PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 152.

March 21st, 1917.

CHARIVARIA.

There is a convict at Pentonville who is said to be exactly like the KAISER. He feels that in view of the great inconvenience he has suffered it is the KAISER'S duty at once to remove his moustache or grow side whiskers.

The KAISER is in a bit of a hole. Attending a special service for the success of the War, he is reported to have "sung the De Profundis at the top of his voice." All the rest of him, including the lower part of his voice, seems to have been submerged.

The revolutionary spirit in Germany seems to have extended to the vegetable kingdom. In a riot at Barmen which occurred recently the chief of police was "seriously wounded" by a turnip.

The Berliner Tageblatt states that for appearing at a private concert a famous opera singer has been paid in food, including sixty eggs. The custom is not unknown to some of our own music-hall artistes, who however are usually more than content with receiving "the bird."

According to a Globe report Mr. CHARLES GULLIVER is giving at the Palladium "a programme of real entertainers." Enterprise and originality are always to be commended in a manager.

A telegram from Mexico City announces that General CARRANZA has been elected President of the Mexican Republic. It is expected that a full list of the casualties will be published shortly.

A Melbourne despatch states that Mr. HUGHES has been offered thirty-four seats in the forthcoming elections. The Opposition, it is understood, has expressed its willingness to allow Mr. HUGHES to occupy all thirty-four.

So effective has been the attempt to reduce circulation that we are not surprised to find a provincial paper advertising in The Daily Telegraph for "A Reader."

"There is no monument more enduring than brass," writes Mr. GEORGE BERNARD SHAW, War Correspondent. The general feeling, however, is that there is a kind of brass that is beyond enduring.

The idea of blaming Queen Elizabeth for the Dardanelles fiasco is so entirely satisfactory to all parties concerned that it is being freely asked why the Commission couldn't have thought of that itself.

The new order prohibiting newspapers from printing contents bills is bearing hardly in certain quarters, and it is rumoured that at least one sensational contemporary has offered to forgo publishing itself in return for the privilege of selling its posters.

By order of the General Officer Commanding the London District the Grafton Galleries have been placed out of bounds. Or, as they say in the best War-time dancing circles, out of leaps and bounds.

Kensington Council states that 300,000 tons of food are consumed annually by thousands of dogs which serve no useful purpose. The dogs, on the other hand, are asking what would become of the nation's womanhood if there were no dogs to take it out for exercise in the afternoon.

The Government, it appears, is determined to keep Charing Cross Railway Station on the North side of the river. All the objections to the present site, they point out, are easily outweighed by its proximity to the National Gallery.

At Highgate, says a news item, a man named YELLS was fined for having in his possession pork which was not sound. It was suggested that defendant had held back the squeal for his own purposes.

An applicant recently informed the House of Commons' Tribunal that cutting sandwiches was highly skilled work, which could not be done satisfactorily by women. The difficulty appears to consist not in the actual cutting, but in conveying the hammy taste from the knife to the bread without actually parting with the ham itself.

Skipping is recommended as a healthy recreation. Several Germans on the Ancre say they already owe their lives to this practice.

It is now proposed that Telephone Directories should be charged for. The idea appears to be to bring them into line with other light literature; but Punch fears no rivals.

It has been decided by Mr. PAUL TAYLOR at Marylebone that bacon is meat. Lord DEVONPORT, now that his suspicion has been judicially confirmed, has announced his intention of going ahead on that basis.

From a school-girl's examination paper:—"Question. What do you know of Tantalus? Answer: Tantalus suffered from continual hunger and thirst in internal regions."

CHILDREN'S TALES FOR GROWN-UPS.

III.

ITS OWN REWARD.

"What fun!" cried the wasp.

"Where?" asked the bee looking up with a subdued smile.

"I mean I can't help laughing," said the wasp.

"A disgusting habit," said the bee.

"Look at those people nearly out of their wits. Here goes for old Bless-my-Soul again!" He flew off and buzzed round the old gentleman's neck and then flew back to the bee, laughing louder than ever at his purple rage.

"I don't know what you think of your conduct," said the bee severely, "but I think it is insects like you who give us all a bad name."

"Be hanged to your bad name," scoffed the wasp. "A short life and a merry one, say I."

"A busy life and a useful one, rather," said the bee. "I am proud to be the friend of man."

"Good heavens!" shouted the wasp. "Here comes old Bless-my-Soul bent on murder. Look out! I'm going for his neck."

Old Bless-my-Soul slashed wildly with his table-napkin and slew the bee. He went back triumphantly with his spoil.

"A bee!" shouted everybody. "I thought it was a wasp. I didn't know bees were like that."

"All insects are vicious," said old Bless-my-Soul.

Another Impending Apology.

"LONDON PAVILION. CHEERIO! at 8.30.—'Just the thing for a dull evening.'"—Daily News.

"A few of the waiting women abandoned hope of getting potatoes, and substituted the purchase by parsnips and sweres."—Daily Mirror.

In the circumstances who shall blame them?

NOTICE.

In order to meet the national need for economy in the consumption of paper, the Proprietors of Punch are compelled to reduce the number of its pages, but propose that the amount of matter published in Punch shall by condensation and compression be maintained and even, it is hoped, increased.

It is further necessary that means should be taken to restrict the circulation of Punch, and its price has been raised to Sixpence. The Proprietors believe that the public will prefer an increase of price to a reduction of matter.

Readers are urged to place an order with their Newsagent for the regular delivery of copies, as Punch may otherwise be unobtainable, the shortage of paper making imperative the withdrawal from Newsagents of the "on-sale-or-return" privilege.

In consequence of the increase in the price of Punch the period covered by subscriptions already paid direct to the Punch Office will be proportionately shortened; or the unexpired value will be refunded, if desired.

The next issue of Punch (March 28th) will be a Navy Double Number, price Sixpence. The Proprietors regret that arrangements for this Number were completed before the further drastic restrictions in the paper supply were announced.

Unlucky One (after perusing latest list of honours). "NEVER HAVE HAD ANY LUCK. MONTHS AGO I SAVED A SERGEANT CHAP FROM A ROTTEN PLACE—CARRIED THE FELLOW ALL THE WAY BACK—AND TOLD HIM NOT TO SAY A WORD ABOUT IT!"

Friend. "WELL, WHAT'S WRONG? HAS HE BEEN TALKING?"

Unlucky One. "NOT A WORD, CURSE HIM!"

THE MUD LARKS.

When I was young, my parents sent me to a boarding school, not in any hopes of getting me educated, but because they wanted a quiet home.

At that boarding school I met one Frederick Delane Milroy, a chubby flame-coloured brat who had no claims to genius, excepting as a littérateur.

The occasion that established his reputation with the pen was a Natural History essay. We were given five sheets of foolscap, two hours and our own choice of subject. I chose the elephant, I remember, having once been kind to one through the medium of a bag of nuts.

Frederick D. Milroy headed his effort "THE FERT" in large capitals, and began, "The fert is a noble animal—" He got no further, the extreme nobility of the ferret having apparently blinded him to its other characteristics.

The other day, as I was wandering about on the "line," dodging Bosch crumps with more agility than grace, I met Milroy (Frederick Delane) once more.

He was standing at the entrance of a cosy little funk-hole, his boots and tunic undone, sniffing the morning nitro-glycerine. He had swollen considerably since our literary days, but was wearing his hair as red as ever, and I should have known it anywhere—on the darkest night. I dived for him and his hole, pushed him into it, and re-introduced myself. He remembered me quite well, shook my chilblains heartily, and invited me further underground for tea and talk.

It was a nice hole, cramped and damp, but very deep, and with those Bosch love-tokens thudding away upstairs I felt that the nearer Australia the better. But the rats! Never before have I seen rats in such quantities; they flowed unchidden all over the dug-out, rummaged in the cupboards, played kiss-in-the-ring in the shadows, and sang and brawled behind the old oak panelling until you could barely hear yourself shout. I am fond of animals, but I do not like having to share my tea with a bald-headed rodent who gets noisy in his cups, or having a brace of high-spirited youngsters wrestle out the championship of the district on my bread-and-butter.

Freddy apologised for them; they were getting a bit above themselves, he was afraid, but they were seldom dangerous, seldom attacked one unprovoked. "Live and let live" was their motto. For all that they did get a trifle de trop sometimes; he himself had lost his temper when he awoke one morning to find a brawny rat sitting on his face combing his whiskers in mistake for his own (a pardonable error in the dark); and, determining to teach them a lesson, had bethought him of his old friend, the noble fert. He therefore sent home for two of the best.

The ferrets arrived in due course, received the names Burroughs and Welcome, were blessed and turned loose.

They had had a rough trip over at the bottom of the mail sack and were looking for trouble. An old rat strolled out of his club to see what all the noise was about, and got the excitement he needed. Seven friends came to his funeral and never smiled again. There was great rejoicing in that underground Mess that evening; Burroughs and Welcome were fêted on bully beef and condensed milk, and made honorary members.

For three days the good work went on; there was weeping in the cupboards and gnashing of teeth behind the old oak panelling. Then on the fourth day Burroughs and Welcome disappeared, and the rats swarmed to their own again. The deserters were found a week later; they had wormed through a system of rat-holes into the next dug-out, inhabited by the Atkinses, and had remained there, honoured guests.

It is the nature of the British Atkins to make a pet of anything, from a toad to a sucking pig—he cannot help it. The story about St. George, doyen of British soldiers, killing that dragon—nonsense! He would have spanked it, may be, until it promised to reform, then given it a cigarette, and taken it home to amuse the children. To return to our ferrets, Burroughs and Welcome provided no exception to the rule; they were taught to sit up and beg, and lie down and die, to turn handsprings and play the mouth-organ; they were gorged with Maconochie, plum jam and rum ration; it was doubtful if they ever went to bed sober. Times out of number they were borne back to the Officers' Mess and exhorted to do their bit, but they returned immediately to their friends the Atkinses, viâ their private route, not unnaturally preferring a life of continuous carousal and vaudeville among the flesh-pots to sapping and mining down wet rat-holes.

Freddy was of opinion that, when the battalion proceeded up Unter den Linden, Burroughs and Welcome would be with it as regimental mascots, marching behind the band, bells on their fingers, rings on their toes. He also assured me that if he ever again has to write an essay on the Fert, its characteristics, the adjective "noble" will not figure so prominently.

HERBS OF GRACE.

III.

SWEET MARJORAM.

"Sweet Marjoram! Sweet Marjoram!"

(Sang an old dame standing on the kerb);

"You may hear a thousand ballads,

You may pick a thousand salads,

Ere you light on such another herb.

Sweet Marjoram! Sweet Marjoram!

(Let its virtues evermore be sung);

Oh, 'twill make your Sunday clo'es gay,

If you wear it in a nosegay,

Pretty mistress, like when I was young.

"Sweet Marjoram! Sweet Marjoram!

(Sing of sweet old gardens all a-glow);

It will scent your dower drawer, dear,

Folk would strew it on the floor, dear,

Long ago—long ago—long ago.

"Sweet Marjoram! Sweet Marjoram!"

(Sang the old dame standing on the kerb);

"You may hear a thousand ballads,

You may pick a thousand salads,

Ere you light on such another herb."

"The recipients [of the medals] were:—Sergeant W.A. Norris, D.C.M. and Military Private A. Trichney, M.M., andtootompPUF. Medal ..." Daily Paper.

Private TRICHNEY'S second distinction was awarded presumably for something extra good in the bombing line.

"Lord Beauchamp, opening an Economy Exhibition at Gloucester on Saturday, said that among many interesting exhibits was one described as 'Frocks for the twins from Uncle's pyjamas.' He hoped that the child who sent this exhibit would get the prize it deserved."—Daily Mail.

Uncle has probably seen to that.

THE BREAKING OF THE FETTERS.

ELLA REEVE.

One can't be too careful how one boasts, especially if there is the chance of the boast being put quickly to the proof. In fact, it is better perhaps not to boast at all.

I was sitting with a friend and a stranger in a London restaurant, having joined their table for coffee. The stranger, on introduction, turned out to be connected with the stage in some capacity as agent, and among his regular clients were the managers of various big provincial theatres, for whom he provided the leading lights of pantomime, or, as he would call it, panto. Panto was indeed the mainstay of his business; it was even the warp and woof of his life. He lived for panto, he thought panto, and he talked panto. No one, according to him, had a more abysmal knowledge of principal boys with adequate legs, principal (if that is still the word) girls with sufficient voices, contralto fairy queens with abundant bosoms, basso demon kings, Prince Dandinis, Widow Twankays, Ugly Sisters, and all the other personages of this strange grease-paint mythology of ours. Listening to him, I learned—as those who are humble in spirit may learn of all men. I learned, for example, that Ugly Sisters are at Christmas-time always Ugly Sisters, and very often use again the same dialogue, merely transferring themselves from, say, Glasgow to Wigan, or from Bristol to Dublin; and this will be their destiny until they become such very old men that not even the kindly British public will stand it any longer. England, it seems, is full of performers who, touring the halls from March to December, are then claimed for panto as her own, arriving a little before Christmas not less regularly than the turkey; and the aim of all of them is as nearly as possible to do the next Christmas what they did last Christmas.

Not only did my new acquaintance know all these people, their capabilities and the lowest salary that could be offered to them with any chance of acceptance, but he was also, it seemed, beloved by them all. Between agent and client never in the history of the world had such charming relations subsisted as between every pro. on his books and himself.

It was then that Ella Reeve came in.

Accompanied by two expensive-looking men, whose ancestors had beyond any doubt crossed the Red Sea with Moses, this new and glittering star, who had but just "made good," or "got over," or "clicked" (my new acquaintance used all these phrases indiscriminately when referring to his own Herschellian triumphs as a watcher of the skies), walked confidently to a distant table which was being held in reserve for her party, and drew off her gloves with the happy anticipatory assurance of one who is about to lunch a little too well. (All this, I should say, happened before the War. I am reminded of it to-day by the circumstance that I have just heard of the death of the agent whom I then met.)

The impact of the lady on this gentleman was terrific.

"Look, look!" he said. "That's Ella Reeve, one of my discoveries. She was principal boy at Blackpool two years ago. I put her there. She got fifteen pounds a week, and to-day she gets two hundred. I spotted her in a chorus, asked her to call and see me, and this is the result. I made her. There's nothing she wouldn't do for me, she's so grateful. If she knew I was in the room she'd be over here in a jiffy."

Having told us all this, he, being a very normal man, told it again, all the while craning his neck in the hope that his old client (she had now, it seemed, passed out of his hands, having forsaken panto for London and revue) might catch sight of his dear face. But she was far too much occupied either with the lobster on her plate or with the yellow fluid, strange to me, that moved restlessly in a long-stemmed shallow glass at her side.

And then, being, as I say, not in any way an eccentric or exorbitant character, the agent told it us a third time, with a digression here and there as to the deep friendships that members of his profession could form and cement if only they were decent fellows and not mere money-grubbing machines out for nothing but their commission. "That's what the wise man does," he concluded; "he makes real friends with his clients, such as I did with Ella Reeve. The result is we never had any hitches, and there's nothing she wouldn't do for me. She's a darling!"

Getting a little tired of this, but obviously anything but unwilling to shake the new star's slender hand and listen to the vivacious flow of speech from such attractive lips, my friend said at last, "Well, as you and she are such pals, and as she has only to know that you are here to jump over the tables to get to you, why not send your card to her?"

The agent agreed, and we watched the waiter threading his way among the tables towards that one at which the new and grateful star was seated and hand the card to her.

The end of this story is so tragic that I should prefer not to tell it.

Ella Reeve took the card, read it, laid it down, and resumed conversation with her friends. She did not even glance in our direction.

I felt sorry for the agent, whose mortification was very real, though he made a brave effort to carry it off; and now that he is dead I feel sorrier. As for Ella Reeve (which is not really her name, but one which with great ingenuity I devised for her from the French: thus, Elle arrive) I often see her, under her true style, in her triumphs, and I always wonder whether her treatment of the agent, or his assurance of her dependence on his cordiality, represents more nearly the truth. She looks such a good sort. Some day, when the War is over, I must acquire a shiny tall hat and a glossy shirt front and a youthful manner and get someone to introduce me, and then, bit by bit, extract the truth.

Meanwhile the fact remains that it is dangerous to boast.

Tommy (back from Blighty). "YUS, I GRANT YER A BIT O' LEAVE'S ALL RIGHT. BUT IT'S AWFUL DEPRESSIN', TOO, AT HOME—NOTHIN' BUT WAR—WAR! IT GIVES YER THE FAIR 'UMP."

"JAPANESE POLITICS.

PRIME MINISTER'S ATTACK ON THE DIET."—Daily Paper.

We wouldn't be the Food Controller in Japan for anything.

"Wanted situation as Groom Coachman or Coachman General; disengaged early in March; can milk and care motor if required."—Irish Paper.

A modern improvement, we suppose, on "the cow with the iron tail."

"At a special meeting of the Duma held to-day, the Minister for Agriculture, M. Rittich, in reply to an urgent question on the measures for supplying Petrograd, stated the supplies were sufficient for the present. Difficulties in purchase are due to excessive building and storing by individuals in the shape of rusks."—Daily Chronicle.

No authority for this remarkable statement is given, but we suspect the Russky Invalid.

"A trifle of a trinket for his women-folk is the only saving as an insurance for the poor against famine and starvation for a rainless day."—A Native Writer in "The Times of India."

KIPLING was right, East is East and West is West.

"The undersigned has great pleasure in informing all the ladies, gentlemen and the other travellers in the Station that a very nice comfortable motor car can be obtained on hire from him for a walk in or out of the Station for any period of time at very reasonable charges."—Peshawar Daily News.

The petrol shortage evidently extends to India.

"Ireland is accustomed to disappointment; she is accustomed to what she signalises as betrayal, but her spirit remains unbroken, and she goes on her way undaunted to seek, it may be by new methods and a new road, her appointed gaol."—Manchester Guardian.

Irishmen may justifiably resent this cynicism on the part of an old friend.

A MODIFIED SALIENT.

The Old 'Un (surveying recently called-up warrior). "WELL, JARGE, YOU'M STILL TURR'BLE FAT, BUT THE ARMY DO ZEEM TO 'AVE REARRANGED IT, LIKE."

GOLD BRAID.

Same old crossing, same old boat,

Same old dust round Rouen way,

Same old narsty one-franc note,

Same old "Mercy, sivvoo play;"

Same old scramble up the line,

Same old 'orse-box, same old stror,

Same old weather, wet or fine,

Same old blooming War.

Ho Lor, it isn't a dream,

It's just as it used to be, every bit;

Same old whistle and same old bang,

And me to stay 'ere till I'm 'it.

'Twas up by Loos I got me first;

I just dropped gently, crawled a yard

And rested sickish, with a thirst—

The 'eat, I thought, and smoking 'ard ...

Then someone offers me a drink,

What poets call "the cooling draft,"

And seeing 'im I done a think:

"Blighty," I thinks—and laughed.

I'm not a soldier natural,

No more than most of us to-day;

I runs a business with a pal

(Meaning the Missis) Fulham way;

Greengrocery—the cabbages

And fruit and things I take meself,

And she has daffs and crocuses

A-smiling on a shelf.

"Blighty," I thinks. The doctor knows;

'E talks of punctured damn-the-things.

It's me for Blighty. Down I goes;

I ain't a singer, but I sings;

"Oh, 'oo goes 'ome?" I sort of 'ums;

"Oh, 'oo's for dear old England's shores?"

And by-and-by Southampton comes—

"Blighty!" I says and roars.

I s'pose I thort I done my bit;

I s'pose I thort the War would stop;

I saw myself a-getting fit

With Missis at the little shop;

The same like as it used to be,

The same old markets, same old crowd.

The same old marrers, same old me,

But 'er as proud as proud....

The regiment is where it was,

I'm in the same old ninth platoon;

New faces most, and keen becos

They 'ope the thing is ending soon;

I ain't complaining, mind, but still,

When later on some newish bloke

Stops one and laughs, "A blighty, Bill,"

I'll wonder, "Where's the joke?"

Same old trenches, same old view,

Same old rats and just as tame,

Same old dug-outs, nothing new,

Same old smell, the very same,

Same old bodies out in front,

Same old strafe from 2 till 4,

Same old scratching, same old 'unt,

Same old bloody War.

Ho Lor, it isn't a dream,

It's just as it used to be, every bit;

Same old whistle and same old bang

And me out again to be 'it.

A.A.M.

"The important now development in the cotton situation is that the ½ Prime Minister has consented to receive a deputation."—Manchester Guardian.

All the same, he refused to adopt a ½ measure.

"The history of the development of the ¾eppelin is well-known."—Daily Chronicle.

Particularly since our airmen ceased to give it any quarter.

From an official notice of the sale of an enemy business:—

"Lot 2. The goodwill of the business of the company attaching to goods shipped from England to Nigeria, marked with the unregistered or common-law trade-marks known as 'Eagle on Rocks' and 'Lion and Flag.'"

We are not surprised to hear of the "Eagle on Rocks" when it had the "Lion and Flag" after it.

TILLERS OF THE SOIL.

THE JOY-RIDER AT THE FRONT.

(Being a free version of Mr. BERNARD SHAW'S articles in "The Daily Chronicle" on his visit to the seat of War.)

"Since the good man, RAMSAY MACDONALD, while touring in the East

Went out to shoot the tiger, that homicidal beast,

The most electrifying humanitarian stunt

Has been my khaki joy-ride along the British Front.

"It wasn't my own suggestion; I went as the Government's guest,

Invited to see how the brass-hats were running the show on the West;

I've never been sweet on soldiers, but I only went for a week,

And it gave me heaps of chances of studying war technique.

"If they really thought to convert me by the loan of a khaki suit,

Or by conferring upon me the right to claim a salute,

It wouldn't at all surprise me, for dullards have always tried

To bribe true men of genius to take the popular side.

"Well, I went, I saw, I 'joy-rode,' and my verdict remains the same;

There's no use having a country unless she's always to blame;

For of all the appalling prospects that human life can lend

The worst is to be unable to play the candid friend.

"Men talk of France, the Martyr; of her precious blood outpoured;

Of the innocent helpless victims of the brutal Hunnish horde;

Presuming, insensate idiots, to label as beast and brute

The race that has always held me in the very highest repute!

"While France has failed completely, at least in those later days,

To show appreciation of my Prefaces and Plays;

It wouldn't be therefore worthy of a genuine superman

To show undue compassion for the sorrows of 'Marianne.'

"And as for the sheer destruction of noble and ancient fanes

Which the prejudiced Hun-hater indignantly arraigns,

The simple truth compels me in honesty to state

That the style of some ruined buildings was utterly second-rate.

"But to quit these trivial matters—let weaklings wail and weep,

The loss of a few cathedrals will never affect my sleep—

What lifts this Armageddon to an altitude sublime

Is the crowning fact that it gave me a perfectly glorious time.

"As an ultra-neutral observer I entered the battle zone

And emerged unmoved, unshaken, with a heart as cool as a stone;

No sight could touch or daunt me, no sound my soul untune;

From pity or tears or sorrow I still remained immune.

"I own that before my arrival I felt an occasional qualm