temperament and needed some minutes’ rest in which to collect myself. Then I began to examine the stranger’s gift.

It was a well-printed pamphlet, obviously an advertisement:—

“HOW TO LEARN FOREIGN LANGUAGES.

The One Truly Scientific Method.

The only way to acquire the real accent of the native is to listen repeatedly to the language spoken by a native. With our phonograph No. 0034 and a selection of suitable records the student may listen for as many hours daily as he chooses to the voice of a native speaking his own language.”

Lower down I saw: “Contents of Records. No. 1, At the Hotel; No. 2, At the Railway Station; No. 3, In the Train.” Ah! there it was—the whole monologue:—

“Good morning, Sir. I am very pleased to meet you. Can you tell me——?”

The explanation relieved me; I turned to my fellow-traveller.

“My dear Sir,” said I, “I congratulate you on being the perfect pupil. Your teacher, could it feel such emotions, would be proud of you. Only to an exceptional student can it be given so faithfully to reproduce ‘His Master’s Voice.’”

FIGURE-HEADS.

“You never see a decent figure-’ead,

Not now,” Bill said;

“A fiddlin’ bit o’ scrollwork at the bow,

That’s the most now;

But Lord! I’ve seen some beauties, more ’n a few,

An’ some rare rum uns too.

“Folks in all sorts o’ queer old-fashioned rigs,

Fellers in wigs,

Chaps in cocked ’ats an’ ’elmets, lords an’ dukes.

Folks out o’ books,

Niggers in turbans, mandarins an’ Moors,

And ’eathen gods by scores;

“An’ women in all kinds o’ fancy dresses—

Queens an’ princesses,

Witches on broomsticks too, an’ spankin’ girls

With streamin’ curls,

An’ dragons an’ sea serpents—Lord knows what

I’ve seen an’ what I’ve not!

“An’ some’s in breakers’ yards now, thick with grime

And weathered white wi’ time;

An’ some stuck up in gardens ’ere an’ there

With plants for ’air;

An’ no one left as knows but chaps like me

How fine wi’ paint an’ gold they used to be

In them old days at sea.”

C. F. S.

“Bag and Baggage.”

“According to present arrangements the Turkish Peace Treaty will be presented to the Turkish delegation on May 11 at 4 p.m. in the Cloak Room of the French Foreign Office.”—Times.

These ceremonies are usually conducted in the Salon de l’Horloge, but the new venue was doubtless thought more appropriate for disposing of the Turkish impedimenta.

MANNERS AND MODES.

THE STRIKE AGAINST THE PRICE OF CLOTHES IS SPREADING.

[Fashion Note.—Lady Germanda Speedwell was seen walking in the Park looking sweet in a rhubarb-leaf hat, the stalk worn at the side. Her corsage was of clinging ivy leaves, in contrast to the fuller effect of her banana-skin skirt. Her companion wore the usual morning-coat and kilt of grass, but struck a new note with a pumpkin hat.]

THE MAKING OF A CRISIS.

[We are privileged to-day to publish an unwritten chapter from Mr. H. G. Wells’ History of the World. It is entitled “The Slime Age,” and has a topical interest since it outlines the methods of production of the Crisis, the only article of which the supply to-day exceeds the demand.]

Out of all this muddle and confusion and slipshod thinking there arose one man with a purpose, one man who fixed his eyes on a single inevitable goal and walked straight at it, not minding what or whom he trod upon on the way. His purpose was the mass-production of crises, and he created crises as rabbits create their young, nine at a time. In those fuddled incompetent days before the Great War the crisis was a little-known phenomenon. Here and there in the drab routine of peaceful corpulent years there flashed in the prosperous firmament the baleful light of a great anxiety. Agadir was one; Carson and his gun-runners was another. But they were few; they came like rare comets and were forgotten.

Then in the Great War a new habit was born in the minds of the people, the habit of crises. Even then at first they came decently, in ordered succession—Mons, Ypres, the Coalition, Gallipoli. But the people’s craving was insatiable; the people cried for more crises.

Then this man stood up and said to the people, “I will give you crises.”

And he did. Instead of a casual crisis here and there, to every year a crisis or two, he gave them a crisis every month, every week, every day, and still they were not satisfied. And so, at last, out of all the muddle and waste and pettifogging stupidity this man created crises as men create matches, by the gross. And this was how he created them:—

Extract from “The Slime,” April 3rd, a paragraph in the Foreign Intelligence:—

“Bobadig, April 1st.

“A party of French mules, passing to their quarters in the vilayet of Arimabug, were to-day attacked by an Australian sheep on the staff of the British Military Mission. It is feared that many of the mules were injured. Feeling runs high among the peasantry, incensed already by the failure of the British Government to provide mosquito-nets for the sacred goats.”

Extract from a leading article in “The Slime,” April 6th, on Land Tenure in Wales:—

“ ... Parliament to-day will be occupied with the preposterous Budget proposals, but we hope our legislators will find time to press the Prime Minister for an explanation of the outrageous incident at Bobadig reported in our columns last week. There is only too good reason to fear that the policy of alternate violence and inertia, against which we have so often protested, has at last inflamed the law-abiding animals of Bobadig ...”

From “The Slime” Special Correspondent:—

“Bobadig, April 8th.

“Since my last message (much mutilated by the Censor) events have moved rapidly. Two of the mules have died of their injuries in hospital; three others lie in a dangerous condition at Umwidi, four miles away, where they fled for refuge from the wanton onslaught of the Australian sheep. This sheep, it now transpires, was the personal attendant of General Riddlecombe, Head of the Military Mission, a circumstance which is not calculated to allay the local animosity which the incident has aroused. The situation will require all the tact that the British Government can command.”

Extract from the Special Crisis Column of “The Slime,” April 11th:—

“ANGLO-ARMENIAN RELATIONS.
GRAVE WARNING.

“In a telegram which we print in another column our Special Correspondent in Armenia confirms to-day the serious fears to which we gave expression in our issue of April 6th concerning the possibility of a crisis in Anglo-Armenian relations. The incident of the Bobadig mules is already bearing fruit, and we can no longer doubt that popular feeling in the vilayet of Arimabug has been dangerously inflamed by the obtuse procrastination of the British Government. These unfortunate mules....”

“Scratchipol, April 10th.

“Communications with Bobadig have broken down, but it is reported that a mule was buried there on Sunday in circumstances of great popular excitement. A large crowd followed the body to the cemetery and made a demonstration after the ceremony outside the house of the local veterinary surgeon, who is alleged to have treated the animal for mumps instead of sheep-shock, with fatal results.”

From “The Slime,” April 14th:—

“GRAVE CRISIS.
ARMENIAN ANGER.
THE MURDERED MULES.

“As we feared, a serious crisis has arisen in Anglo-Armenian relations. At Bobadig a third mule has perished and his interment was made the occasion of a great popular demonstration against the policy of Great Britain. In diplomatic circles no one is attempting to conceal that the situation is extremely grave. The Prime Minister has returned to Downing Street from Le Touquet. Shortly after his arrival the Armenian Minister drove up in a motor-cab and was closeted with the Premier for a full ten minutes. After lunch, Lord Wurzel arrived in his brougham. At tea-time the Minister of Mutton-Control dashed up in a 24 ’bus, followed rapidly by the Secretary of State for War on his scooter. Mr. Burble wore an anxious look....”

Extract from a leading article in “The Slime,” April 16th:—

“SPIT IT OUT.

“We trust it is not already too late to appeal to the Government to extricate the Empire from the perilous position in which their wilful stupidity has placed it. The news from Bobadig is exceedingly serious. Another of the affronted mules has perished in circumstances of the foulest indignity; it only remains for the other two to die for the triumph of British statesmanship to be complete. These wretched creatures are being slowly sacrificed for the foolish whim of a British Prime Minister. No doubt remains that they have been subjected to sheep-shock by the savage bites of the Australian animal. The Government, blinded by its own infatuate folly and deaf to the storms of popular indignation in this country, continues to treat them for mumps.... By this test the Government will be judged at the forthcoming election. They must realise that the time for trifling is past. If the resources of the British Empire are unable at this date to combat the menace of sheep-shock among the loyal mules of Bobadig, then indeed.... At least we are entitled to ask for an explanation of the presence of an infuriated sheep on the staff of a British General. The PRIME MINISTER....”

From “The Slime,” April 17th:—

“AT LAST.

The situation in Bobadig is easing rapidly. The Government has at last carried out the instructions of The Slime, and we understand that a Ministerial expert in sheep-shock has been sent to the assistance of the surviving mules. But while we may congratulate ourselves on the lifting of the clouds in that direction matters in West Ham give ground for the gravest anxiety. The wood-lice of West Ham are proverbially of an irritable nature, and the attitude of the Government has been calculated for some time to inflame....”

From “The Slime,” April 19th:—

“BOBADIG CRISIS OVER.

Premier Yields.

We are glad to report....”

From “The Slime,” April 20th:—

“WEST HAM CRISIS BEGINS.

Wood Lice in Revolt.

Grave Warning.

Once again we must warn the Government....”

And so on.

A. P. H.