The Project Gutenberg eBook, Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 156, April 30, 1919, by Various, Edited by Owen Seamen 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. 156, April 30, 1919 Author: Various Release Date: March 3, 2004 [eBook #11429] Language: English Character set encoding: iso-8859-1 ***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI, VOL. 156, APRIL 30, 1919*** E-text prepared by Malcolm Farmer, Carla Kruger, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. Vol. 156. April 30, 1919. CHARIVARIA. An alarming rumour is going the rounds to the effect that Printing House Square refuses to accept any responsibility for the findings of the Peace Conference. "Mystery," says a news item, "surrounds the purchase of fifty retail fish shops in and about London." The Athenaeum Club is full of the wildest rumours. The statement of the Allied Food Commission, that there are more sheep in Germany to-day than in 1914, has come as a surprise to those who imagined that the loud bleating noise was chiefly Herr SCHEIDEMANN. "Get your muzzle now!" says The Daily Mail. It is felt, however, that the PRIME MINISTER scored a distinct hit by saying it first. "There is absolutely no reason," says a Health Culture writer, "why Members of Parliament should not live to be one hundred." We think we could find a reason if we were pressed. To-morrow a man in the North of England is to celebrate his hundredth birthday. He will be the youngest centenarian in the country. [pg 333] At Ealing it appears that a rabid dog dashed into a pork butcher's shop and snapped at a sausage. The sausage was immediately shot. The War Office, says a contemporary, is to have another storey built. In order that the work shall not cause any sleepless days it is to be undertaken by night. It is reported that a burglar who has been drawing unemployment pay has decided to return to work. The New Zealand Government has decided to check the introduction of influenza, and every passenger arriving there is to be examined. All germs not declared are liable to be confiscated by the Customs. Nearly all the Bank Holiday visitors to Hampstead Heath, it is stated, chose a silver-mounted bridge-marker in preference to nuts. Two days before his wedding a man at Uxbridge was summoned to Wales by his wife for desertion. It is said that his second wedding went off quietly. It is understood that the Home Office does not propose to re-arrest DE VALERA. The official view is that in future the Irish must provide their own entertainment. We hear that all imprisoned Sinn Feiners have been instructed to give a day's notice in future before escaping, so that nobody shall do it out of his proper turn. Citizens of Clarkson, Washington, U.S.A., have appealed to the Government to protect them against a plague of frogs. The Federal authorities have informed the Press that these insidious attempts to distract the Government from its Prohibition programme must not be taken seriously. From an American newspaper we gather that a New York plutocrat has by his will cut his wife off with twelve million dollars. "Is the Kaiser Highly Strung?" asks a weekly paper headline. We shall be able to answer this question a little later. The report that an early bather was seen executing the Jazz-dance on the beach at Ventnor on Easter Monday seems to have some foundation. It appears that his partner was a large crab with well-developed claws. We hear that visitors at a well-known London hotel, who have patiently borne the extension of the gratuity nuisance for a considerable time, now take exception to the notice, "Please tip the basin," which has been prominently placed in the lavatory. On many golf-links nowadays the caddies are expected to keep count of the number of strokes taken for each hole. One beginner whom we know is seriously thinking of employing a chartered accountant for this purpose. What cricket needs, says a sporting contemporary, is bright breezy batting. The game should no longer depend for its sparkle on impromptu badinage between the umpire and the wicket-keeper. People who think they have heard the cuckoo before the first of May, declares a well-known ornithologist, are usually the victims of young practical jokers. The conspicuous barring of the bird's plumage should, however, make any real confusion impossible. ABSENT-MINDED PHYSICIAN SENT BY HIS WIFE TO BUY "TWO GOOD SOUND BIRDS". "Striking testimony as to the popularity of the Cataract Cliff Grounds—when it is remembered that the period embraces the complete term of the war—is the fact that during the past five years an aggregate of 428,390 persons was bitten by a snake." Tasmanian Paper. The snake may be fairly said to have done his bit. PEACE AT THE SEASIDE. [The public are being passionately warned against the threatened crush at watering-places in August of this year of Peace.] Stoutly we bore with April's icy blizzards; "The worst of Spring," we said, "will soon be through; Summer is bound to come and warm our gizzards And we shall gambol by the briny blue." But even as we put the annual question, "Where shall we water? on what golden strand?" Warnings appear of terrible congestion, Of lodgers countless as the local sand. Lucky the man, the hardened strap-suspender, Who with a first-class ticket, there and back, Finds a precarious seat upon the tender, A rocky berth upon the baggage-rack. Should he arrive, the breath of life still in him, His face will be repulsed from door to door; He'll get no lodging, not the very minim, Save under heaven on the pebbly shore. In vain he pleads for stall-room in the stable; The cellars are engaged; 'tis idle talk [pg 334] To ask for bedding on the billiard-table— Two families are there, each side of baulk. Next morn he fain would wash in ocean's spray (there's Balm in the waves that helps you to forget), And lo! the deep is simply stiff with bathers; He has no chance of even getting wet. He starves as never in the age of rations; The fishy produce of the boundless sea Fails to appease the hungry trippers' passions Who barely pouch one shrimp apiece for tea. "I came," he says, "to swallow priceless ozone Under Britannia's elemental spell; She rules the waves, as all her conquered foes own; I wish she ruled her seasides half as well. "I don't know what the beaten Bosch may suffer Compared with us who won the late dispute, But if it equals this (it can't be tougher), Why, then I feel some pity for the brute." So by the London train upon the morrow From holiday delights he gets release, Conspuing, more in anger than in sorrow, The pestilent amenities of Peace. O.S. GREAT BEARD MYSTERY. Where do men go when, they want to grow beards? This is a question as yet unanswered, and the whole subject is shrouded in impenetrable mystery. One sees thousands of men with beards, but one never sees anyone growing a beard. I cannot recall, in a life of varied travel, having ever encountered a man actually engaged in the process of beard-cultivation. The secret is well kept, doubtless by a kind of freemasonry amongst bearded men, but there can be little doubt that somewhere there are nurseries where a bonâ-fide beard-grower who is in the secret can retire until he is presentable. I have frequently been annoyed by the way in which these men flaunt their beards at one; their whole manner seems to convey an air of superiority; they seem to say, "Look at my beard. You can't grow a beard because you haven't the moral courage to appear in public while it's growing. Wouldn't you like to know the secret? Well, I won't tell you." Determined to suffer these contemptuous glances no longer, I set out on a voyage of discovery to unravel the mystery of England's beard-nurseries. I asked bearded men if they knew of anywhere in the country where one could slip away in order to grow a beard, but they always gave me evasive replies, such as: "Why not have an illness and stay in bed for three months?" But when I went on to ask where they had grown theirs, they either made an excuse to leave me or said evasively, "Oh, I've always had mine." I once went to the enormous expense of making a bearded Scotch acquaintance intoxicated in order to drag the secret from him, but the question as to where he grew his beard instantly sobered him, and nothing would induce him to touch another drop. I have bribed barbers without success. I have vainly shadowed men for a month who looked as if they intended growing beards. I even took advantage of Armageddon to join the Navy, where beards are permitted; but when I tried to start growing one I was instantly reprimanded for not shaving by a bearded Commander, who had the same triumphant gleam of superiority which I had noticed ashore. In the Old Testament there was no secrecy on the subject. Somebody said, "Tarry in Jericho until your beards be grown." But I am quite satisfied in my own mind that modern beard-growers do not go to Jericho; I have established this fact. No, there are in England properly organised beard-nurseries, and the secret of their whereabouts is jealously guarded; but I have by no means relaxed my determination to discover them, and to give to the world the results of my research. GRAND REFUSALS. At the private reception the night before Miss CARNEGIE'S wedding, "the ironmaster," so we read in our Daily Mail, "entertained his guests with numerous reminiscences of his life, and it was observed that he interrupted a story concerning King EDWARD and Skibo to whisper something in his daughter's ear concerning her dowry. He was telling the guests how the King offered to make him a Duke if he would bring about a coalition between England and the United States. 'I told King EDWARD,' said Mr. CARNEGIE, 'that in these United States every man is King. Why should I be a Duke?'" It is pleasant to read of the heroic refusal of the staunch Republican to compromise the principles which he so eloquently vindicated in his Triumphant Democracy; but it is only right to add that this is not an isolated case. Thus it is a literally open secret that when a famous ventriloquist was offered the O.B.E. for his services in popularising the Navy, he refused the coveted distinction on the ground that it would be derogatory to a Prince to accept it. When Sir HENRY DUKE retired from the Chief Secretaryship of Ireland he was offered a Viscounty, but declined the proffered distinction, wittily observing that as he was born a Duke he did not see why he should descend to a lower grade of the peerage. Then there is the notorious case of Mr. KING who, on being offered a peerage if he would desist from his criticisms of Mr. LLOYD GEORGE and his Ministry, pointed out that other monarchs might abdicate, but that those who thought he would do so clearly knew not JOSEPH. As for the titles, decorations and distinctions offered by the EX-KAISER to Mr. HAROLD BEGBIE if he would bring about a rapprochement between England and Germany, and patriotically declined by the eminent publicist, their name is legion. [pg 335] THE MENACE OF MAY. AUSTEN CHAMBERMAID (to John Bull). "YOUR TEA AND THE MORNING PAPER, SIR." [pg 336] Charlady (on the subject of appearance). "OF COURSE I DON'T BOTHER NOW—BUT I USED TO BE ABLE TO TREAD ON MY 'AIR." CIVILIAN FLYING, 1930. "You're late," said Millie, as John entered the hall and shook himself free of his flying coat. "Yes, dear; missed the 5.40 D.H. from the Battersea Park Take-off by a minute to-night. Jones brought me home on that neat little knock-about spad he's just bought. Small two-seater arrangement, you know. Then I walked from the 'drome just to stretch myself. They don't give you too much move space in those planettes." "Oh, I'd just love to have an aeroplanette like that!" exclaimed Millie. "Mrs. Smith says she simply couldn't do without hers now; it makes her so independent. She can pop up to town, do her shopping and get back in a short afternoon." "Um—yes," calculated John. "Less than seventy miles the double journey—she'd manage that all right." "And that pilot of theirs," went on Millie, "seems just as safe with the 'pup' as he is with that great twin-engined bus her husband is so keen on." "Yes," said John; "must be quite an undertaking getting Smith's tri-plane on the sky-way. It's useful for a family party, though. I hear he packed twenty or thirty on to it for the picnic they had at John-o'-Groat's last week. By the way," added John, as he moved upstairs, "aren't the Robinsons coming to dinner?" "Yes, you'd better hurry up and change," advised Millie. The Robinsons were very up-to-date people, John decided as they sat down to the meal a little later. He hadn't met them before. They were Millie's friends. "Very glad to know such near neighbours," he said cordially. "Why, it's under forty miles to your place, I should think." "Forty-seven kilos, to be exact," Robinson volunteered, "and I should say we did it under twenty minutes." "Quite good flying," said John. "We came by the valley route, too," put in Mrs. Robinson. "John was good enough to consider my wretched air-pocket nerves rather than his petrol." "It's a couple of miles further," explained Robinson, "but my wife isn't such a stout flier as her mother, though the old lady is over seventy. My pilot was bringing her from Town one afternoon last week—took the Dorking-Leith Hill air- way, you know, always bumpy over there—and I suppose from all accounts he must have dropped her a hundred feet plumb, side-slipped and got into a spinning dive and only pulled the old bus out again when the furrows in a ploughed field below them had grown easily countable." "Yes, it makes me shivery to think of," ejaculated Mrs. Robinson; "but mother really has extraordinary nerve. She wasn't in the least upset." "No, not a little bit, by Jove!" added Robinson. "The old sport just leaned forward in her seat and, when James had adjusted his head-piece, she coolly reprimanded him for stunting without orders. Of course she doesn't know anything about the theory of the thing, you see." With the dessert came letters by the late air post. "Oh, please excuse me," said Millie, as she took them from the maid, "I see there's a reply from Auntie—the Edinburgh aunt, you know," she explained. "I wrote her this morning, imploring her to come over to-morrow for the bazaar. She's so splendid at that sort of thing." "What my wife's aunt doesn't know about flying isn't worth knowing," remarked John with finality. "Why, she qualified for her ticket last year, and she'll never see forty again. How's that for an up-to-date aunt?" "I doubt if she'll fly solo that distance, though," said Millie; "I don't think she ought to, either." "Of course," said Robinson, "it's a bit of a strain for a woman of middle age to negotiate three hundred odd miles, even with a couple of landings for a cup of tea en route." Millie rose. "Now, don't you men sit here for an hour discussing 'flying speeds,' 'gliding angles,' and all that sort of thing. I object to aero-maniacs on principle. I—" At that moment a peculiar noise, evidently in the near vicinity of the house, arrested the attention of the party. "Sounded like something breaking," said Millie, going to the window, which overlooked the garden and a good-sized paddock beyond. John had already gone out to investigate. In a minute or two he reappeared ushering in a very jolly-looking old gentleman in a flying suit. "A thousand pardons, Mrs. Smith," said the new arrival; "John collected me in the paddock. Ha! ha! You know my theory about the paddock." The guests having been introduced, explanations followed. "You know my theory," began old Mr, Brown. "Yes, rather; I should think we do," interrupted Millie, leading him to the most comfortable armchair "But," she quoted, "you are old, Mr. Brown; do you think at your age it is right?" "Well, the theory's smashed, anyhow," said John decisively, "and so's my fence." "No! no! I won't hear of it," laughed Brown; "I admit the fence, but not the theory. You see," he went on, turning to Mrs. Robinson, "I've always insisted, as Smith knows, that there's plenty of landing space in his paddock, provided you do it up wind. The fact is I glided in to-night from east to west. Thought I should be dead head on; but I believe I was a couple of points out in my reckoning and so failed to bring the old 'bus to a stand short of the fence. You know, Smith," he added, with an injured air, "you ought to have a wind-pointer rigged up so's there'd be no doubt about it." "Just to encourage reckless old gentlemen to smash up my premises, I suppose," retorted John. "But I admit I found some consolation for my smashed fence when I observed the pathetic appearance of your under carriage, after your famous landing." "And now," said Millie to Mr. Brown, "all will be forgotten and forgiven if you'll come into the drawing-room and let Mr. and Mrs. Robinson hear you sing that jolly song about "'Come and have a flip In a big H Pip,' etc. "You know." "The egg shortage notwithstand, the Easter egg rolling carnival at Preston, which dates back to mediaeval times, was, after a lapse of four years, celebrated with great musto." Midland Paper. Pre-war eggs, apparently. Another Candid Candidate. [pg 337] "—— BOARD OF GUARDIANS. "Mrs. —— desires to thank all who voted so splendidly, placing her at the top of the pole." Provincial Paper. "The queue at one part of the morning extended from the booking office, past the Midland Station entrance, into City Square, along the front of the Queen's Hotel, to the top of yesterday."—Yorkshire Paper. Better than the middle of next week, anyhow. Voice. "IS THAT THE GREAT SOUTHERN RAILWAY?" Flapper. "YES." Voice. "ARE YOU THE PASSENGER DEPARTMENT?" Flapper. "NO, I'M THE GOODS." [pg 338] The Village Oracle. "YOU MARK MY WORDS—THESE 'ERE GERMANS 'LL DO US DOWN AT THIS FINISH. THEY'LL PAY THE BLOOMIN' SIX THOUSAND MILLIONS, OR WOTEVER IT IS, IN THREEPENNY BITS; AND THEN 'OO THE 'ELL'S GOING TO COUNT IT?" "AS YOU WERE." A MEMORY OF MI-CARÊME. Chippo Munks is a regular time-serving soldier, as distinguished from the amateurs who only joined the Army for the sake of a war. His company conduct-sheet runs into volumes, and in peace-time they fix a special peg outside the orderly-room for him to hang his cap on. At present he systematically neglects the functions of billet-orderly at a Base town in France. A month or two ago he came across Chris Jones. "Fined fourteen days' pay," said Chippo; "an' cheap it was at the price. But the financial embarrassment thereby followin' puts me under the necessity of borrowing the loan of a five-spotter." "How did it happen?" said Chris, playing for time. "'Twas this way," said Chippo. "The other night I was walking down the Roo Roobray, thinking out ways of making you chaps more comfortable in the billet, as is my custom. Suddenly out of the gloom there looms a Red Indian in full war- paint. "'Strange,' thinks I. 'Chinks an' Portugoose we expects here, likewise Annamites and Senegalese an' doughboys; but I never heard that the BUFFALO BILL aggregation had taken the war-path.' "He passes, and a little Geisha comes tripping by. I rubs my eyes an' says, 'British Constitootian' correctly; but she was followed by a Gipsy King and a Welsh Witch. Then I sees a masked Toreador coming along, and I decides to arsk him all about it. The language question didn't worry me any. I can pitch the cuffer in any bat from Tamil to Arabic, an' the only chap I couldn't compree was a deaf-an'-dumb man who suffered from St. Vitus' Dance, which made 'im stutter with his fingers. "'Hi, caballero,' says I, 'where's the bull-fight?' "'It isn't a bull-fight, M'sieur,' he replies. 'It's Mi-Carême.' "'If he's an Irishman,' I says, 'I never met him; but if it's a kind of pastry I'll try some.' "Then he shows me a doorway through which they was all entering, and beside it was a big yellow poster which said, 'Mi-Carême. Grand Bal Costume. Cavaliers, 2 francs. Dames, 1 franc 50 centimes.' "'I'd love to be a cavalier at two francs a time,' I remarks. 'Besides, I want to make the farther acquaintance of little Perfume of Pineapple Essence who passed by just now.' "'It will be necessary to 'ave a costume, M'sieur,' says Don Rodrigo. "'Trust me,' I answers with dignity; 'I've won diplomas as a fancy-dress architect.' "I goes to my billet and investigates the personal effects of my colleagues. My choice fell on a Cameron kilt, a football jersey and a shrapnel helmet. These I puts into a bundle an' hikes back to the Hall of Dance. "'May I ask what M'sieur represents?' said the doorkeeper as I paid my two francs. "'I haven't started yet,' I answers asperiously. 'I assumes my costume as APPIUS CLAUDIUS in the dressing-room.' "Well, when I'd finished my toilette—regrettin' the while that I hadn't brought a pair of spurs to complete the costume— I entered the ball-room. It was a scene of East-end—I mean Eastern—splendour. Carmens an' Father Timeses, Pierrots an' Pierrettes, Pompadours an' Apaches was gyrating to the soft strains of the orchestra, who perspired at the piano in his shirt-sleeves. "All of a sudden I saw my little Geisha, my Stick of Scented Brilliantine, waltzing with the Toreador, an' my heart started beating holes in my football jersey. When the orchestra stopped playing to light a cigarette I sought her out. "'O Choicest of the Fifty-seven Varieties,' I says, 'deign to give me your honourable hand for the next gladiatorial jazz.' "The Bull-fighter looked black, but she put her little hand in mine an' we trod a stately measure. Every now an' then a shadow passed o'er the ballroom, an' I knew it was the Toreador scowling. But I took no notice of him, an' we danced nearly everything on the menu, Don Rodrigo only getting an odd item now an' then to prevent him dying of grief. "By-an'-by the Geisha said she must be going, so I offered to escort her home. Don Roddy tried to butt in, and when he got the frozen face he used langwidge more like a cow-puncher than a bull-fighter. I didn't trouble to change my clothes, because it seemed to be the custom to walk about like freaks at Mi-Carême, and we had a lovely promenade in the pale moonlight. "When I returned the revelry was nearly over an' the orchestra was getting limp. I went into the cloak-room to change my clothes, but I couldn't find 'em anywhere. What annoyed me most about it was that there was five francs in my trouser pockets which I was saving to pay you back the loan I borrered last week." "I wondered when you were going to say something about that," said Chris Jones. "It fair upset me," continued Chippo. "And then all at once I saw my old pal the Toreador sneaking out of the door with a bundle an' the leg of a pair of khaki trousers hanging out of it. I gave a wild whoop an' was after him like the wind. "Don Roddy was some runner. He doubled down the Roo Roubray, dodged round a corner an' made for the Grand Pont. I was gaining on him fast when I plunked into the arms of two Military Police. "'What particular specie of night-bird do you call yourself?' said one of 'em, holding my arm in a grip of iron. "'I'm a Sergeant-drummer in the Roman-Legion,' says I, trying to get away. 'An' I'm in a hurry.' "'Well, where's your pass?' "'We don't wear 'em in our battalion,' I says. 'For heving's sake let me go. There's a chap over there trying to pinch my wardrobe.' "It was no use. They held me tight, notwithstandin' me struggles, till the Toreador disappeared from view over the bridge. "'That's done it. I'll go quietly,' I groans to the M.P.'s in despair. 'That's Chris Jones's five francs gone west, and nuthen else matters.'"... "Well," said Chris Jones, "what then?" "The rest you knows," said Chippo plaintively, "exceptin' that later my clothes was mysteriously dumped at th' billet with the pockets empty. But I think the distressing circumstances are such as warrants me in arsking fer the loan of another five francs." "They would be," said Chris Jones, fumbling with his wallet, "only I happened to be the Toreador myself. But you can have the same old five francs back, an' be 'as you were'!" [pg 339] "CAN I 'AVE THE AFTERNOON OFF TO SEE A BLOKE ABAHT A JOB FER MY MISSIS?" "YOU'LL BE BACK IN THE MORNING, I SUPPOSE?" "YUS—IF SHE DON'T GET IT." How to play Golf with your Head. "He cocked his head up when playing his approach and hit it all along the carpet." Evening Paper. AS YOU LIKE IT OR DON'T. SCENE.—Bois do Boulogne. Enter Orlando. Orlando (reading from sheet of paper). I should be extremely gloomy If they pinched from me my Fiume. [Pins composition on tree. Hang there, my verse, in witness of my love. [Exit. ANOTHER IMPENDING APOLOGY. "If this pianist is not heard again in Shanghai, he will carry away with him the grateful thanks of our music- lovers." Shanghai Mercury. "This debate will immediately precede the introduction of the Budget, and will, let us hope, inaugurate a campaign for national entrenchment."—Provincial Paper. Ah! if only, as taxpayers, we could dig ourselves in! THE HOUSING QUESTION. Someone estimated the other day that England is short just now of five hundred thousand houses. This is a miscalculation. She is really short of five hundred thousand and one, the odd one being the house that we are looking for and cannot find. We have discovered many houses in our tour of London, but none that gives complete satisfaction. Either the locality or the shape or the price is all wrong; or, as more often happens, the fixtures. By the fixtures I mean, of course, the people who are already in the place and refuse to come out of it; London is full of houses with the wrong people in them. "I wonder," says Celia, standing outside some particularly desirable residence, "if we dare go in and ask them if they wouldn't like to move." "We can't live there unless they do," I agreed. "It would be so crowded." "After all, I suppose they took it from somebody else some time or other. I don't see why we shouldn't take it from them." "As soon as they put a 'TO LET' board outside we will." Celia hangs about hopefully for some days after this, waiting for a man to come along with a "TO LET" board over his shoulder. As soon as he plants it in the front garden she means to rush forward, strike out the "TO," and present herself to the occupier with her cheque-book in her hand. It is thus, she assures me, that the best houses are snapped up; but it is weary waiting, and I cannot take my turn on guard, for I must stay at home and earn the money which the landlord (sordid fellow) will want. Sometimes we search the advertisement columns in the papers in the hope of finding something that may do. "Here's one," I announced one morning; "'For American millionaires and others. Fifteen bathrooms—' Oh, no, that's too big." "Isn't there anything for English hundredaires?" said Celia. "Here's one that says 'reasonable offer taken.'" "Yes, but I don't suppose we reason the same way as he does." "Well, here's one for four thousand pounds. That's not so bad. I mean as a price, not as a house." "Have you got four thousand pounds?" "No; I was hoping you had." "Couldn't you mortgage something—up to the hilt?" "We'll have a look," I said. We spent the rest of that day looking for something to mortgage, but found nothing with a hilt at all high up. "Anyhow," I said, "it was a rotten house." "Wouldn't it be simpler," said Celia, "to put in an advertisement ourselves, describing exactly the sort of house we want? That's the way I always get servants." "A house is so much more difficult to describe than a cook." "Oh, but I'm sure you could do it. You describe things so well." Feeling highly flattered, I retired to the library and composed. For the first hour or so I tried to do it in the staccato language of house-agents. They say all they want to say in five [pg 340] lines; I tried to say all we wanted to say in ten. The result was hopeless. We both agreed that we should hate to live in that sort of house. Celia indeed seemed to feel that if I couldn't write better than that we couldn't afford to live in a house at all. "You don't seem to realise," I said, "that in the ordinary way people pay me for writing. This time, so far from receiving any money, I have actually got to hand it out in order to get into print at all. You can hardly expect me to give my best to an editor of that kind." "I thought that the artist in you would insist on putting your best into everything that you wrote, quite apart from the money." Of course after that the artist in me had to pull himself together. An hour later it had delivered itself as follows:— "WANTED, an unusual house. When I say unusual I mean that it mustn't look like anybody's old house. Actually it should contain three living-rooms and five bedrooms. One of the bedrooms may be a dressing-room, if it is quite understood that a dressing-room does not mean a cupboard in which the last tenant's housemaid kept her brushes. The other four bedrooms must be a decent size and should get plenty of sun. The exigencies of the solar system may make it impossible for the sun to be always there, but it should be around when wanted. With regard to the living-rooms, it is essential that they should not be square but squiggly. The drawing-room should be particularly squiggly; the dining-room should have at least an air of squiggliness; and the third room, in which I propose to work, may be the least squiggly of the three, but it must be inspiring, otherwise the landlord may not obtain his rent. The kitchen arrangements do not interest me greatly, but they will interest the cook, and for this reason should be as delightful as possible; after which warning anybody with a really bad basement on his hands will see the wisdom of retiring from the queue and letting the next man move up one. The bathroom should have plenty of space, not only for the porcelain bath which it will be expected to contain, but also (as is sometimes forgotten) for the bather after he or she has stepped out of the bath. The fireplaces should not be, as they generally are, utterly beastly. Owners of utterly beastly fireplaces may also move out of the queue, but they should take their places up at the end again in case they are wanted; for, if things were satisfactory otherwise, their claims might be considered, since even the beastliest fireplace can be dug out at the owner's expense and replaced with something tolerable. "A little garden would be liked. At any rate there must be a view of trees, whether one's own or somebody else's. "As regards position, the house must be in London. I mean really in London. I mean really in central London. The outlying portions of Kensington, such as Ealing, Hanwell and Uxbridge, are no good. Cricklewood, Highgate, New Barnet and similar places near Portman Square are useless. It must be in London—in the middle of London. "Now we come to rather an important matter. Rent. It is up to you to say how much you want; but let me give you one word of warning. Don't be absurd. You aren't dealing now with one of those profiteers who remained (with honour) in his own country. And you can have our flat in exchange, if you like—well, it isn't ours really, it's the landlord's, but we will introduce you to him without commission. Anyway, don't be afraid of saying what you want; if it is absurd (and I expect it will be) we will tell you so. And if you must have a lump sum instead of an annual one, well, perhaps we could manage to borrow it (from you or somebody); but smaller annual lumps would be preferred." When I had written it out I handed it to Celia. "There you are," I said, "and, speaking as an artist, I don't see how I can make it a word shorter." She read it carefully through. "It does sound a jolly house," she said wistfully. "Would it cost a lot as an advertisement?" "About the first year's rent. And even then nobody would take it seriously." "Oh, well, perhaps I'd better go and see another agent." She fingered the advertisement regretfully. "It seems a pity to waste this," she added with a smile. But the artist in me was already quite resolved that it should not be wasted. A.A.M. [pg 341] Lady. "POOR DEAR! AND SO THEY REJECTED IT? IT'S A SHAME—THEY OUGHT TO SET YOU SIMPLER SUBJECTS." A THREATENED SOURCE OF REVENUE. The POSTMASTER-GENERAL and the CHANCELLOR OF THE EXCHEQUER are at this moment the most melancholy of men. For the last few months they had been quietly chuckling to themselves over one of the most brilliant ideas that ever adorned the annals of Government. But the best laid schemes gang aft agley. While publicists and economic experts were shaking their grey hairs over the prospect of national bankruptcy, the P.M.G. and the C. of E. were weeping jazz tears of joy as the national debt lifted before their eyes "like mist unrolled on the morning wind." And then certain unsophisticated Members of a new, a very new, House of Commons began their deadly work. As a result the main scheme of national solvency is in danger. There are those who still think that the franchise was extended to women merely as an objective piece of political justice. I hate cynicism, and I should be the last to throw cold water on an ideal, but, as I said, the real fruits of that political master-stroke are in danger. While millions of enfranchised women were quietly engaged in writing twice a week to their particular Member, at three half-pence a time (or more), they were unconsciously assisting the considered policy of His Majesty's Government, which was that such letters should be written and remain unanswered; that more letters and still more should be written, stamped and posted to demand an answer, and that still more should be written to friends and relations exposing the grave lack of courtesy at Westminster. But, alas! certain Members, with monumental naïveté, have thought fit to take their correspondence seriously. They have put questions to Ministers. They have in so many crude words openly on the floor of the House referred to "the increase in the number of letters which Members now receive from their constituents on parliamentary matters, owing to the recent additions to the franchise and its extension to women." They have pleaded for the privilege of "franking" their answers. Could perversity go further? What woman will continue to write to a Member who satisfies her curiosity? And what of the unwritten, unstamped, unposted letters of just indignation to friends and relations? The P.M.G.'s laconic answer to this monstrous request, "I do not think it would be expedient," was highly commendable as a feat of Ministerial restraint. But the gloom that has settled on him is only too solidly grounded. These afflicted Members are out to raise a sentimental public opinion in support of their silly demand. Then, of course, the Government will capitulate, and the country will go Bolshevik from excessive taxation. Will not all patriotic women constituents write at once to their Members and point out the folly of this agitation?