The Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch or the London Charivari, Vol. 147, October 21, 1914, 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 or the London Charivari, Vol. 147, October 21, 1914 Author: Various Release Date: March 21, 2009 [EBook #28382] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH, OCTOBER 21, 1914 *** Produced by Punch, or the London Charivari, Neville Allen, Malcolm Farmer and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. VOLUME 147. OCTOBER 21, 1914. The following incident has been forwarded The following incident has been forwarded by the Special Constable himself, but the Authorities will not permit the publication of his actual portrait:— Small Boy (suddenly noticing Special Constable). "Look Aht! Copper!" Girl. "Where?" Boy. "There—agin Fence." Girl. "Garn, Silly—frightenin' me!" CHARIVARIA. "The King," says The Manchester Courier, "has returned all his German Orders." So much for the taunt that Britain's object in taking part in the War was to pick up German orders. We hear that, in addition to lowering the lights at night, the authorities intend, in order to confuse the enemy, to alter the names of some of our thoroughfares, and a start is to be made with Park Lane, which is to be changed to Petticoat Lane. The Kaiser is reported to have received a nice letter from his old friend Abdul ("the D—— d"), pointing out that it is the fate of some kind and gentle souls to be misunderstood. Matches, it is stated, are required at the front—to put an end, we believe, to Tommy Atkins' reckless habit of lighting his cigarette by applying it to the burning fuse of a bomb. A Sikh non-commissioned officer has, according to The Central News, delivered himself of the following saying: —"Power is to kings, but time belongs to the gods. The Indians know how to wait." This will no doubt call forth an indignant rejoinder from the Teutonic Waiters' Association. "Property insured in London is valued at £1,320,000,000," according to an announcement made by Lord Peel last [Pg 329] week. One can almost hear the Kaiser smacking his lips. At last the authorities have acted, and the premises of a German firm with concrete foundations have been raided. This bears out the promise of certain high officials who declared that they would take action when a concrete example was brought to their notice. The official "Eye-Witness" in a recent despatch tells us how a British subaltern saw, from a wood, an unsuspecting German soldier patrolling the road. Not caring to shoot his man in cold blood, he gave him a ferocious kick from behind, at which the startled German ran away with a yell. This subaltern certainly ought to have figured in "Boots' Roll of Honour" which was published last week. Why, it is being asked, do not the French retaliate for the damage done by the Germans to their cathedrals and drop bombs on Berlin? The persons who put this question have evidently never seen Berlin or they would know that you cannot damage its architecture if you try. The Kaiser has announced his intention of eating his Christmas dinner in London. We trust that Mr. McKenna and his men will see to it that His Majesty will, anyhow, find no mince pies here. [Note.—"Mince pies" should be pronounced "mean spies." This greatly improves the paragraph.] According to one report which reaches us the Kaiser is now beginning to quibble. He has pointed out that, when he said he would eat his Christmas dinner at Buckingham Palace, he did not mention which Christmas. TO THE ENEMY, ON HIS ACHIEVEMENT. Now wanes the third moon since your conquering host Was to have laid our weakling army low, And walked through France at will. For that loud boast What have you got to show? A bomb that chipped a tower of Nôtre Dame, Leaving its mark like trippers' knives that scar The haunts of beauty—that's the best réclame You have achieved so far. Paris, that through her humbled Triumph-Arch Was doomed to see you tread your fathers' tracks— Paris, your goal, now lies a six days' march Behind your homing backs. Pressed to the borders where you lately passed Bulging with insolence and fat with pride, You stake your all upon a desperate cast To stem the gathering tide. Eastward the Russian draws you to his fold, Content, on his own ground, to bide his day, Out of whose toils not many feet of old Found the returning way. And still along the seas our watchers keep Their grip upon your throat with bands of steel, While that Armada, which should rake the deep, Skulks in its hole at Kiel. So stands your record—stay, I cry you grace— I wronged you. There is Belgium, where your sword Has bled to death a free and gallant race Whose life you held in ward; Where on your trail the smoking land lies bare Of hearth and homestead, and the dead babe clings About its murdered mother's breast—ah, there, [Pg 330] Yes, you have done great things! O. S. TOMMY BROWN, RECRUITING SERGEANT. Tommy Brown had been moved up into Form II., lest he should take root in Form I. He had been recommended personally by the master of Form I. to Mr. Smith, the guardian deity of Form II., as "the absolute limit." After a year of Tommy, Mr. Smith had begun to mention him in his prayers, not so much for Tommy's good as for his own deliverance —mentally including him in the category of plague, pestilence, famine and sudden death. Though the pervading note of Mr. Smith's report upon Tommy was gloom, deep gloom, he must have had some dim hopes of him, for, at the end of the Summer Term, he had placed his hand upon Tommy's head and said, "Never mind, my boy, we shall make a man of you some day." A new term had begun; Tommy Brown had mobilised two days late, but he was in time for Mr. Smith's lecture on "The War, boys." The orator spoke for an hour and a quarter, and at the end he wiped his brows with the blackboard duster under the impression that it was his handkerchief. Meanwhile Tommy had eaten three apples, caught four flies, written "Kiser" in chalk on the back of the boy in front of him, exchanged a catapult with Jones minor for a knife, cut his finger, and made faces at each of the four new boys. Mr. Smith caught him in one of these contortions, but he was speaking of Louvain at the moment and took it as a compliment. Suddenly Tommy found himself confronted with a number of sheets of clean paper. "The essay is to be written on one side of the paper only," said Mr. Smith. Tommy asked the boy next to him what they had to write about, and the reply, "The War, you fool," set him thinking. A deathlike stillness fell upon the room; Tommy Brown looked round, frowned heavily, dipped his pen in the ink and then in his mouth, and thought hard. Then, after much frowning, he delivered himself of the following, the ink being shared equally between himself and the paper:— "The wor was becose the beljums wouldent let the jermens go over there fields so they put minds in the sea and bunbarded people dead with airplans. It was shokkin. The rushens have got a steme roler. We have got a garden roler at home and I pull it sometimes. I dont like jermens. Kitchener said halt your country needs you and weve got a lot of drednorts. The airplans drop boms on anyone if your not looking it isnt fare yours truly T. Brown." The essay completed to his satisfaction, Tommy Brown conveyed to his mouth a sweet the size and strength of which fully justified the name "Britain's Bulwarks" attached to it by the shopkeeper. He then leaned back with the air of one who had done his duty in the sphere in which he found himself and proceeded to survey the room. The other boys were still writing, and for fully half a minute Tommy looked at them in pained surprise. He then read his own essay again and, finding no flaw in it, frowned once more on his fellow pupils and wrote: "My father won the Victoria Cross Meddle." Having written this he looked round again somewhat defiantly. His eye caught one of the new boys beginning another sheet. Tommy's essay just filled two-thirds of a page. He would fight that new boy. Just then the words of a war poster came into his head and he wrote in large letters: "Your King and country want you." Tommy studied this for a minute, and then, as the appeal seemed directed to himself, he wrote: "I'm not old enuf or I'd go my brothers gone I'm not a funk I let Jones miner push a needle into my finger to show him." It seemed to Tommy Brown that the other boys possessed some secret fund of information, even the new boys. He'd show those new boys after school. Having made up his mind on this point he printed at the bottom of his essay, "Kitchener wants men." As an after-thought he added, "My father was a man." He let his gaze wander round the room until it fell upon the face of his master, and then, under some impulse, he wrote the fateful words, "Mr. Smith is a man." "Finish off now!" rang out the command from Mr. Smith. Tommy saw the other boys putting sheet after sheet together, and he had hardly filled one. He racked his brains for something to add to his essay, and there came to his mind the words written under his father's portrait. He had only time to put down "England expecs——" when his paper was collected. No one ever read Tommy Brown's essay excepting Mr. Smith, and he burnt it. A lady teaches Form II. now, and Tommy Brown is eagerly looking forward to the day when Mr. Smith will return to occupy once more the post that is being kept open for him, for Mr. Smith has promised to bring Tommy home a German helmet. "A number of shells burst together and almost at the same moment he saw a large cigar-shaped cigar fall to the earth." Bolton Evening News. The unusual shape of it struck him at once. THE GREATER GAME. THE GREATER GAME. Mr. Punch (to Professional Association Player). "NO DOUBT YOU CAN MAKE MONEY IN THIS FIELD, MY FRIEND, BUT THERE'S ONLY ONE FIELD TO-DAY WHERE YOU CAN GET HONOUR." [The Council of the Football Association apparently proposes to carry out the full programme of the Cup Competition, just as if the country did not need the services of all its athletes for the serious business of War.] THE SUNDAY EVENING EDITION. Mrs. Henry looked up. "I think I hear that boy again selling evening papers," she said. "I suppose they must come off the 9.5 train. But it's a strange thing to happen on a Sunday—here." The Reverend Henry was already at the window. He threw it up and leaned out. "One can't approve of it, but I suppose in war time—" Mrs. Henry was beginning when her husband cut her short. "Hush—I'm trying to hear what he is saying. I wish boys could be taught to speak distinctly." There was a pause. "I can't make him out." The Reverend Henry's head reappeared between the curtains. "It's really most exasperating; I'd give a lot to know if the Belgian army got out of Antwerp before it fell." "Couldn't you shout down and ask him?" "No, no. I cannot be discovered interrogating urchins about secular affairs from a second storey window on Sunday evening. Still, I'd like to know." The Reverend Henry perambulated the room with knitted brow. "I never bought a Sunday paper of any sort in my life. Never." "I suppose one must have some principles," said his wife. "But it's enormously important, you know. They may easily have been surrounded and captured." He returned to the window. "Hullo, he's gone to the door. I say, Cook has bought one. This is exciting. I should never have thought Cook would have done that." "It raises rather a nice point," said Mrs. Henry. The Reverend Henry returned resolutely to his book. The shouts of the newsvendor died away. "We must not forget," said the Reverend Henry irrelevantly, "that Cook is a Dissenter." Then suddenly he broke out. "I wish I knew," he said. "I am not paying the least attention to this book and I shan't sleep well, and I shall get up about two hours before the morning paper arrives, and be restive till I know whether the Belgians got out. But what am I to do? I can't ask Cook." "I might go down," his wife volunteered. "I needn't say anything about it, you know. I could just stroll about the kitchen and change the orders for breakfast. The paper is pretty sure to be lying about. There may be headlines." [Pg 331] [Pg 332] [Pg 333] "No," said the Reverend Henry with determination, "I really cannot consent to it." "Well, I may as well go to bed. Don't sit up late." The Reverend Henry did sit up rather late. He was wide awake and ill at ease. At last he listened intently at the door and then took a candle and stole down the passage. The Reverend Henry had not been in his own kitchen for close upon ten years, and he did not know the way about very well. He had adventures and some moments of rigid suspense while the clatter of a kicked coal-scuttle died away in the distance. But when at last he crept noiselessly up-stairs he was assured of a good night's rest. "What a mess your hands are in," said Mrs. Henry sleepily. "Yes," said Henry. "That miserable woman had used it to lay the fire. But it's all right. They did get out—most of them." Alf reading French news. Alf (reading French news). "All the cinemas in Calais are shut up. My word! That brings the horrors of war pretty close to home!" "British Troops Fighting (Official)." Western Mail. So the Censor has let the secret out at last, and the rumours of the last 70 days prove to be well founded. "Five hundred German prisoners were landed in Dublin yesterday afternoon, and conveyed under escort to Templemore, County Tipperary." Newcastle Daily Journal. It's a long, long way, but they've got there at last. UNINTELLIGENT ANTICIPATION. "My dear," I said, "you are always proposing things, and then, when they are carried nem. con., you argue against your own proposal." "It's unfair to use Greek to me." "'Nem. con.,'" I said, "is rich old Castilian and, put simply, means that nobody—I am nobody—objects." "But we can't afford a new tea-set." "Then why did you ask so many to tea at once?" "I didn't think," said Alison. "They are coming to make pyjamas for our soldiers in the trenches, and I simply thought that the more people came the more pyjamas there would be." "How many cups have we?" "Only five tea-cups. Jessie broke two more yesterday, and there's one with a piece out that you or I could use. Oh! and there are the two breakfast cups and two odd ones which would make up the number, but they're such a mixed lot." Jessie is our domestic staff and a champion china-breaker. "If Jessie," I said, "were not so good to young Peter I should insist on handing her back her credentials. Hold! I have the germ of an idea. Leave me to work it out, please. I see credit, nay kudos, in it." At the end of ten minutes Alison looked in again. "I'm just putting the finishing touches," I said. "Kindly ask Peter to spare me a few moments. He's sailing his boats in the bath, I imagine. By the way, what time are these people coming?" "Half-past four," said Alison, "and it's now nearly four." "Then please see that Jessie brings in tea at five exactly." [Pg 334] "Why exactly?" said Alison. "Why not?" I said. "Five is a very good hour, and it's part of my scheme." "It's most mysterious," said Alison. "It's particularly ingenious," I said. "Everything dovetails in beautifully, and if you'll carry out your small share all will be well. By the way, if I make any remark to the company before tea which is not—er—strictly true, you will please to take no notice of it. "I'll try not to," said Alison, "if it isn't too outrageous." "Oh, no," I said, "nothing to shy at. But I might find it necessary to say something about a Worcester tea-set. Listen," I said before she could interrupt. "When you hear me say, 'Worcester tea-set' you say 'Great heavens!' or whatever women say under stress of great emotion. But sit tight. Don't go and see about it." "See about what?" "The Worcester tea-set, of course." "But we haven't got one." "My dear girl," I said, "try to imagine we have. In this little drawing-room comedy you've only one line to learn, and your cue's 'Worcester tea-set.'" "But what's the idea?" said Alison. "The idea," I said, "is great, but it is as well you should not know the whole plot of the piece yet. Play your one line, and I, as stage manager, will answer for the rest of the cast." "And what's Peter got to do with it? I want him to have tea with Jessie." "Right," I said. "Peter's part is important, but is played off—in the wings, as it were." My interview with Peter was not a long one. "Now look here, old pal," I said at the close, "quarter to exactly, in the bathroom." "Right-o! Daddy." Peter (ætat. 9) has a wrist-watch already and winds it regularly, so I knew he wouldn't fail me. At a quarter to five I was talking to Mrs. Padbury, the Rector's wife, about the doings of the various Armies in the field. I was sitting in such a position that, while seeming to attend only to her, I could keep an eye on the drawing-room clock behind her. Every detail of my scheme had been carefully arranged; it now only remained for the actors to play their ... Crash! "Bless my soul," I said, "that sounds remarkably like the Worcester tea-set," and looking at the clock again I knew that Peter had made the "loud noise off", at the exact moment. "Good lad," I said to myself. "Great heavens!" said Alison. I was delighted. I had been more afraid of Alison's getting stage fright than of anything else, and there she was playing her part like a veteran actress. Things were going really splendidly. It was at this precise moment that the grandfather clock in the kitchen gave out the first stroke of five, and at the same moment Jessie entered bearing a tray, on which were the five drawing-room tea-cups which were intact, the single ditto with a piece out, two breakfast cups and two odd ones. So the one player, the kitchen clock, whose part had been overlooked, had spoilt the whole show by being nearly fifteen minutes fast; and the fact that Jessie tripped on the doormat as she came in, with fatal results to the rest of our tea-things, was a mere circumstance. Alison blames me for everything. The next pyjama conference is to be held at the Rectory. From a well-known Firm's catalogue:— "Our roll of honour to date: 487 employees joined the colours." The question, "Shall women fight?" has now been decided. The St. John Ambulance Association The St. John Ambulance Association, which forms part of the Red Cross Organisation of Great Britain, derives its name and traditions from the Order of St. John of Jerusalem (Knights Hospitallers), founded at the time of the Crusades. It has at this moment many thousands of workers engaged in tending the wounded at the seat of war and in the hospitals of the Order. In peace time it does not appeal to the public for subscriptions, but under the stress of war it finds itself in urgent need of help, and is absolutely compelled to ask for funds. Gifts should be sent to the Chief Secretary, Colonel Sir Herbert C. Perrott, Bt., C.B., at St. John's Gate, Clerkenwell, E.C., and cheques should be crossed "London County and Westminster Bank, Lothbury," and made payable to the St. John Ambulance Association. In aid of its work, a Concert (at which Madame Patti will sing) is to be given at the Albert Hall on Saturday afternoon, October 24th. A UNITED FAMILY. A UNITED FAMILY. Irish would-be Recruit. "Beg pardon, Captain, but the man in there won't let me go to fight because of me eye." Captain. "Have you ever been in the Army?" Would-be Recruit. "I have, sorr." Captain. "What regiment?" Would-be Recruit. "Me brother was in the Leinsters." STICK TO IT, RIGHT WING! (A few suggested official communiqués, respectfully offered to the authorities in Paris.) Monday. Enemy, towards Lassigny, made attack, But after suffering heavy loss withdrew. We have made progress near to Berry-au-Bac, And on our right wing there is nothing new. Tuesday. Near the Argonne we had a slight reverse (Though what the Germans said is quite untrue). Along the Meuse things seem a little worse, But on our right wing there is nothing new. Wednesday. We gather that sensational reports Announced the fall of Antwerp ere 'twas due; There's still resistance in some Antwerp forts, And on our right wing there is nothing new. Thursday. Our left is making progress, and it looks (For the straight line is getting very skew) As if our forces might surround von Kluck's. Meantime, on right wing there is nothing new. Friday. Fighting in centre; German loss immense; Our casualties, it seems, were very few. All up the left wing Germans very dense; May they remain so! Right wing, nothing new. Saturday. In some few places we have given ground; [Pg 335] In several others we have broken through. Our left is still by way of working round, And on our right wing there is nothing new. Sunday. On our left wing the state of things remains Unaltered, on a general review. Our losses in the centre match our gains, And on our right wing there is nothing new. L'Envoi. So it goes on. But there may come a day When Wilhelm's cheek assumes a different hue, And bulletins are rounded off this way:— "And on the right wing there is something new." "The prisoner, who was said to be an Indian barrister's window, was placed on the floor of the Court." —Edinburgh Evening Dispatch. The prisoner would have looked better in the roof as a skylight. "THE DOUBLE MYSTERY." ACT I. Scene: The house of Judge Hallers. Also of Mr. Arthur Bourchier; that is to say, The Garrick. Doctor Ferrier (professionally). Now tell me the symptoms. Where do you feel the pain? Judge Hallers. At the back of the head. I've never been myself since I fell off my bicycle. My memory goes. Ferrier. Ah, I know what you want. Open your mouth. (Inserts thermometer.) This will cure you ... Good heavens, he's swallowed it! Hallers. There you are, that's what I mean. I thought it was asparagus for the moment. Haven't you another one on you? Ferrier. Tut, tut, this is very singular. (Makes another effort to grapple with it.) What books have you been reading lately? Hallers. One about Dual Personality. It's all rubbish. Ferrier (quoting from the programme with an air of profound knowledge). Cases showing prevalence of this mental disorder are to be found everywhere. (Gets up.) Well, well, I will come round to-morrow with another thermometer. Good night. [Exit. Hallers. Dual personality—nonsense! (A spasm seizes him. He scowls at the audience, ties a muffler round his neck and loses his identity.) Gr-r-r-r! Waugh-waugh! Gr-r-r-r-r! Przemysl! [Exit growling. Act II. Scene: "The Lame Duck" café, a horrible haunt of depravity. Poulard (the Proprietor, to long-bearded customer). Yes, Sir? L.-B. Customer. H'sh! (Removes portion of beard.) I am Inspector Heidegg! Poulard. Fried egg? Inspector (annoyed). Heidegg. (Replaces beard.) A gang of desperate desperados, headed by the ruffianly ruffian whom they call The Baron, will be here to-night. I shall be hiding under the counter. Ten men and two dachshunds [Pg 336] surround the house. If you betray me your licence will not be worth a moment's purchase. [He dives under the counter. Poulard, rather upset, goes out and kicks the waiter. Enter the gang of desperados, male and female. A scene of horrible debauchery ensues. Charlier (revelling recklessly). Small lemonade, waiter. Picard (with abandoned gaiety). A dry biscuit and a glass of milk. Jacquot (letting himself go). Dash, bother, hang, bust! Picard (to Merlin). Why don't you revel? Merlin (giving Suzanne a nudge). What-ho! [Relapses into silence again. Picard (gaily). A song! a song! Charlier (in an agonised whisper). You fool, none of us can sing! Picard. What about the girl who sang the recruiting song before the play began? Isn't she behind the scenes still? (Cracking his biscuit.) Well, let's have a dance anyway. We must make the thing go. Waiter, another glass of milk. Enter Judge Hallers in scowl and muffler. Charlier (enthusiastically). Ha! The Baron! Hallers. I mean business to-night, boys. Look at this! (He produces a dagger and a pistol.) Charlier. What a man! [He throws away his pea-shooter in disgust. Jacquot, who has just begun to strop a fish-knife, realizes that he has been outdone in devilry, and gives it back to the waiter. Picard replaces his knotted handkerchief. Hallers. Yes, boys, I've got a crib for you to crack to-night. It's Judge Hallers' house. (A loud bumping noise is heard from the direction of the counter.) What's that? It is Inspector Heidegg. (Raising his head incautiously, in order to catch his first sight of the notorious Baron, he has struck the top of his skull against the counter and is now lying stunned.) All. A spy! Hallers. Bring him out ... Ha! Who is he? Is that his own beard or Clarkson's? Charlier. It's a police inspector in a false beard! Mr. Bourchier (contemptuously). A real artist would have grown a beard. (Producing his knife.) He must die. (There is a loud noise without.) Noise without. Open! Bang-bang. Open! Bow-wow, bow-wow. [It is the police and the two dachshunds. Hallers. Quick! The trap-door! [They escape as the dachshunds enter. Last Act. Scene: Next morning at Judge Hallers. Dr. Ferrier. Good morning, Judge. I've come with that other thermometer. I have ventured to tie a piece of string to it, so that in case the—er—temperature goes down again—— But what's happened here? You seem all upset. Hallers. Burglary. I dropped asleep at my desk here last night, and when I wake up I find that a criminal called The Baron and two accomplices have burgled my house. The Baron escaped, but Heidegg caught the others. Ferrier. Extraordinary thing. What theatres have you been to lately? Hatters. Only the Garrick. (Enter Heidegg.) Well, anything fresh to report, Inspector? Heidegg. Yes, Judge. The prisoners say that you are The Baron. But they say you had a muffler on last night. That might account for our dachshunds missing the scent. Hallers. Good heavens, what do you make of this, Doctor? Ferrier (picking up programme). Cases showing prevalence of this mental disorder—— Hallers. You mean I am a dual personality! (Covers his face with his hands.) Ferrier. Come, come, control yourself. Hallers (calmly). It is all right; I am my own man—I mean my own two men again. What shall I do? Ferrier. You must wrestle with your second self. I will hypnotise you. (He glares at him.) Hallers (after a long pause). Well, why don't you begin? Ferrier. You ass, I'm doing it all the time. This is the latest way.... There! Now then, wrestle! [A terrible struggle ensues. After what seems about half an hour the Judge, panting heavily, gets The Baron metaphorically down on the mat, and—— Ferrier. Time! (Replacing his watch.) That will do for to-day. But continue the treatment every morning—say for half an hour before the bath. Good day to you. Hallers. Wait a moment; you can't go like this. We must have a proper curtain. Ah, here's my fiancée. Would you—— Thank you! [The Doctor leads her to the Judge, who embraces her. Curtain. A. A. M. "It was dark, and as he stumbled on his way he called out, 'Are you there, Fritz?' A French soldier with a knowledge of German shouted back, 'Here.'"—Daily Mail. At the critical moment his knowledge of German seems to have failed him. From the report of the Manchester Medical Officer of Health:— "An important step forward was taken in 1909, when an Order of the Local Government Board made Tuberculosis of the Lungs obligatory on the Medical Officers of the Poor Law Service; in 1911 a second Order extended the obligation to other Institutions." So far, luckily, the Order has not been extended to journalists. Regarding it, however, from the standpoint of the onlooker, we think that the L. G. B. has gone a little beyond its powers. WHY HAVE WE NO SUPERMEN LIKE THE GERMANS? How they might brighten Regent Street. How they might wake up our restaurants. And, best of all And honour us with their gallantry. And, best of all, how amusing to see them meet a super-superman. FACTS FROM THE FRONT [Pg 337] [Pg 338] FACTS FROM THE FRONT. Storm of righteous indignation at the enemy's headquarters on their being shown a "barbarous and disgusting engine of war" in use by the Allies. [The Germans have taken a strong objection to the French 75 m/m gun.] THE GREAT SHOCK. (Or a tragic result of Armageddon as gleaned from the Evening Press.) No more the town discusses The Halls and what will win; Now stifled are the wags' tones On Piccadilly's flagstones, And half the motor-buses Have started for Berlin. New eyes to war adapting We stare at the Gazette; Yon eager-faced civilian, When posters flaunt vermilion And boys say "Paper, capting," Replies "Not captain—yet." "Remains," I asked, "no station Of piping peace and sport? Oh yes. Though kings may tumble, No howitzers can rumble, No sounds but cachinnation Can boom from Darling's Court. "That garden of the Graces Can hear no cannon roar; From that dear island valley No bruit of arms can sally. But men must burst their braces With laughter as of yore. "While dogs of war are snarling His wit shall sweep away Bellona's ominous vapour;" Therefore I bought a paper To see what Justice Darling Happened to have to say. In vain his humour sortied, In vain with spurts of glee Like field-guns on the trenches He raked the crowded benches; My evening print reported No kind of casualty. No prisoner howled and hooted, No strong policemen tore With helpless mirth their jackets, There was not even in brackets This notice: "(Laughter—muted In deference to the war.") Evoe. A Traitor Press. "BRITISH PRESS BACK THE ENEMY." Manchester Courier. Punch anyhow backs the Allies. Cardiff claims the honour of having enlisted the heaviest recruit in the person of a police constable weighing nineteen stone odd. He should prove invaluable for testing bridges before the heavy artillery passes across. A ROYAL CRACKSMAN. When the housebreaking business is slack And cracksmen are finding it slow— For all the seasiders are back And a great many more didn't go— Here's excellent news from the front And joy in Bill Sikes's brigade; Things are looking up since The German Crown Prince Has been giving a fillip to trade. His methods are quite up to date, Displaying adroitness and dash; What he wants he collects in a crate, What he doesn't he's careful to smash. An historical château in France With Imperial ardour he loots, Annexing the best And erasing the rest With the heels of his soldierly boots. Sikes reads the report with applause; It's quite an inspiring affair; But a sudden idea gives him pause— The Germans must stop over there! So he flutters a Union Jack To help to keep Englishmen steady, Remarking, "His nibs Mustn't crack English cribs, The profession is crowded already." UNCONQUERABLE UNCONQUERABLE. The Kaiser, "SO, YOU SEE—YOU'VE LOST EVERYTHING." The King of the Belgians, "NOT MY SOUL." MORE HORRORS OF WAR. MORE HORRORS OF WAR. Lady Midas (to friend). "Yes, do come to dinner on Friday. Only I must caution you that it will be an absolute picnic, for my fourth and sixth footmen have just enlisted." WAR ITEMS. The reiterated accusations made by Germany of the use of dum-dum bullets by the Allies, although they are not believed by anyone else, appear to be accepted without question by the German General Staff. New measures of retaliation are being taken, which, while not strictly forbidden by International Law, may at any rate be said to contravene the etiquette of civilised warfare. We learn from Sir JOHN FRENCH'S Eye-witness that numbers of gramophones have made their appearance in the German trenches north of the Aisne River. [Pg 339] [Pg 340] [Pg 341] Papers captured in the pocket of a member of the German Army Service Corps contain bitter complaints of the enormous strain thrown upon the already over-taxed railway system in Germany by the Kaiser's repeated journeys to and fro between the Eastern and the Western Theatres of War. He is referred to (rather flippantly) as "The Imperial Pendulum" (Perpendikel). The writer, while recognising the eager devotion with which the Kaiser is pursuing his search for a victory in the face of repeated disappointment, congratulates himself that the Imperial journeys, though they are not likely to be discontinued, will at least grow shorter and shorter as time goes on. Indeed, it is hoped that before long a brief spin in the Imperial automobile-de-luxe will cover the ground between the Eastern and Western Theatres. WORKS OF KULTUR. In some respects, apparently, the enemy has been less affected by the War than we have. While in England the book- trade has been slightly depressed, in Germany it seems to be flourishing. We give samples from the latest catalogues:— Poetry. The most interesting volume announced is A Hunning We Will Go, and Other Verses, by William Hohenzollern, whose Bleeding Heart attracted so much attention. History. Kaiser's Gallic War Books, I. & II., a new edition, very much revised since August by General von Kluck and other accomplished scholars, are certain to be of great use for educational purposes. Natural History. In this department a work likely to be enquired for is The Dogs of St. Bernhardi, by General von Moltke. Fiction. The demand for fiction in Germany is said to be without parallel and the supply appears to be not inadequate. Among forthcoming volumes there should be a demand for Der Tag; or, It Never Can Happen Again. General. Proverbial Philosophy contains the favourite proverbs of various persons of eminence. From the Imperial Finance Minister comes: "It's never too late to lend." From General Manteuffel (the destroyer of Louvain library): "Too many books spoil the Goth." The Crown Prince contributes: "Beware the rift within the loot." ZEITUNGS AND GAZETTINGS. Roosevelt Unmasked. It is sad to relate, but persistent efforts to maintain the disinterested claim on American friendship which we Germans have always (when in need of it) advanced, continue to be misrepresented in that stronghold of atheistical materialism and Byzantine voluptuousness, New York. To the gifted Professor von Schwank's challenge, that he could not fill a single "scrap of paper" with the record of acts of war on our part which were incompatible with Divine guidance and the promulgation of the higher culture, the effete and already discredited Roosevelt has merely replied, "Could fill Rheims." This is very poor stuff and worthy only of a creature who combines with the intellectual development of a gorilla the pachymenia of the rhinoceros and the dental physiognomy of the wart-hog. Roosevelt, once our friend, is plainly the enemy and must be watched. Should he decide, however, even at the eleventh hour, to fall in line with civilisation, he can rely on finding in Germany, in return for any little acts of useful neutrality which he may be able to perform, a generous ally, a faithful upholder of treaty obligations, and a tenacious friend. There must surely be something that America covets—something belonging to one of our enemies. Between men of honour we need say no more. Base Calumny Exposed. Let us speak plainly with regard to the Rheims affair. We have successively maintained that this over-rated monument of Arimaspian decadence (1) was not injured in any way; (2) was only blown to pieces in conformity with the rules of civilised warfare; (3) was mutilated and fired by our unscrupulous and barbaric opponents themselves; (4) was deliberately pushed into our line of fire on the night of the 19th September; (5) never existed at all, being indeed an elaborate but puerile fiction basely invented by a baffled enemy with the object of discrediting our enlightened army in the eyes of neutral Powers. Any of these was good enough, but what now appears is better. Exact measurements have since demonstrated beyond all question of cavil that Rheims Cathedral had been built with mathematical accuracy to shield our contemptible enemy's trenches around Chalons from our best gun positions outside Laon. This act of treachery proves that, instead of Germany being the aggressor, France has been cunningly preparing ever since 1212 [Pg 342] A.D. for the war which at last even our chivalrous diplomacy has been powerless to avert. Generous Offer to Monaco. It is time for Monaco to reconsider its position. Should it maintain its present short-sighted and untenable neutrality what has it to gain from England, France, or Russia? Nothing that it has not already got. Monaco very naturally wants something more. Let us be frank. We of Germany speak very differently. It is not desirable to be specific, but short of that we may say that whatever Monaco asks for it will be promised. England, we would then repeat, is the enemy. Has Monaco forgotten the sinister malignity of an article in an English paper disclosing "How to Break the Bank at Monte Carlo." It is unnecessary to labour the point, to which we will return in our next issue. Monaco, in short, like Turkey, Bolivia, China, the United States, Hayti and Oman, is the natural ally of Germany. Pfutsch! Dey vas just a few tings "Pfutsch! Dey vas just a few tings vat I use to frighden der cats from mein garten!" "After exhaustive research a Scotch scientist has decided that no trees are species is struck as often as another." Vancouver Daily Province. He must have a rest and then try some more research. THE SLUMP IN CRIME. "Praise is due to criminals," remarked Mr. Robert Wallace, K.C., at the London Sessions, "for the self-control they are exercising during this period of stress and anxiety." It is to be feared that Mr. Wallace's views are not entirely shared by the legal profession. As the junior partner in Mowlem & Mowlem confided to our representative: "That's all very fine, but what's to become of us? Not a burglar on our books for the last six weeks. Not a confidence man; not a coiner; not a note expert. And they had the opportunity of their lives with the John Bradbury notes! We shall have to shut up our office, and then what's to become of our clerk? What's to become of our charwoman? I ask you, what's to become of our charwoman's poor old husband dependent on her? No, let's have patriotism in its right place!" An old-established firm of scientific implement merchants showed even more indignation. "We had taken our place in the firing-line in the War on Germany's Trade," they declared. "We had made arrangements for home manufacture to supplant the alien jemmy. No British burglar would need to be equipped with anything but all-British implements, turned out in British factories and giving employment to British workmen only. And now what do we find? The market has gone to pot. Yes, Sir, to pot. And that's the reward for our patriotic efforts!" Opinions of other representative men in the criminological world have reached us in response to telegrams (reply paid): — Sir Arthur Conan Doyle: "Ruin stares me in the face." Mr. Gerald du Maurier: "Have decided to suppress Raffles for the period of the War." Mr. Raffles: "Have decided to suppress Gerald du Maurier for the period of the war." Mr. G. K. Chesterton: "Have always maintained that patriotism is the curse of the criminal classes. Will contribute ten guineas to National Fund for Indigent Burglars Whose Front Name Is Not William." Crown Prince Wilhelm: "Have nothing to give away to the Press." Mr. George Bernard Shaw: "My first telegram for three months. To be a criminal needs brains. There are no English criminals." Goodness me! What 'ave you been doing Nurse. "Goodness me! What 'ave you been doing to your dolls?" Joan. "Charlie's killed them! He said they were made in Germany, and how were we to know they weren't spies?" [Pg 343] WITH HIGH HEART. The long line of red earth twisted away until it was lost in the fringe of a small copse on the left and had dipped behind a hillock on the right. Flat open country stretched ahead, grass lands and fields of stubble, lifeless and deserted. There was no enemy to be seen and not even a puff of smoke to suggest his whereabouts. But the air was full of the booming of heavy guns and the rising eerie shriek of the shrapnel. Behind the line of red earth lay the British, each man with his rifle cuddled lovingly to his shoulder, a useless weapon that yet conveyed a sense of comfort. The shells were bursting with hideous accuracy—sharp flashes of white light, a loud report and then a murderous rain of shrapnel. "Crikey!" said a little man in filthy rain-sodden khaki, as a handful of earth rose up and hit him on the shoulder; "crikey! that was a narsty shave for your uncle!" The big man beside him grunted and shifted half an inch of dead cigarette from one corner of his mouth to the other. "You can 'old my 'and," said he with a grin. Four or five places up the trench a man stumbled to his knee, coughed with a rush of blood and toppled over dead. "Dahn and aht," said the big man gruffly. "Gawd! If we could get at 'em!" The wail of a distant shell rose to a shriek and the explosion was instantaneous. The little man suddenly went limp and his rifle rolled down the bank of the trench. His friend looked at him with unspeakable anguish. "Got it—in the perishing neck this time, Bill," gasped the little man. Bill leaned over and propped his pal's head on his shoulder. A large dark stain was saturating the wounded man's tunic and he lay very still. "Bill," very faintly; then, with surprise, "Blimey! 'E's blubbing! Poor old Bill!" The big man was shaking with strangled sobs. For some moments he held his friend close, and it was the dying man who spoke first. "Are we dahn-'earted?" he said. The whisper went along the line and swelled into a roar. The big man choked back his sobs. "No, old pal, no!" he answered, and "No-o-o-o!" roared the line in unison. The little man lay back with a contented sigh. "No," he repeated, and closed his eyes for ever. THE SOUTHDOWNS. The Grey Men of the South They look to glim of seas, This gentle day of drouth And sleepy Autumn bees, Pale skies and wheeling hawk And scent of trodden thyme, Brown butterflies and chalk And the sheep-bells' chime. The Grey Men they are old, Ah, very old they be; They've stood upside the wold Since all eternity; They standed in a ring And the elk-bull roared to them When Solomon was king In famed Jerusalem. King Solomon was wise; He was King David's son; He lifted up his eyes To see his hill-tops run; And his old heart found cheer, As yours and mine may do