The Project Gutenberg eBook, Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 153, Aug. 22, 1917, by Various, Edited by Owen Seamen

PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 153.

AUGUST 22nd, 1917.

"A POULTRY-FANCIER, HEARING THAT DEFENCES AT THE FRONT ARE SOMETIMES DISGUISED AS HEN-HOUSES, DETERMINED TO REVERSE THE PROCESS. BEING A BIT OF AN ARTIST HE DISGUISED HIS HEN-HOUSE BY GIVING IT A WARLIKE APPEARANCE. THE ENEMY WAS STRICKEN WITH PANIC."

CHARIVARIA.

Eighty-eight policemen were bitten by dogs in 1913, but only forty-four in 1915, says The Daily Mail, and quotes a policeman as saying that "dogs are not half so vicious as they used to be." The true explanation is that policemen no longer taste as good as in the old rabbit-pie days.

Recent heavy rain and the absence of sunshine have, it is stated, caused corn in Essex to sprout in the ear. This idea of portable allotments is appealing very strongly to busy City men.

Feeling about the Stockholm Conference is changing a little, and several people suggest that Mr. RAMSAY MACDONALD might be sent as a reprisal.

Sixty-seven children were recently lost on one day at New Brighton. The fact that they were all restored to their parents before nightfall speaks well for the honesty of the general public.

The German authorities have further restricted the foods to be supplied to dogs, and German scientists are now trying to grow dachshunds with a shorter span.

"We have a Coal Controller, but where is the coal?" plaintively asks a contemporary. There is no satisfying the jaundiced Press.

A well-dressed female baby a month old has been found under the seat of a first-class compartment in a train on the Chertsey line. Several mothers have written to congratulate her upon her courageous and unconventional protest against the fifty per cent. increase in railway fares.

A Glasgow woman has been fined a guinea for trying to enlist in the Irish Guards. Only the Scottish Courts carry pride of race to these absurd lengths.

It is announced that the recent increase in the price of bacon was sanctioned by the FOOD CONTROLLER. The news has given great satisfaction to law-abiding consumers, who bitterly resented the unauthorised increases (upon which this is a further increase) that were made under the old régime.

A dress made from banana skins is now being exhibited in London. It is, we believe, a négligé costume, the sort of thing one can slip on at any time.

"If you had let the boy eat it, it would have punished him a great deal more than I can," said the North London magistrate to a man who was prosecuting a boy for stealing an unripe pear. It is a splendid tribute to the humanity of our stipendiary magistrates that the heroic offer of the boy to accept the greater punishment was promptly refused.

A workman at Kinlochleven, Argyllshire, found a live crab in a pocket of sand at a depth of more than ten feet. On being taken to the police-station and shown the "All Clear" notice the cautious crustacean consented to go straight home.

At a flower-day sale at Grimsby one thousand pounds was paid by a local shipowner for a blue periwinkle. In recognition of his generosity no charge was made for the pin.

A Vienna telegram states that the Emperor KARL has handed the Grand Cross of St. Stephen to the GERMAN CHANCELLOR. The latter quite rightly protests that Herr BETHMANN-HOLLWEG is the real culprit.

From Scotland comes the news that an inmate of a workhouse has received an income-tax form to fill in. This is considered to be but a foretaste of the time when all income-tax papers will have to be addressed to the workhouses.

In a Gloucester meadow, Lieutenant JAGGARD has picked a mushroom weighing ten ounces and measuring twenty-seven inches in circumference. Eyewitnesses describe the gallant officer's enveloping movement as a really brilliant piece of single-handed work.

The Prussian Military Press Bureau, among its other fantasies, has discovered with horror that Calais has been leased to England for ninety-nine years. Our own information is that the situation is really worse than that, the lease being granted alternatively for ninety-nine years "or the duration of the War."

An official statement points out that the work of the National Service Department is continuing without interruption pending the appointment of a new Director-General. It appears that the members of the staff have expressed a desire to die in harness.

IDYLLS OF THE KING OF PRUSSIA.

A FRAGMENT.

So spake Sir GERARD (U.S.A.) and ceased.

Then answered WILLIAM, talking through his hat:

"When first the heathen rose against our realm,

That haunt of peace where all day long occurred

The cooing of innumerable doves,

I hailed my knighthood where I sat in hall

At high Potsdam the Palace, and they came;

And all the rafters rang with rousing Hochs.

"So to my feet they drew and kissed my boots

And laid their maily fists in mine and sware

To reverence their Kaiser as their God

And vice versâ; to uphold the Faith

Approved by me as Champion of the Church;

To ride abroad redressing Belgium's wrongs;

To honour treaties like a virgin's troth;

To serve as model in the nations' eyes

Of strength with sweetness wed; to hack their way

Without superfluous violence; to spare

The best cathedrals lest my heart should bleed,

Nor butcher babes and women, or at least

No more than needful—in a word, behave

Like Prussian officers, the flower of men.

"I bade them take ensample from their Lord

Of perfect manners, wearing on their helms

The bouquet of a blameless Junkerhood,

And be a law of culture to themselves,

Though other laws, not made in Germany,

Should perish, being scrapped. For so I deemed

That this our Order of the Table Round

Should mould its Christian pattern on the spheres,

Itself unchanged amid a world new-made,

And men should say, in that fair after-time,

'The old Order sticketh, yielding place to none.'"

So be. Whereat that other held his peace,

Seeming, for courtesy, to yield assent.

But, as within the lists at Camelot

Some temporary knight mislays his seat

And falls, and, falling, lets his morion loose,

And lights upon his head, and all the spot

Swells like a pumpkin, and he hides the bulge

Beneath his gauntlet lest it cause remark

And curious comment—so behind his hand

Sir GERARD's cheek, that had his tongue inside,

Swelled like a pumpkin....

O. S.

THE STOCKING OF PRIVATE PARKS.

As I came out on to the convalescents' verandah my brother James looked up from his paper.

"Did I ever tell you about a certain Private Parks?" he asked. "He was with me in Flanders in the early days. He came out with a draft and lasted about two months. Rather a curious type. Very superstitious. If a shell narrowly missed him he must have a small piece to put in his pocket. If while standing on a duck-board he happened to be immune while his pals were being knocked out he would carry it about with him all day if possible. On one occasion he was very nearly shot for insubordination, because he would go out into No-man's-land after a flower which he thought would help him.

"Not that his superstition was purely selfish. Once, when he had had two particularly close shaves during the day, he insisted upon sleeping outside the barn where we were billeted. 'I'm absolutely certain to have a third close shave,' he said, 'and if I'm in the billet someone will get it.'

"The Corporal let him lie down in the farmyard, but a little later he crept up the road about fifty yards to make things more certain."

"And I suppose the barn was hit and he escaped?" I put in, feeling that I had heard this story before.

"You don't know Private Parks," said James. "About two o'clock in the morning a shell fell on the road not ten yards from him. Bits of it must have made a pattern all round him, but not one hit him, and when he'd picked himself out of the ditch he went back to the billet, knowing all was then safe.

"Then one day when we were in the front line there came up with the mail a parcel for Private Parks. I was near when he opened it. When he saw the contents he gave a sigh and a curious resigned expression came over his face.

"'What's she sent you?' I asked.

"'It's from my old aunt, Sir,' he said. 'It's a stocking.' 'Only one?' 'Yes,' he said with great solemnity. 'The other one's been pinched?' I asked. 'No, Sir. The parcel's not been opened. It simply means that I shall lose a leg to-day,' he added. He wasn't panicked at all. But, as to reassuring him, I might as well have argued with a tank.

"We'd had a very quiet time, but that evening the Hun put over a pretty stiff bombardment. We stood to, but we all thought it was only a little extra evening hate, except Private Parks. He kept saying, 'They're coming across,' till we told him not to get the wind up. But he hadn't got the wind up. Only he knew they were coming.

"And they did come. Just after it was dark they made a biggish raid and got into our front trench a little to our right. We started bombing inwards, but the slope of the ground was awkward, and they seemed to be having the best of the fun.

"Then Parks jumped up on to the parapet with a pail of bombs and ran along. He fairly got among them, and by the time he was hit in the right leg they were mostly casualties or prisoners. I saw him on the stretcher going back. He was in some pain, but he smiled, and said, 'One stocking will be enough now, Sir.'"

"Very extraordinary," I began, but James stopped me.

"I haven't finished," he said. "When about three months later I went down to Southmouth Convalescent Camp, almost the first man I saw was Private Parks. He was still on crutches, but he had two legs. I greeted him, and then I couldn't resist saying, 'What about the stocking?'

"'I'll tell you, Sir,' he said. 'For a week after I was wounded it was a toss up whether they took the leg off or not. Then a parcel arrived for me. It was the other stocking. My aunt had discovered that she had left it out. That evening the surgeon decided that they need not amputate. I knew they wouldn't, of course, as soon as I received the parcel.'"

James had really finished this time, and after a moment's reflection I said, "I wonder if that's true."

"Do you flatter me?" he asked.

"I don't know about that. Not with intent," I said, "though it would really be more to your credit if you'd made it up."

"As a matter of fact," said James, "I did make it up. It was suggested to me by the heading to a letter in this paper—'The Stocking of Private Parks,' though that appears to be upon quite a different subject. Something agricultural, I gather."

"By a comparison of the wet and dry bulb registrations the dew point and the humility of the atmosphere is determined."
Banbury Guardian.

In the first week of August, at any rate, the atmosphere had no reason to swank.

THE INTRUDERS

AMERICAN EAGLE (to German Peace Doves). "GO AWAY; I'M BUSY."

Chatty Waiter (to Visitor Growing Stouter Every Day).
"I'M SURE, SIR YOUR STAY HERE IS DOING YOU GOOD. WHY, YOU'RE TWICE THE GENTLEMAN YOU WERE WHEN YOU CAME.">[

A LETTER FROM NEW YORK.

Dear ——,—We got here safely, with the usual submarine scares en route, but apparently no real danger. Vessels going westward from England are not much the U-boats' concern, nor are the U's, I guess, particularly keen on wasting torpedoes on passenger ships. What they want to sink is the goods.

Anyway, we got here safely. It is all very wonderful and novel, and the interest in the War is unmistakable; but what I want to tell you about is an experience that I have had in the house of one of the leading picture collectors here—and the art treasures of America are gradually but surely becoming terrific. If some measure is not passed to prevent export, England will soon have nothing left, except in the public galleries. Of course, for a while, America can't be so rich as if she had not come into the War, but she will be richer than we can ever be for a good many years, while the steel people who make the implements of destruction at Bethlehem will be richest of all. What my man makes I cannot say, but he is a king of sorts, even if not actually a Bethlehem boss, and the Medici are not in it! I have introductions to all the most famous collectors, but, hearing of his splendours, I went to him first.

Well, I sent on my credentials, and was invited to call and inspect the Plutocrat's walls. You never saw anything like them! And he refers to his collection only as a "modest nucleus." He has agents all over the world to discover when the possessors of certain unique works are nearing the rocks. Then he offers to buy. As his wealth is unlimited, and sooner or later all the nobility and gentry of England, France, Italy and Russia will be in Queer Street, his collection cannot but grow and become more and more amazing. He even had the cheek to send the Trustees of the National Gallery a blank cheque asking them to fill it up as they wished whenever they were ready to part with TITIAN'S "Bacchus and Ariadne." Though he calls himself a patriot, directly the War is done he will make overtures to Germany. There is a Vermeer in Berlin on which he has set his heart, and another in Dresden.

I could fill reams in telling you what he has. But I confine myself to one picture only, which he keeps in a room by itself. I am not so foolish as to pretend to know anything, but to my eyes this picture was nothing whatever but the Louvre's "Monna Lisa."

That being of course impossible, "What a wonderful copy!" I said.

"You may indeed say so," replied my host.

I looked at it more closely, even applying a pocket magnifying-glass.

"There was not a contemporary duplicate?" I inquired. "Could LEONARDO have painted two?"

The Chowder King, or whatever he is called, smiled inscrutably. "No doubt he could," he said. "But perhaps," he continued, "you have not seen the Louvre picture since it was put back after the theft?"

"Not to examine it closely," I replied.

He laughed softly and led the way to the door.

Now what I want to know is, is it possible that—?

This terrible thought has been haunting me day and night.

I have asked many Americans to tell me about this collector and his methods, but I can get no exact information. But it seems to be agreed that he would stick at nothing to get a coveted work beneath his roof. If I have many more such shocks as he gave me I shall give up paint altogether and specialise in photography or the three-colour process.

Anyway, it is God's own country, and I will tell you my further adventures as I have them. Tomorrow I am to attend a reception at the White House to hear ELLA WHEELER WILCOX recite an Ode at the President.

Yours, X. Y. Z.

Mr. Green. "IT DOESN'T SEEM TO ME TO LOOK QUITE RIGHT."
Artist (engaged solely on account of shortage of labour). "WELL, SIR, THE PANEL WAS A BIT ON THE LONG SIDE, BUT I THOUGHT I'D SPUN THE LETTERING OUT VERY NICE."

THE MUD LARKS.

Time—NIGHT.

SCENE.—A shell-pitted plain and a cavalry regiment under canvas thereon. It is not yet "Lights out," and on the right hand the semi-transparent tents and bivouacs glow like giant Chinese lanterns inhabited by shadow figures. From an Officers' mess tent comes the tinkle of a gramophone, rendering classics from "Keep Smiling." In a bivouac an opposition mouth-organ saws at "The Rosary." On the left hand is a dark mass of horses, picketed in parallel lines. They lounge, hips drooping, heads low, in a pleasant after-dinner doze. The Guard lolls against a post, lantern at his feet, droning a fitful accompaniment to the distant mouth-organ. "The hours I spent wiv thee, dear 'eart, are-Stan' still, Ginger—like a string of pearls ter me-ee ... Grrr, Nellie, stop kickin'!" The range of desolate hills in the background is flickering with gun-flashes and grumbling with drum-fire—the Bosch evensong.

A bay horse (shifting his weight from one leg to the other). Somebody's catching it in the neck to-night.

A chestnut. Yep. Now if this was 1914, with that racket loose, we'd be standing to.

A gunpack horse. Why?

Chestnut. Wind up, sonny. Why, in 1914 our saddles grew into our backs like the ivy and the oak. In 1914—

A black horse. Oh, dry up about 1914, old soldier; tell us about the Battle of Hastings and how you came to let WILLIAM'S own Mounted Blunderbusses run all over you.

A bay horse. Yes, and how you gave the field ten stone and a beating in the retreat to Corunna. What are your personal recollections of NAPOLEON, Rufus?

Chestnut. You blinkin' conscripts, you!

Black. Shiss! no bad language, Rufus—ladies present.

Chestnut. Ladies, huh. Behave nice and ladylike when they catch sight of the nosebags, don't they?

A skewbald mare. Well, we gotta stand up for our rights.

Chestnut. S'truth you do, tooth and hoof. What were you in civil life, Baby? A Suffragette?

Skewbald. No, I wasn't, so there.

Bay. No, she was a footlights favourite; wore her mane in plaits and a star-spangled bearing-rein and surcingle to improve her fig-u-are; did pretty parlour tricks to the strains of the banjo and psaltery. N'est-ce pas, chérie?

Skewbald. Well, what if I did? There's scores of circus-gals is puffect lydies. I don't require none of your familiarity any'ow, Mister.

Bay. Beg pardon. Excuse my bluff soldierly ways; but nevertheless take your nose out of my hay-net, please.

A Canadian dun. Gee! quit weavin' about like that, Tubby. Can't you let a guy get some sleep. I'll hand you a cold rebuff in the ribs in a minute. Wazzer matter with you, anyhow?

Tubby. Had a bad dream.

Black. Don't wonder, the way you over-eat yourself.

Bay. Ever know a Quartermaster's horse that didn't? He's the only one that gets the chance.

Skewbald. And the Officers' chargers.

Voice from over the way. Well, we need it, don't we? We do all the bally head-work.

Bay. Hearken even unto the Honourable Montmorency. Hello, Monty there! Never mind about the bally head-work, but next time you're out troop-leading try to steer a course somewhat approaching the straight. You had the line opening and shutting like a concertina this morning.

An iron-grey. Begob, and that's the holy truth! I thought my ribs was goin' ivery minnut, an' me man was cursin' undher his breath the way you'd hear him a mile away. Ye've no more idea of a straight line, Monty avic, than a crab wid dhrink taken.

Monty. Sorry, but the flies were giving me gyp.

Canadian dun. Flies? Say, but you greenhorns make me smile. Why, out West we got flies that—

Iron-grey. Och sure we've heard all about thim. 'Tis as big as bull-dogs they are; ivery time they bite you you lose a limb. Many a time the traveller has observed thim flyin' away wid a foal in their jaws, the rapparees! F' all that I do be remarkin' that whin one of the effete European variety is afther ticklin' you in the short hairs you step very free an' flippant, Johnny acushla.

A brown horse. Say, Monty, old top, any news? You've got a pal at G.H.Q., haven't you?

Monty. Oh, yes, my young brother. He's got a job on HAIG'S personal Staff now, wears a red brow-band and all that—ahem! Of course he tells me a thing or two when we meet, but in the strictest confidence, you understand.

Brown. Quite; but did he say anything about the end of the War?

Monty. Well, not precisely, that is not exactly, excepting that he says that it's pretty certain now that it—er—well, that it will end.

Brown. That's good news. Thanks, Monty.

Monty. Not a bit, old thing. Don't mention it.

Iron-grey. 'Tis a great comfort to us to know that the War will ind, if not in our day, annyway some time.

Canadian dun. You bet. Gee, I wish it was all over an' I was home in the foothills with the brown wool and pink prairie roses underfoot and the Chinook layin' my mane over.

Iron-grey. Faith, but the County Cork would suit me completely; a roomy loose-box wid straw litter an' a leak-proof roof.

Tubby. Yes, with full meals coming regularly.

A bay mare. I've got a two-year-old in Devon I'd like to see again.

Monty. I've no quarrel with Leicestershire myself.

Gunpack horse. Garn! Wot abaht good old London?

Chestnut. Steady, Alf, what are you grousing about? You never had a full meal in your life until Lord DERBY pulled you out of that coster barrow and pushed you into the Army.

Tubby. A full meal in the Army—help!

Brown. Listen to our living skeleton. Do you chaps remember that afternoon he had to himself in an oat-field up Plug Street way? When the grooms found him he was lying on his back, legs in the air, blown up like a poisoned pup. "Blimy," says one lad to t'other, "'ere's one of our observation bladders the 'Un 'as brought down."

Chestnut. I heard the Officer boy telling the Troop Sergeant that he'd buy a hay-stack some day and try to burst you, Tubby. The Sergeant bet him a month's pay it couldn't be done.

Tubby. Just because I've got a healthy appetite—

Brown. Healthy appetites aren't being worn this season, Sir—bad form. How are the politicians' park hacks to be kept sleek if the troop-horse don't tighten his girth a bit? Be patriotic, old dear; eat less oats.

Chestnut. That Mess gramophone must be red-hot by now. It's been running continuous since First Post. I suppose somebody's mamma has sent him a bottle of ginger-pop, and they're seeing life while the bubbles last.

Monty. Yes, and I suppose my young gentleman will be parading to-morrow morning with a camouflage tunic over his pyjamas, looking to me to pull him through squadron drill.

Iron-grey. God save us, thin!

A Mexican roan. Buenas noches!

Gunpack horse. Hish! Orderly Officer. 'E's in the Fourth Troop lines nah; you can 'ear 'im cursin' as he trips over the heel shackles.

Monty. Hush, you fellows. Orderly Officer. Bong swar.

Once more heads and hips droop. They pose in attitudes of sleep like a dormitory of small boys on the approach of a prefect. The line Guard comes to life, seizes his lantern and commences to march up and down as if salvation depended on his getting in so many laps to the hour. From the guard-tent a trumpet wails, "Lights out."

PATLANDER.

Venus."HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN IN THE ARMY?" Mars."OH, ABOUT THREE CHEQUE-BOOKS."

HYMN FOR HIGH PLACES.

In darkened days of strife and fear,

When far from home and hold,

I do essay my soul to cheer

As did wise men of old;

When folk do go in doleful guise

And are for life afraid,

I to the hills will lift mine eyes

From whence doth come mine aid.

I shall my soul a temple make

Where hills stand up on high;

Thither my sadness shall I take

And comfort there descry;

For every good and noble mount

This message doth extend—

That evil men must render count

And evil days must end.

For, sooth, it is a kingly sight

To see God's mountain tall

That vanquisheth each lesser height

As great hearts vanquish small;

Stand up, stand up, ye holy hills,

As saints and seraphs do,

That ye may bear these present ills

And lead men safely through.

Let high and low repair and go

To where great hills endure;

Let strong and weak be there to seek

Their comfort and their cure;

And for all hills in fair array

Now thanks and blessings give,

And, bearing healthful hearts away,

Home go and stoutly live.

"Classical Master for endurance of war wanted."—Scotsman.

Humane letters are very sustaining.

"MARCHING ON!

"The council of the Chippewa tribe of North American Indians, by a two to one majority, have accorded the suffrage to their squaws."—The Vote.

As SHAKSPEARE was on the point of saying, "Suffrage is the badge of all our tribe."

THE SPOIL-SPORT.

["The Town Clerk of Colwyn Bay informs us that the fish caught there the other day by two youths was a dogfish and not a shark, as reported, and that its size was much overestimated."—Manchester Guardian.]

O gallant youths of Colwyn Bay,

With what unmitigated rapture

Did I peruse but yesterday

The story of your famous capture!

Alone ye did it, or at least

'Twas next to being single-handed;

No other helped to catch the beast,

No strength but yours the monster landed.

But now comes in the cold Town Clerk,

Who has meticulously stated

It was a dogfish—not a shark—

In size much overestimated.

So ye intrepid striplings, who

Made all your school-fellows feel humble,

Are mulcted of your honours due

By an officious Cambrian Bumble.

But, though your generous hearts be sore,

Take comfort: all the true patricians

Of intellect have been at war

With frigid, rigid statisticians.

I too have suffered from the rule

Of sceptics, icily pedantic,

Who blighted, ere I went to school,

My dreams when they were most romantic.

For once, when swinging on a gate,

With hands that doubtless daubed it jammily,

I saw a lion, sure as fate,

And fled indoors to tell the family.

But when I told them, all agog,

My aunt, a lean and acid spinster,

Snapped out "the doctor's yellow dog";

And nothing I could say convinced her.

"'Twas ever thus from childhood's hour—"

Since HOMER, HANNIBAL or STRONGBOW,

Men of outstanding mental power

Are charged with drawing of the long bow.

Great travellers—not your GRANTS or SPEKES—

Who lived with dwarfs, or tamed gorillas,

Or scaled imaginary peaks

Upon the backs of pink chinchillas,

Or in some languorous lagoon

Bestrode the awe-inspiring turtle,

Or in the Mountains of the Moon

Saw rocs athwart the zenith hurtle—