The Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, Volume 156, 26 March 1919, by Various This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Punch, Volume 156, 26 March 1919 Author: Various Release Date: February 25, 2004 [EBook #11284] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH, VOLUME 156, 26 MARCH 1919 *** Produced by Malcolm Farmer, Sandra Brown and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. Vol. 156. March 26, 1919. CHARIVARIA . WILLIAM HOHENZOLLERN is reported to be busy sawing trees. Some declare that his energy is due to an hallucination that they are German generals. Others say the whole story is a clumsy attempt to discredit him with the Labour party. Dublin Corporation has decided to increase its revenue by eight thousand pounds by raising the charge on water. Citizens are urged to put patriotism before prejudice and give the stuff a trial. The inconveniences that attend influenza reached their climax a few days ago when an occupant of a crowded tube train blew the nose of the man next to him in mistake for his own. The beggar who has been going about telling a pitiful story of being wounded by a trench-mortar during the Jutland battle is now regarded by the police as an impostor. A defendant in a County Court case at Liverpool last week stated in his evidence that he had been on the telephone for the last twenty years. In fairness to the Postal authorities he should have admitted that it was a trunk call. [pg 233] Foreman (late R.S.M.). "'ERE! YOU AIN'T IN THE ARMY NOW. THERE'S NO CALL FOR YOU TO KEEP A WATCH ON THE RHINE." A lady-correspondent, writing to a daily paper, laments the fact that the War has changed a great many husbands. Surely the wife who receives the wrong husband can get some sort of redress from the War Office. All the main-line railways are to be electrified, Sir ERIC GEDDES told the House of Commons. Meanwhile he has successfully electrified all the old buffers. A number of women are doing good work as mates on Medway sailing barges. The denial of the report that one of them recently looked at a Wapping policeman for five minutes on end without once repeating herself may be ascribed to professional jealousy. "The small car," says a trade contemporary, "has come to stop." We can well believe it. It is an old habit. It has been discovered that the new Education Act, which prohibits boys under twelve being worked for more than two hours on Sunday, may apply to choir-boys. A Commission, we understand, is to be called upon to decide finally whether they are really boys or just little demons. A man who applied to the Bloomsbury County Court for relief against an eviction order stated that he could find no other suitable house, as he had nine children under fourteen years of age. His residential problem remains unsolved, but we understand, with regard to the other difficulty, that the Board of Works has offered to sell him a card index at considerably below cost. "Bridegrooms," says a contemporary, "are discovering that weddings cost more." The growing practice among fathers- in-law of delivering their daughters "free at rail," instead of, as formerly, "from house to house," may have something to do with it. "Ramsgate," says The Daily Mail, "is racing Margate in Thanet's reconstruction." At present Margate still claims to lead by one nigger and two winkle-barrows. The Colorado Legislature has passed a resolution in favour of Irish independence. The remark attributed to Mr. A.J. BALFOUR, that he always thought Colorado was the name of a twopenny cigar, has failed to make the situation easier. "A pupil at a West London 'out-of-work' school," says a news item, "daily attends his studies in an opera-hat." On being informed of this fact, Sir THOMAS BEECHAM is reported to have expressed the opinion that its significance was obvious. President WILSON, it is announced, hopes to visit Scotland shortly for some golf. He believes that some adjustment of the dispute as to the respective merits of the running-up and pitch-and-stop methods of approach should be embodied in the Peace terms if international harmony is to be really secured. Primroses and crocuses are blooming in North London. Pending an official announcement by The Daily Mail people are requested to accept this as a preliminary Spring. Concrete ships, says a Government official, can be made in moulds. But of course you must not forget to grease the tin. A Sinn Feiner, arriving home in Crossgar, Co. Down, last week, had a very hearty welcome. Thirteen spectators and seven policemen were injured. Many members of the Bar are greatly afraid that some learned judge will ask, "What is the Jazz-step?" before the question has really been settled by the dancers themselves. The young lady who, on receiving a proposal of marriage over the telephone last week, replied, "Yes, who's speaking?" turns out to be an ex-typist recently demobilised from the Air Ministry. It is interesting to note that to-day is the anniversary of the day that was not a Flag-day last year. Another Sex-Problem. "Information Wanted as to the whereabouts of James —— (née Liza ——), ship agent. Last heard of 30 years ago."—Glasgow Paper. THE PRELIMINARY DOVE: ITS PROSPECTS. Within a little week or two, So all our sanguine prints declare, The Dove (or Bird of Peace) is due To spread its wings and take the air, Like Mr. THOMAS when he flew Across the firmamental blue To join the PREMIER in communion Touching the Railway Workers' Union. We've waited many a weary week With bulging eyes and fevered brow, While WILSON pressed upon its beak His League-of-Nations' olive bough, Wondering what amount of weight Its efforts could negotiate, How much, in fact, the bird would stand Without collapsing on the land. And, even though it should contrive To keep its pinions on the flap, And by a tour de force survive This devastating handicap, Yet are there perils in the skies Whereon we blandly shut our eyes, But which are bound to be incurred, And, notably, the Bolshy-bird. This brand of vulture, most obscene, May have designs upon the Dove; [pg 234] Its carrion taste was never keen On the Millennial reign of Love; And I, for one, am stiff with fear About our little friend's career, Lest that disgusting fowl should maul And eat it, olive-branch and all. I mention this to mark the quaint Notion of "Peace" the public has, That wants to smear the Town with paint, To whoop and jubilate and jazz; And while our flappers beat the floor There's Russia soaked in seas of gore, And LENIN waxing beastly fat; Nobody seems to think of that. O.S. PERFECTLY UNAUTHENTIC ANECDOTES. which may be reproduced (with the permission of Mr. Punch) in any forthcoming volume of Anybody's Reminiscences. "You do things so sketchily and casually," said FRITH to WHISTLER one day. "Now when I paint a picture I take pains. 'The Derby Day' cost me weeks and months of sleeplessness. I did nothing else; I gave my whole mind to it." "Oh," said WHISTLER, "that's where it's gone to, is it?" When Mr. BERNARD SHAW made his tour of the ports in order to popularise Socialism in the Navy, he was courteously received at Portsmouth by Sir HEDWORTH MEUX. The talk happened to turn on the theatre, and the Admiral was candid enough to confess himself somewhat at sea with regard to the merits of contemporary writers. "Now, Mr. SHAW," he said in his breezy way, "I wish you would tell me who is the most eminent of the playwrights of to-day?" "Ay, ay, Sir," said Mr. SHAW promptly. Dr. Brotherton told me that he was once with MATTHEW ARNOLD in an election crowd at Oxford, when the Professor of Poetry accidentally collided with a working-man flown with Radicalism and beer. "Go to blazes!" said the proletarian. "My friend," replied ARNOLD, "we are well met. In me you see the official representative of Literature, whereas you, I perceive, stand for Dogma." Mrs. Brown of Newquay, who claims to be the original Mrs. Partington, told me that SYDNEY SMITH'S last years were overclouded by his inability to discover the riddle to which the answer is contained in the words, "The one rode a horse and the other rode a dendron." Probably few people remember a Nottinghamshire poet of an earlier day who fulfilled with much conscientiousness the duties of local laureate. It was the age of Notts's pre-eminence in cricket, and that, with other reasons, inspired the bard to write some verses which opened with the line, "Is there a county to compare with Notts?" The county of Derby was jealous of its neighbour in other things besides sport, and considered itself to have scored when its own tame minstrel retorted with a parody ending:— "Is there a county to compare with Notts? Lots!" Unfortunately the thing was catching, and other counties did their best to follow suit, though with considerable difficulty as to rhymes. I think it was a singer of Tavistock who won the laurels. After disposing of an adjacent rival with the contemptuous jingle, "Dorset—Curse it!" he wound up:— "Is there a country to compare with Devon? Heaven!" Lady Crownderby once told me that she was among the first to see Lord HOUGHTON on his return from Spain, and she asked him what he thought of Spanish women in comparison with those of our own country. "My dear lady," replied HOUGHTON, "I feel like LOT when he escaped from the Cities of the Plain." At a dinner given in honour of her nephew's appointment to a Rural Deanery, Mrs. Hinkson-Hanksey told me that she once rallied DISRAELI on his lack of religious profession, saying how much it compromised him in the eyes of many of his fellow-countrymen in comparison with his great rival. "My dear lady," said DISRAELI, "you are aware that the New Testament divides all men into two categories. Without specifying the class to which I personally belong, I am quite willing to admit that Mr. GLADSTONE is a sheep and possesses many of the characteristics of that admirable animal." When I was at Hawarden in the summer of 1893, little DOROTHY DREW asked her grandfather for the loan of a book "to press flowers in." It is a process, as readers may know, not good for the book, and I thought the illustrious statesman and bibliophile looked a little embarrassed. But his face cleared in a moment, and he went out of the room and presently returned with a sufficient volume, in which the flowers were duly laid, the book being then, with the united efforts of the company, subjected to the necessary pressure under a heavy cabinet. Anxious to know which volume of his beloved library Mr. GLADSTONE had selected for desecration, I took an early opportunity of furtively examining the title of the tortured tome. It was Coningsby. Another Impending Apology. "Councillor ——'s son will be married to the eldest daughter of Councillor ——. The members of the Corporation are invited to the suspicious event."—Local Paper. THE DISTRACTIONS OF AN INDISPENSABLE. [pg 235] [pg 236] Sergeant. "NOW, ME LAD, A SUIT OF MUFTI OR FORTY-FIVE SHILLINGS?" Tommy. "OO, LUMME! I'LL PAY THE FINE." GALLERY PLAY. It wasn't till Panmore noticed its absence on his return from France that I remembered the little oil painting which I had left at the Ferndale Gallery on sale or return, during the early days of the War, when my financial outlook was bad. Panmore said he had always wanted to buy it, but hadn't liked to ask me if I would part with it. I assured him that excess even of delicacy was a mistake and that I would try to get the picture back. So I wrote to the Gallery thus:— DEAR SIRS (it seemed absurd to write "Dear Gallery"),—In 1914 or 1915 I brought you a small oil painting, which you agreed to sell or return to me. As I haven't heard from you since, I conclude that there has been nothing doing in such pictures and I should like to have it back. The picture is quite a small one, about the size of an ordinary book, and so far as I recollect it portrays a man looking at a horse, to see if its withers stand where they did; or perhaps wondering whether he would sell it and buy a scooter. As a matter of fact I never took particular notice of the picture, not caring for it, but a friend of mine who knows it well appears interested in it and wants to buy it. So please let me have it back as soon as possible. Yours faithfully, THEOPHILUS B. PIPER-CARY. P.S.—By the way, there's a cow, I remember, in the background; a red one. Not a red background; a red cow. This was the answer I received:— DEAR SIR,—In reply to yours of the 13th inst., we remember your visit, but cannot trace having such a picture as you describe in our possession at present. We believe you dealt with our Mr. James Langford, who joined up in May, 1915, and is not yet demobilised. He is in Egypt at the moment, we understand, and we are afraid it would take some time to get into communication with him. We shall be glad if under the circumstances you will allow the matter to rest until his return. In any case we are afraid we cannot hold ourselves responsible for the picture, unless you can produce a receipt from us proving that it reached us. We are, Yours obediently, pp. THE FERNDALE GALLERY. J.S. The last paragraph in their letter gave me the impression that they knew they had the picture but had mislaid it. Meanwhile Panmore seemed so hot on it and I was so badly hit by the War that I thought I would have another shot at recovering it. So I addressed the Gallery as follows:— DEAR SIRS,—Thanks for your letter, and in reply I should be obliged if you could get another search party out. I have found a receipt for the picture, signed with a name that might, if straightened out, be James Langford. My friend is getting quite excited about it, and he is the sort of person one wants to humour. He is a Lieut.-Colonel, an O.B.E., and, what is more important still, one of the feoffees of Buckley's Hospital (a fifteenth-century foundation here), and whatever a feoffee may be he is not the kind of man to toy with in a small town like this. I forgot to mention that there is an inn on the left of the picture, and a girl coming out of it carrying, perhaps, a bran-mash for the horse or some Government dope for the man, and there are some hens, all fully regardant and expectant, at her feet. Hoping to hear in the course of a post or two that you have found the painting, I am, Yours anxiously, THEOPHILUS B. PIPER-CARY. P.S.—Don't forget there's a cow in the background; a red cow. Three days later I received a picture (not mine) from the Gallery with this letter:— DEAR SIR,—After a most exhaustive search we have found and send herewith what we believe to be your picture, though it does not quite answer to your description. It is, however, the only one of which we do not appear to have any record. Our Mr. Langford seems likely to be abroad for some months, so unless you will accept this picture in settlement of the matter we do not see any present way out of the difficulty. Confident that, if it is not yours, it is at least just as good, we trust that you will agree to cry quits. We are, Yours obediently, pp. THE FERNDALE GALLERY. J.S. Why they should feel sure it was just as good, unless they remembered my picture, wasn't very clear, but evidently the receipt had put the wind up them, and I wrote and accepted the substitute at once, because Panmore liked it better even than the original picture. He said it was an Alken and gave me far more than I would have thought of asking for it, or for the original one. About a week after selling it I received this wire from the Gallery:— Please return painting sent in error. Very valuable Alken. Have customer. FERNDALE. "Diamond cut diamond," I said to myself. And I replied thus:— DEAR SIRS,—I received your wire, but regret that I cannot comply with your request. Firstly, because I have already accepted the picture which you regarded as mine or its equivalent, in place of the one that was mine and is now yours; and, secondly, because my friend the feoffee has already bought it, the one that was yours and is now mine, or rather his (you know what I mean, don't you?), and I haven't the heart to ask him to return it. Perhaps yours (the one that is now yours and was mine before), being the equivalent of the one that was yours and is now mine (or rather the feoffee's), would suit your client. I can only suggest your having another look for it; the matter so far as I am concerned is at an end. Yours faithfully, [pg 237] THEOPHILUS B. PIPER-CARY. P.S.—You'll know it when you find it. There's a red cow in the background. "Sentence of Mike Ancon, found guilty of housekeeping, was postponed yesterday afternoon."—Manitoba Free Press. This species of crime is almost extinct in England. THE "HESITATION" WALTZ. The Rising Egg. Whatever may be the decline in the price of eggs their social movement is clearly upwards. The following passage from The Croydon Advertiser gives an admirable life-history of the egg, from shell to profit-sharing:— "Eggs will be dated and graded and sold accordingly, and as soon as they have done laying fattened for table purposes, also young cockerels. They will be killed and plucked, and the feathers will be sorted and sold in the best markets. So you see they will receive full market price for their produce; then if they are shareholders they will receive a further profit in the difference between the cost and the selling, also the very big amounts received for the skins and the feathers." [pg 238] HOPE SPRINGS ETERNAL. Oldest Inhabitant. "I NEVER EXPECTED TO LIVE TILL THE END OF THE WAR, MA'AM; BUT NOW I'M HOPING TO BE SPARED TO SEE THE BEGINNING OF THE NEXT ONE." CHOICE BOOKS OF THE WEEK. THE NEW PARIS SKETCH-BOOK; OR, THE FIRST FIFTY THOUSAND. By GLADYS FLAPPERTON, O.B.E., Author of Peace and Plenty of It. This charming volume describes in detail the delightful Parisian holiday which has been provided by the Government under the best possible conditions for young ladies with (and without) a knowledge of typewriting. TIGER LILY, A POEM IN FOURTEEN SPASMS. By WOODROW WILSON. Affectionately dedicated to M. CLEMENCEAU. THE HISTORY OF FREDERICK THE GREAT. BY HAROLD SMITH, M.P. ("England's Harold.") With an Introduction by the LORD CHANCELLOR. O SMILLIE, WE HAVE MISSED YOU, AND OTHER LYRICS. Highly recommended by Messrs. MUDIE and SANKEY (the Author). Copies of this beautiful work have been accepted by several mining royalties. THE GEDDES BIOGRAPHICAL DICTIONARY. Publication of the Second Volume (AUC—ERIC). It is hoped to complete in twelve handsome volumes this the first attempt to record and codify the achievements and services of the GEDDES family in the Great War. WASTEWARD HO! A ROMANCE OF CIPPENHAM. With an Introductory Apologia by Mr. WINSTON CHURCHILL. THE NEXT WAR. ["As the result of a conference called by the War Office it has been decided to wage a war of annihilation against the warble-fly. It is hoped that by means of concerted action through the country this pestilent insect, so injurious to the hides of horses and cattle, may be completely stamped out."—Daily Paper.] The warble-fly, the warble-fly Is absolutely doomed to die. They've summoned all the General Staff, There's going to be a mighty "strafe," And soon the land from shore to shore Will echo with the din of war, As arméd hosts with martial cries Descend upon the warble-flies. We've got the shells, we've got the guns (The same that overwhelmed the Huns), And, what is more, we've got the Man; With WINSTON riding in the van I do not think there's any doubt That we shall put the foe to rout, And, scorning peace by compromise, Annihilate the warble-flies. In tranquil peace the gentle beeves Shall chew their cud through summer eves; No more shall that alarming warble Affright the calm of heifer or bull, And send them snorting round the croft With eyes of fear and tails aloft. Till every warble-fly be floored Whitehall will never sheathe the sword. The Growth of Impropriety. "Her hair is always exquisitely dressed, and her shoes in perfect shape. No more in the way of dress is required of any woman." Daily Mirror. "PROPOSED IMPROVEMENT OF A DANGEROUS CORONER." Headline in Provincial Paper. The best plan, possibly, would be to get the jury to sit on him. NEWSPAPER HEADINGS POPULARLY ILLUSTRATED. "INFLUENZA MICROBE DISCOVERED AT A LONDON HOSPITAL." MRS. BLOGGINS'S STATEMENT. It is not too much to say that bed-making circles in Cambridge have been agitated to their utmost depths by the recent advent of some hundreds of American youths who have come to pursue certain courses of study within the University walls. Let us make one thing perfectly clear. Bed-makers do not object to Americans as Americans, but this avalanche of Transatlantics arrives on the very eve of the vacation, just when the bed-makers are packing off the contingent of young Naval officers who have been making things hum during the past term. Persuaded that their too-brief holidays will be entirely absorbed in attending to the Americans, the bed-makers urge with some justice that they too are entitled to enjoy the beautiful things of this enchanting world quite as much as miners and railway-men. We understand that meetings of their Association are being held, and that the University authorities are faced by a situation which is rapidly passing beyond their control. Bed-makers are amongst the most loyal members of the community, but they feel, as a prominent member of the profession put it, that "the last camel breaks the straw's back," and they are determined to uphold their immemorial rights. We have thought it our duty therefore to interview the celebrated Mrs. Bloggins, the doyenne of the Corps of Bed- makers of Trinity College. We found the lady in her home in Paradise Walk, where she was engaged in eating some excellent buttered toast. We lost no time in explaining the purport of our visit. "We desire to know, Mrs. Bloggins," we began, "what your feelings are with regard to the Americans." "Ah," said Mrs. Bloggins, speaking with deep emotion, "you may well call 'em Americans, for I've never bin so troubled about anythink before. Some people seem to git the notion into their 'eads that bed-makers do no work. Why we're arst to slave from mornin' till night, and our pay is paltry. Things in Cambridge isn't like what they was. Time was when our young gentlemen used to 'ave big dinners in their rooms, and a careful bed-maker could save a bone or two. Nowadays they,'re only cheese-parers, that's what I call 'em. You won't believe me, I know, but my mother, who was a bed-maker afore me, used to 'ave a month at the seaside every year, all paid for out of money give to 'er by 'er young gentlemen. To be sure there was a wrangler, or somethink of that kind, who didn't come up to the mark, so she soon got rid of 'im; 'e used to find 'is butter was took by the cat, and accidents of that kind. "Mind yer," she continued, "I ain't got nothink to say against the Americans. They may be the most liberal-'earted gentlemen in the world for all I know. But it's the principle of the thing I'm objectin' to. It's a case of kill me quick or cure me to-morrow, and if President WILSON was to talk till next week 'e couldn't make it no different. You can't make a silk sock out of a side of bacon, and that's true whichever way you look at it." "But what steps," we urged, "does your Association intend to take, Mrs. Bloggins, over this matter?" [pg 239] "I don't know nothink about no 'sociations," said Mrs. Bloggins, "but I do know that we're all in it, and Mrs. Pledger and Mrs. 'Uggins, and the rest of 'em, we knows our power and we intends to use it." "In what way do you mean?" I said. She looked at me cunningly. "Now you're spyin'. It's dirty work and I won't 'ave it 'ere. You might be the Proctor hisself for all I cares—you're not going to ferret nothink out of me." Hereupon she rose with great dignity and plainly indicated that the interview was at an end. La Haute Cuisine. "Cook; French; age 38; wages £25-£30 week."—Morning Post. TO THE DEATH. [According to the papers, two Frenchmen have agreed to fight a duel in aeroplanes.] "Cauliflower!" shrieked Gaspard Volauvent across the little table in the estaminet. His face bristled with rage. "Serpent!" replied Jacques Rissolo, bristling with equal dexterity. The two stout little men glared ferociously at each other. Then Jacques picked up his glass and poured the wine of the country over his friend's head. "Drown, serpent!" he said magnificently. He beckoned to the waiter. "Another bottle," he said. "My friend has drunk all this." Gaspard removed the wine from his whiskers with the local paper and leant over the table towards Jacques. "This must be wiped out in blood," he said slowly. "You understand?" "Perfectly," replied the other. "The only question is whose." "Name your weapons," said Gaspard Volauvent grandly. "Aeroplanes," replied Jacques Rissole after a moment's thought. "Bah! I cannot fly." "Then I win," said Jacques simply. The other looked at him in astonishment. "What! You fly?" "No; but I can learn." "Then I will learn too," said Gaspard with dignity. "We meet—in six months?" "Good." Jacques pointed to the ceiling. "Say three thousand feet up." "Three thousand four hundred," said Gaspard for the sake of disagreeing. "After all, that is for our seconds to arrange. My friend Épinard of the Roullens Aerodrome will act for me. He will also instruct me how to bring serpents to the ground." "With the idea of cleansing the sky of cauliflowers," said Gaspard, "I shall proceed to the flying-ground at Dormancourt; Blanchaille, the instructor there, will receive your friend." He bowed and walked out. Details were soon settled. On a date six months ahead the two combatants would meet three thousand two hundred feet above the little town in which they lived, and fight to the death. In the event of both crashing, the one who crashed last would be deemed the victor. It was Gaspard's second who insisted on this clause; Gaspard himself felt that it did not matter. [pg 240] The first month of instruction went by. At the end of it Jacques Rissole had only one hope. It was that when he crashed he should crash on some of Gaspard's family. Gaspard had no hope, but one consolation. It was that no crash could involve his stomach, which he invariably left behind him as soon as the aeroplane rose. At the end of the second month Gaspard wrote to Jacques. "My friend," he wrote, "the hatred of you which I nurse in my bosom, and which fills me with the desire to purge you from the sky, is in danger of being transferred to my instructor. Let us therefore meet and renew our enmity." Jacques Rissole wrote back to Gaspard. "My enemy," he wrote, "there is nobody in the whole of the Roullens aerodrome whom I do not detest with a detestation beside which my hatred for you seems as maudlin adoration. This is notwithstanding the fact that I make the most marvellous progress in the art of flying. It is merely something in their faces which annoys me. Let me therefore see yours again, in the hope that it will make me think more kindly of theirs." They met, poured wine over each other and parted. After another month the need of a further stimulant was felt. They met again, and agreed to insult each other weekly. On the last day of his training Gaspard spoke seriously to his instructor. "You see that I make nothing of it," he said. "My thoughts are ever with the stomach that I leave behind. Not once have I been in a position to take control. How then can I fight? My friend, I arrange it all. You shall take my place." "Is that quite fair to Rissole?" asked Blanchaille doubtfully. "Do not think that I want you to hurt him. That is not necessary. He will hurt himself. Keep out of his way until he has finished with himself, and then fly back here. It is easy." It seemed the best way; indeed the only way. Gaspard Volauvent could never get to the rendezvous alone, and it would be fatal to his honour if Jacques arrived there and found nobody to meet him. Reluctantly Blanchaille agreed. At the appointed hour Gaspard put his head cautiously out of his bedroom window and gazed up into the heavens. He saw two aeroplanes straight above him. At the thought that he might have been in one of them he shuddered violently. Indeed he felt so unwell that the need for some slight restorative became pressing. He tripped off to the estaminet. It was empty save for one table. Gaspard walked towards it, hoping for a little conversation. The occupant lowered the newspaper from in front of his face and looked up. It was too much for Gaspard. "Coward!" he shrieked. Jacques, who had been just going to say the same thing, hastily substituted "Serpent!" "I know you," cried Gaspard. "You send your instructor up in your place. Poltroon!" Jacques picked up his glass and poured the wine of the country over his friend's head. "Drown, serpent," he said magnificently. He beckoned to the waiter. "Another bottle," he said. "My friend has drunk all this." Gaspard removed the wine from his whiskers with Jacques' paper and leant over him. "This must be wiped out in blood," he said slowly. "Name your weapons." "Submarines," said Jacques after a moment's thought. A.A.M. THE SWANS OF YPRES. Ypres was once a weaving town, Where merchants jostled up and down And merry shuttles used to ply; On the looms the fleeces were Brought from the mart at Winchester, And silver flax from Burgundy. Who is weaving there to-night? Only the moon, whose shuttle white Makes silver warp on dyke and pond; Her hands fling veils of lily-woof On riven spire and open roof And on the haggard marsh beyond. No happy ghosts or fairies haunt The ancient city, huddling gaunt, Where waggons crawl with anxious wheel And o'er the marshland desolate Win slowly to the battered gate That Flemings call the Gate of Lille. Yet by some wonder it befalls That, where the lonely outer walls Brood in the silent pool below, Among the sedges of the moat, Like lilies furled, the two swans float; "The Swans of Ypres" men call them now. They have heard guns and many men Come and depart and come again, They have seen strange disastrous things, When fire and fume rolled o'er their nest; But changeless and aloof they rest, The Swans of Ypres, with folded wings. "Will Treasury notes ever be displaced by boxes of chocolates? "—Daily Paper. Certainly. Ours often are. From the report of the Committee on the Staffing of Government Offices we gather that there has been a good deal of overflapping. TRANSPORT FACILITIES. "VOILA! UN AUTO!" [pg 241] "DEUX, SEULEMENT!" "MERCI, M'SIEU." Mistress. "OH, JANE, HOW DID YOU DO THAT?" Maid. "I'M VERY SORRY, MUM; I WAS ACCIDENTALLY DUSTING." THE SCHLOSS BILLET. [pg 242]