Punch, Volume 156, January 22, 1919. by Various
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Various >> Punch, Volume 156, January 22, 1919.
But it was not the external appearance of Umslumpogaas, regal though
it was, that endeared him to me so much as his great intellectual
potentialities. That bird had a mind, and I was determined to develop
it to the uttermost. Under my assiduous tuition he progressed in a
manner that can only be described as astonishing. He quickly learned
to take a letter from the post-girl in his beak and deliver it without
error to that member of the family to whom it was addressed. I was in
the habit of reading to him extracts from the daily papers, and the
interest he took in the course of the recent war and his intelligent
appreciation of the finer points of Marshal FOCH'S strategy were most
pleasing to observe. He would greet the news of our victorious onsweep
with exultant crows, while at the announcement of any temporary
set-back he would mutter gloomily and go and scratch under the
shrubbery. On Armistice day he quite let himself go, cackling and
mafficking round the yard in a manner almost absurd. But who did not
unbend a little on that historic day?
Perhaps his greatest achievement, however, was the mastering of
a system of signals, a sort of simplified Morse code, which we
established through the medium of an old motor-horn. One blast meant
breakfast-time; two intimated that I was about to dig in the waste
patch under the walnut trees and he was to assemble his wives for
a diet of worms; three loud toots were the summons for the mid-day
meal; four were the curfew call signifying that it was time for him
to conduct his consorts to their coop for the night; and so on, with
special arrangements in case of air-raids. Not once was Umslumpogaas
at fault; no matter in what remote corner of the yard he and his hens
might be, at the sound of the three blasts he would come hastening up
with his hens for dinner. I was most gratified.
And then came the disaster. I was sawing wood one morning in the
saddle house, and Umslumpogaas and his wives were sitting round about
the door, dusting themselves. All was peaceful. Suddenly down the lane
which passes the gate of my yard appeared a large grey-bodied car.
Some school-children being in the road the driver emitted three loud
warning hoots of his horn. In an instant Umslumpogaas was on his feet
and, his wives at his heels, making a bee line for the gate. By the
time he reached it the car had passed and was turning the corner that
leads to the village, when the driver again sounded his horn thrice.
With an imperious call to his wives to follow, Umslumpogaas set off at
full speed in pursuit, and before I had fully grasped the situation
my entire poultry-yard had vanished from sight in the wake of that
confounded motor-car. And it is the unfortunate truth that neither
Umslumpogaas nor a single member of his harem has been seen or heard
of since. It is as bad as the affair of the _Pied Piper_ of Hamelin.
I said at the beginning that this was rather a sad little story.
Taking into consideration the present price of new-laid eggs it
amounts more or less to a tragedy, and I put it down to nothing but
the baleful effects of over-education.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "GET ON WITH YOUR SUPPER, ROBERT. IT'S ONLY THE MISSUS,
AND SHE DAREN'T SAY ANYTHING FOR FEAR I SHOULD DEMOBILISE."]
* * * * *
GARDENING NOTES.
_Meconopsis cambrica_ (Welsh Poppy). Owing to the wide popularity of
the energetic daughter of the PRIME MINISTER we understand that the
authorities at Kew have decided to re-name this plant _Meganopsis_.
_Digitalis_.--The spelling of the homely name of this well-known plant
is to be altered in the Kew List to _Foch's-glove_; the suggestion of
an interned German botanist that _Mailed Fist_ would be more suitable
not having met with the approval of the Council of the Royal
Horticultural Society.
* * * * *
"SPAIN'S REPUBLICAN PARLIAMENT.
Lisbon, Wednesday.--It would seem that the Cabinet just formed
by Senhor Tamagnini Barbosa will have in the next Parliament a
moderate Republican majority."--_Liverpool Daily Post_.
No other journal seems to have noticed the re-annexation of Portugal
by Spain.
* * * * *
"The task of fitting the square men created by the war into
square holes is certainly going to be one of tremendous
magnitude."--_Lancashire Daily Post_.
From some of the new Government appointments we gather that the PRIME
MINISTER gave up the task in despair.
* * * * *
"Wanted to purchase elephants, sound and without vice, and to
sell a variety of pigeons at reasonable prices."--_Pioneer
(Allahabad)._
But we doubt if the advertiser will be able to get all the elephants,
however free from vice, into the old pigeon-house.
* * * * *
[Illustration: BRIGHTER CRICKET.]
* * * * *
THE FINANCIER.
He had sat at the same table in the same restaurant for years--more
years than he cared to count. He was not as young as be used to be.
Always when he could he sat on the comfortable sofa-like seat on the
wall side of the table. When that was fully occupied he sat on the
other side on an ordinary upright chair, in which he could not lounge
at ease.
He sat there now discontentedly, keeping a watchful eye for vacancies
in the opposite party.
Half-way through his meal a vacancy occurred. He pushed his plate
across the table and went round, sinking with a sigh into the
cushioned seat.
The departing customer had left the usual gratuity under the saucer
of his coffee-cup. In a minute or two the waitress would collect the
cup and saucer and the coins.
But the waitress was busy. The room was full and there was the usual
deficient service.
He finished eating, lighted a cigarette and called for a cup of
coffee. It was then, I think, the thought came to him.
The other man's cup, saucer and money were still there.
His hand fluttered uncertainly over the cloth among the crockery.
There seemed to be nobody looking. His fingers slid under the other
man's saucer and in a moment the money was under his own.
He rose, took his hat and bill and went.
We left soon after.
"How mean!" said my wife. "Did you see? He made the other man's tip
do. Even a woman wouldn't have done that."
It seemed severe, I thought, but that is what she said.
* * * * *
"The rats were chased out of camp and their skins tanned and
made into dainty purses and handbags."--_Manchester Guardian_.
The rats having in their hurry left their skins behind them.
* * * * *
"The front door of the Lord Mayor's coachman opens on to a
long, narrow staircase."--_Weekly Dispatch_.
Very interesting, no doubt; but the general public would have
preferred to learn something about his bow-window.
* * * * *
IN WINTER.
Boreas blows on his high wood whistle,
Over the coppice and down the lane
Where the goldfinch chirps from the haulm of the thistle
And mangolds gleam in the farmer's wain.
Last year's dead and the new year sleeping
Under its mantle of leaves and snow;
Earth holds beauty fast in her keeping
But Life invincible stirs below.
Runs the sap in each root and rhizome,
Primrose yellow and snowdrop cold,
Windyflowers when the chiffchaff flies home,
Lenten lilies with crowns of gold.
Soon the woods will be blithe with bracken,
April whisper of lambs at play;
Spring will triumph--and our old black hen
(Thank the Lord!) will begin to lay.
ALGOL.
* * * * *
A "DRY" STATE.
"On the declaration of the armistice with Bulgaria this Balkan-Jug
stopped running."--_Observer._
* * * * *
THE NEW NAVY.
["The New Navy of small craft, created by the special needs of
the War ... has every reason to be proud of its share in bringing
the War to a victorious conclusion. The good wishes of the Board
of Admiralty and the Royal Navy will follow the armed yachts,
trawlers, drifters and motor-boats after they have hauled down
the colours they flew as His Majesty's Auxiliary Patrol Vessels."
_Admiralty Message to the Auxiliary Patrol Service_.]
The Old Navy wakened and got under way
And hurried to Scapa in battle array,
While the drifters and trawlers looked on from afar
At the cruisers and battleships off to the War;
Having sped their departure with ev'ry good wish,
The drifters and trawlers returned to their fish.
Do you know the sensation, so hard to explain,
Of living a former existence again,
With never a clue to the why or the when?
Well, the drifters and trawlers were feeling it then,
And the sea chuckled deep as it washed to and fro
On the hulls of the battleships up in the Flow.
The Old Navy waited, the Old Navy swore,
While battleships costing two millions and more
Reviewed the position from starboard to port:
"It's small craft again, but we're terribly short;
Let us pray for the Empire whose sun never sets;"
Then the fishing fleet pensively hauled in its nets.
And rolling with laughter, at varying speeds
The New Navy sped to the Old Navy's needs;
Unblushingly paintless, by units or lots,
Came drifters and trawlers and whalers and yachts;
And, heedless of Discipline Acts, I've been told,
The New Navy cheerfully winked at the Old.
Without any pride but the pride of its race,
The New Navy took its historical place
In warfare on quite unconventional lines
As hunting sea vermin or sweeping for mines,
Till the sea would agree when a battleship swore
That surely they'd helped an Old Navy before.
Through Summer and Autumn, through Winter and Spring
The Old Navy patiently guarded the ring.
The while the Auxiliaries out on the blue
Were making the most of the flag that they flew,
And a cruiser would call to her sister, astern,
"Precocious as ever, they've nothing to learn!"
The Old Navy stretched as they got under way
To take the Surrender that fell on a Day,
And the drifters and trawlers looked on from afar
At the cruisers and battleships winning the War,
And, cheering the conquest with ev'ry good wish,
Prepared to go back to their nets and their fish.
But scarce had the fishing fleet time to turn round
When there fell on their ears a remarkable sound,
And some who were present have given their word
That the roll of DRAKE'S drum through the squadrons was heard;
Resulted a sequel as strange as it's true,
The Old Navy solemnly winked at the New.
The moral is simple but worthy of note
Whenever the spirit of DRAKE is afloat,
There's only one Navy when foes come to grips,
And nobody knows it so well as the ships,
And so when the small craft are blessed by the Board,
Demurely they murmur: "_New_ Navy? Oh, Lord!"
* * * * *
OUR BEAUTY COLUMN.
(_LATEST STYLE._)
We four are _such_ friends, Estelle, Rosalie, Beryl and I. If we
weren't could we sit round and say the things to each other that we
do? I ask you.
It's quite a small flat we have, just the one room, but it's _so_
convenient. There's a chemist's next door, so it's no walk to get
_everything_ we require.
We were sitting round our cosy fireplace, wishing it were summer or
that we had some coal, when one of those thoughts that make me so
loved occurred to me.
"Estelle darling," I asked, though I knew, because the box was on the
mantelpiece; "how _do_ you get that lovely flush? Your nose is such a
_delicious_ tint; it reminds me of a tomato."
"I owe my colour to my fur coat," replied Estelle frankly; "you've
no idea how warm it keeps me. I think a natural glow is so much more
becoming than an artificial one."
"By the way, Madge," put in Rosalie (I'm Madge), "as you've started
the game may I ask you a question? How do you get such a lovely shine
on _your_ nose?"
"Chamois leather," I replied sweetly. (You see we're such friends we
love telling each other our boudoir secrets.)
"I wish I knew how you keep those cunning little curls, Estelle,"
sighed Beryl longingly. "_My_ hair is so horribly straight."
"It's quite easy," explained Estelle; "you can do it with any ordinary
flat-iron, though of course an electric-iron is the best. If you heat
the iron over the gas or fire (if any) it gets sooty, and if you've
golden hair, as I have this year--well. Only," she went on warningly,
"always see that you lay your curl flat on the table before you iron
it."
"I wish I could get my hands as white as yours, Beryl," I said.
"You can't expect to, darling; working at Whitehall as you do your
fingers are bound to get stained with nicotine. Warm water and soap is
all _I_ use. First I immerse my hands in tepid water, then I rub the
soap (you can get it at any chemist's or oil-shop) into the pores--you
'd be surprised how it lathers if you do it the right way--and then
I rinse the soap off again. I learnt that trick from watching our
washer-woman--she had such lovely hands."
"Why do you never use powder now, Estelle?" asked Rosalie. "Before the
War one could never come near you without leaving footprints."
"My reasons were partly patriotic, conserving the food supply, you
know, and partly owing to the mulatto-like tint the war-flour gave me.
One doesn't want to go about looking half-baked, does one?"
"No," we murmured, making a pretty concerted number of it.
"But wrinkles, darling Estelle," I pleaded--"do tell us what you do
for your wrinkles."
"Wrinkles," murmured Estelle, with a pretty puckering of her brow--"I
haven't any left; I've given them all to you."
[EDITORIAL NOTE.--This series will not be continued in our next
issue.]
* * * * *
"MUSICAL.
1916 car, nearly new, two-seater body, hood, screen, complete,
L13."--_Provincial Paper_.
At that price it probably would be "musical."
* * * * *
"The latest telegrams from Berlin state that the Spartacus
(Extremist) leaders are in extremis."--_Sunday Paper_,
But, confound it, that's their element.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Sergeant_. "ONLY ONE BUTTON DECENTLY CLEAN. AND I
SUPPOSE YOU MANAGED TO GET THAT ONE BRIGHT BY RUBBIN' OF IT AGAINST
THE CANTEEN COUNTER."]
* * * * *
A MILITARY EDUCATIONAL PROBLEM.
Dear Mr. Punch,--I write to ask your advice. As you know, the Army
Council in its wisdom decreed that the Army, before being demobilised,
must be educated. I have been chosen as one of the Educators.
My efforts to lead the Army into the paths of light and learning were
crowned with success until in an evil moment I undertook to teach
Private Goodbody. This genial ornament of our regimental sanitary
squad is especially anxious to plumb the mysteries of arithmetic.
When he had, as I thought, finally mastered the principle that if you
borrow one from the shillings' column you must pay it back in the
pounds' column, I set him the following sum:--
"Supposing you owed the butcher sixteen shillings and three pence
halfpenny and took a pound note to pay him with, how much change ought
he to give you?"
Private Goodbody scratched his head for several minutes and at last
decided that he did not know.
"But come, Goodbody," I urged, "surely it's quite easy." And I
repeated the question.
"I don't know, Sir; I don't never have no truck with butchers," he
declared emphatically. "I leaves that 'ere to the missus."
"Ah!" I said, "and how does _she_ get the money to pay him?"
"_I_ gives it 'er," said Goodbody.
"What does she do with the change?" I asked next.
"Gives it back to me, I reck'n," he answered.
"Well," I continued, "if you don't know how much change there ought
to be when you give her a pound and she spends sixteen shillings and
three pence halfpenny, how do you know she gives you back the right
amount?"
Private Goodbody eyed me with something suspiciously like contempt.
"If my missus started playin' any o' them monkey tricks on me, givin'
the wrong change an' sich, I'd put it acrost 'er," he said.
And there the matter rests for the present. I feel that I should not
lead Private Goodbody any further into the intricacies of his subject
until he has solved my problem. This he resolutely professes himself
unable to do, and begs to be allowed to leave it and plunge into the
giddy vortex of the multiplication table.
Yours faithfully, MENTOR.
* * * * *
"A cable message of 100 words from London to Johannesburg to-day,
at 2s. 6d. a word, costs L1 10s."--_Evening Paper_.
We suppose the Post Office makes a reduction for taking a quantity.
* * * * *
THE WIND.
The day I saw the Wind I stood
All by myself inside our wood,
Where Nurse had told me I must wait
While she went back through the white gate
To fetch her work ... I don't know why,
But suddenly I felt quite shy
With all the trees when Nurse was gone,
For quietness came on and on
And covered me right round as though
I was just nobody, you know,
And not a little girl at all...
But _then_--quite sudden--HER torn shawl
Came through the trees; I saw it gleam,
And SHE was near. Just like a dream
She looked at me. Her lovely hair
Was waving, waving everywhere,
And from her shawl--all tattery--
There blew the sweetest scents to me.
I didn't ask her who she was;
I didn't _need_ to ask, because
I _knew!_ ... That's all ... She didn't wait;
She _went_--when Nurse called through the gate.
* * * * *
"HOT WATER BATTLES--Best quality rubber, from 4/3 each." --_Parish
Magazine_.
A new kind of tank warfare, we suppose.
* * * * *
[Illustration: OUR DANCING MEN.
"WHO'S THE SLIGHTLY ANCIENT DAME THAT THAT KID BINKS HAS BEEN DANCING
WITH ALL THE EVENING?"
"I DUNNO. YOUNG BINKS DOESN'T EITHER. BUT HE SAYS SHE'S THE ONLY WOMAN
IN THE ROOM WITH A GLIMMERING OF HOW TO 'JAZZ.'".]
* * * * *
THOUGHTS IN COMMITTEE.
The War decays; the Offices disperse,
And after many a bloomer flies the don;
All kinds of Bodies perish with a curse,
And only my Committee lingers on,
Still rambles gaily in the same old rings,
Still sighs, "At any rate, we are at one";
Yet even here, so catching, are these things,
Something, I think, is going to be done.
For me, I would not anything were done,
But would for ever sit on this soft seat
Each sweet recurrent Saturday, and run
An idle pencil o'er the foolscap sheet,
The free unrationed blotting-pad, and scrawl
Delightful effigies of those who speak,
But not myself say anything at all,
Only be mute and beautiful and meek ...
Are there not Ministers and ex-M.P.'s,
A Knight, a Baronet, a Brigadier?
Is it not wonderful to be with these,
To watch, and after in the wifely ear
Whisper, "This morning I exchanged some words
With old Sir Somebody, who thought of Tanks;
I saw the Chairman of the Board of Birds;
I said, 'How are you?' and he answered, 'Thanks'"?
So let us sit for ever--and expand;
Let us be paid, not properly, but well.
Let more men come, all opulent and bland,
So that we qualify for some hotel,
So that, as all the Constitution grows
From little seeds long buried in the past,
We too may be a part of it! Who knows?
We may become a Ministry at last.
And if indeed our end must be more tame,
Let large well-mounted photographs be made
Of this high gathering, and let each name
Beneath each face be generously displayed,
That I may say, when penury has crept
Too near for decency, to some old snob,
"_That_ was the kind of company I kept
When England needed me"--and get a job.
A.P.H.
* * * * *
"Good Servants of all kings required at once.--Apply Mrs. ----'s
Registry."--_Provincial Paper_.
There should be a good supply, as several monarchs have lately given
up housekeeping.
* * * * *
"REQUIRED, ROMPOTER, to float L50,000 company for manufacturing
bricks for reconstruction. Curiosity mongers please
refrain."--_Daily Paper_.
But for the warning we should have been sorely tempted to inquire what
a "Rompoter" may be.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "DORA" DISCOMFITED.
"DORA." "WHAT, NO CENSORSHIP?" [_Swoons._]
{The Foreign Office has announced that Press Correspondents' messages
about the Peace Congress will not be censored.}]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Jock_. "BON JOUR, M'SIEUR. NOUS AVONS REVENUS DE
PERMISSION ET NOUS SOMMES BLINQUANT MISERABLE. SI VOUS FEREZ MON
AMI DE SOURIRE, JE DONNERAI VOUS DIX FRANCS."]
* * * * *
THE WAR DOGS' PARTY.
I am a plain dog that barks his mind and believes in calling a bone
a bone, not one of your sentimental sort that allows the tail--that
uncontrollable seat of the emotions--to govern the head. I voted
Coalition, of course. As a veteran--three chevrons and the Croix de
Guerre--I could hardly refuse to support the man who above all others
helped us war dogs to beat the Bosch. But to say that I am satisfied
with the way things are going on--that's a mouse of a very different
colour, as the phrase goes. A terrier person who claims to own the
PRIME MINISTER and has been very busy demanding what he calls our
invaluable suffrages buttonholed me the other day outside the tripe
shop and commenced to tell me all the wonderful things that we dogs
would get if we only elected a strong Coalition Government--better
biscuits, larger kennels, equal rabbits for all and I don't know what
else. But when I asked him plainly, "Are you in favour of keeping out
the dachshunds?" the fellow hedged and said the question was not so
important as some people seemed to think, and that financial interests
had to be considered.
And that's how the War Dogs' Party came to be formed, for when
they heard how the land lay some of the influential dogs in our
neighbourhood called a meeting in Jorrocks' Mews and elected me
chairman. We decided that membership should not be confined to dogs
who had actually seen service at the Front, but that any dog who had
faced the trials of the War in the spirit of true patriotism should be
eligible. A slight difficulty was encountered in the case of the Irish
terrier who owns the butcher's shop and notoriously has never been
on bone rations, some of the young hotheads claiming that he was not
eligible. But Snap is a very popular dog, and when he is not brooding
over his national grievances is a merry fellow and always ready to
share a bone with a pal. So I ruled that on account of the historic
wrongs of Ireland we would overlook Snap's defiance of the Public
Bones Order and allow him to be one of us.
One of the first things you learn in the trenches is the use of tact
in coping with delicate situations. Well, we drew up a very strong
platform and were on the point of carrying it unanimously when our
secretary, a clever fellow but temperamental, like all poodles,
spotted the big yellow cat from No. 14 slinking down the street on
some poisonous errand or other, and the meeting adjourned in what I
can only describe as a disorderly manner. Of course we are treating
the Declaration of Peace Aims, as we called it, as carried, though the
secretary insists on adding a fifteenth point, which he says is of
vital importance, relating to the Declawing of Yellow Cats.
The first plank in our platform is BRITAIN FOR BRITISH DOGS, which
sounds very well, don't you think? Sassafras, the Aberdeen terrier
from No. 3, a solid fellow but unimaginative, wanted it to be ONCE A
U-DOG ALWAYS A U-DOG, but I ruled that that couldn't be right because
once there had been a U-dog next door to us, but now there wasn't. Of
course they all wanted to hear about it, but we war dogs are supposed
to be as modest as we are brave, so I simply said that he was _spurlos
versenkt_. But it isn't only German dogs we draw the line at. Take the
Pekinese. I've always said if we didn't combat the Yellow Peril we'd
regret it, and now the pests are everywhere. My master's woman has one
which she calls Pitti Sing. Did you ever hear of such a name for a
dog? But then it isn't a dog in the real sense of the word. Only last
Friday the little beast flew at me--all over an absurd chicken bone
which was really meant for me but had been put on to its plate by
mistake--and deliberately filled my mouth full of nasty fluffy fur.
Of course the woman had to come in at that moment and, instead of
chastising the little monster, she grabbed it up and hugged it,
saying, "Diddums nasty great dog bite um poor ickle Pitti Singums?"
and a lot more silly rot equally at variance with the facts. I wagged
my tail at her to show it wasn't my fault, but she just wouldn't see
reason and told master that I must have a good whipping. Of course
master and I both know that one isn't whipped for a little thing like
that, so we retired into the study, and while master pretended to
whip me I pretended to howl. I was just beginning to howl in a very
lifelike way when the woman rushed in and called master a cruel brute,
and said she didn't mean him to hurt me really.