Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 153, Aug 8, 1917 by Various
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Various >> Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 153, Aug 8, 1917
"Having noticed with regret that the enemy objected to the tower in
front of X position, the Ober-Kommando gave orders to have it removed,
in the interests of the surrounding country."
* * * * *
"Once or twice in the course of his speech Mr. Macdonald spoke
of himself and his Labour friends as 'we.' 'Who are "we"?'
sharply challenged Mr. Wardle, reviving a question familiar in
the annals of split parties. 'You knof perfectly wel thlat you
are not inclueddin the "we,"' was the retort."--_Manchester
Guardian_.
Pretty crushing, wasn't it?
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Betty_ (_after flash of lightning_). "COUNT QUICKLY,
JENNY! MAKE IT AS FAR AWAY AS YOU POSSIBLY CAN."]
* * * * *
FRAGMENT OF A TRAGEDY.
_Dramatis Personae_.
A Staff Officer.
A Colonel.
A Captain.
A Herald.
Chorus of Officers' Servants and Orderlies.
SCENE.--_Exterior of Battalion Headquarters Dug-out_.
_Leader of Chorus_.
Ho! friends, a stranger cometh; by his dress
Some nobleman of leisure, I should guess;
Come, let us seem to labour, lest he strafe;
A soldier ever eye-washes the Staff.
_Chorus start work, singing_.
Brighter than the queenly rose,
Brighter than the setting sun,
Brighter than old Ginger's nose
The raiment of the gilded one.
The red tab points towards each breast,
The red band binds his forehead stern;
The rainbow ribbons on his chest
Proclaim what fires within him burn.
Upon his throne amid the din
He sits serene--yet sometimes stoops
To take a kindly interest in
The trousers issued to the troops.
_Enter_ Staff Officer.
_Staff Officer_. Ho, slaves! your Colonel seeking have I come.
_L. of C._ This is his house, but he is far from home.
_Staff O._ And whither gone? Reply without delay.
_L. of C._ Ask of the Captain. See, he comes this way.
_Enter_ Captain _from dug-out_.
_Captain_. Immaculate stranger, hail! What lucky chance
Has brought you to this dirty bit of France?
_Staff O_. Not chance. A conscientious Brigadier
Has sent me hither.
_Captain_. And what seek you here?
_Staff_. I seek your Colonel.
_Captain_. He is up the line.
'Tis said the foe will soon explode a mine,
And we must be prepared should he attack.
_Staff O_. I think I will await his coming back.
_Captain_. Then chance to me at least has been most kind;
Come, let me lead you where a drink you'll find.
[_They enter dug-out and are seen relieving their thirst_.
_Chorus_.
Beyond the distant bower,
Where skirted men abide
And in an uncouth language
Their skirted children chide;
Beyond the land of sunshine,
Where never skies are blue,
There lives a silent people
Who know a thing or two.
All is not gold that glitters,
And _sirops_ are rather sad;
All is not Bass that's "bitters,"
And Gallic beer is bad;
But out of the misty regions
Where loom the mountains tall
There comes the drink of princes--
Whisky, the best of all.
_Staff O_. This is my seventh drink, and yet, alas!
The Colonel comes not.
_Captain_. Fill another glass.
_Staff O_. I will [_he does_]. The bottle's finished, I'm afraid.
_Captain_. It does not matter. I drink lemonade.
_L. of C._ A doom descends upon this house, I fear;
That was the only bottle left us here.
_Enter_ Herald.
_Herald_. The Colonel comes. Let no ill-omened word
Escape the barrier of your teeth. I heard
Men say his temper's in an awful state;
Therefore beware lest some untoward fate
Befall you; and--I do not think I'll wait.
_Enter_ Colonel.
_He sees empty whisky-bottle, looks at Staff Officer, and--_
[_Here the fragment leaves off._
* * * * *
"Turnouts. Odd colour miniature pony, 36in. high, used to
children, coming 5 years, and Swiss governess and brown
harness; can be seen any time, a miniature lot; L25."--_The
Bazaar, Exchange and Mart_.
It may be right to turn out aliens, but is not this rather hard on the
miniature Swiss Governess?
* * * * *
From an auctioneer's advertisement: "Grandfather Clocks, and
other Arms and Armour."--_Manchester Guardian_.
In these days even our oldest clocks are expected to strike for their
country.
* * * * *
"Herr Harden says:--
"'The aim of our enemies is--
Democracy;
The right of nations to self-government;
An honest, and not merely a specious, diminution of arguments.'"
--_Provincial Paper_.
So far as this last aim is concerned the German Government appears
to agree with the Allies, for it has just suppressed Herr HARDEN's
journal.
* * * * *
DAVID.
The War brought about no more awful clash of personalities than when
it threw David and myself into the same dug-out. Myself, I am the
normal man--the man who wishes he were dead when he is called in the
morning and who swears at his servant (1) for calling him; (2) for not
calling him. My batman has learnt, after three years of war, to subdue
feet which were intended by nature to be thunderous. His method of
calling me is the result of careful training. If I am to wake at 7
A.M. he flings himself flat on his face outside my dug-out at 6 A.M.
and wriggles snake-like towards my boots. He extracts these painlessly
from under last night's salvage dump of tin-hats, gas-masks and
deflated underclothes, noses out my jacket, detects my Sam Browne, and
in awful silence bears these to the outer air, where he emits, like a
whale, the breath which he has been holding for the last ten minutes.
And meanwhile I sleep.
At 6.55 A.M. he brings back boots, belt and jacket. This time he
breathes. He walks softly, but he walks. He places the boots down
firmly. He begins to make little noises. He purrs and coughs and
scratches his chin, and very gradually the air of the dug-out begins
to vibrate with life. It is like _Peer Gynt_--the "Morning" thing on
the gramophone, you know; he clinks a toothbrush against a mug, he
pours out water. It is all gradual, _crescendo_; and meanwhile I am
awakening. At 7 A.M., not being a perfect artist, he generally has to
drop something; but by that time I am only pretending to be asleep,
and I growl at him, ask him why he didn't call me an hour ago,
and then fall asleep again. I get up at eight o'clock and dress in
silence. If my batman speaks to me I cut myself, throw the razor at
him, and completely break down. In short, as I say, I am the normal
man.
With David it is otherwise. David is a big strong man. He blew into my
dug-out late one night and occupied the other bed--an affair of rude
beams and hard wire-netting. He spread himself there in sleep, and
silence fell. At dawn next morning an awful sound hurled me out of
dreams towards my revolver. I clutched it in sweating terror, and
stared round the dug-out with my heart going like a machine-gun. It
was not, however, a Hun counter-attack. It was David calling for his
servant. As the first ray of the sun lights the Eastern sky David
calls for his servant. His servant is a North-countryman. Sleeping far
off in some noxious haunt, he hears David's voice and instantly begins
to speak. His voice comes swelling towards us, talking of boots and
tunics. As he reaches the dug-out door he becomes deafening. He and
David have a shouting match. He kicks over a petrol-tin full of water,
smashes my shaving mirror, and sits on my feet while picking up the
bits.
Meanwhile David is standing on his bed and jodelling, while his batman
shrieks to him that his wife said in her last letter to him that if
he doesn't get a leaf soon the home'll be bruk up. Then David starts
slapping soap on to his face like a bill-sticker with a paste-brush.
His servant drops a field boot on to my stomach, trips over an empty
biscuit-tin and is heard grooming a boot without.
David now strops his razor. It is one of those self-binding safety
razors which is all covered with cog-wheels and steam-gauges and
levers and valves. You feed the strop into it like paper into
a printing-press, and it eats up the leather as low people eat
spaghetti, making all the time a noise like a mowing-machine. David
loves that. He whistles gay tunes while it happens. He whistles while
he shaves. He cannot whistle while brushing his teeth, but he brushes
his teeth as a man might wash down a cab in a large yard with plenty
of room.
The moment it is over he whistles again. Then he does deep breathing
at the door of the dug-out. (Aeroplanes passing overhead have had
narrow escapes from being dragged into the dug-out by sheer power of
suction, when David deep-breathes.) Then he does muscle exercises. He
crooks his finger and from behind you see a muscle like a mushroom
get up suddenly in the small of his back, run up his spine and hit
him under the left ear.
Meanwhile he is whistling, and his batman is making sparks fly out
of the buttons, which he cleans with glass-paper and gun-cotton just
outside the door.
At eight, when I get carefully out of bed, David is beginning to don
his shirt. At nine we move together towards breakfast.
I am training David to say "Rah! Rah!" against the day when he and
General ROOSEVELT meet in a communication trench. I am sure they will
take to each other at once.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Basil_. "MOTHER, I THINK SATAN MUST BE ABOUT."
_Mother_. "WHY, DEAR?"
_Basil_. "ISN'T IT SATAN THAT MAKES VERY GOOD PEOPLE FEEL BAD?"
_Mother_. "YES, DEAR."
_Basil_. "WELL, I FEEL AS IF I DIDN'T WANT TO GO AND WASH MY FACE."]
* * * * *
SAUCE FOR THE GOOSE.
["The plain truth is that there are very few jobs that
could not be done by women as well as they are being done
by men."--_Daily Paper_.]
Chloe, in the placid days
Ere the war-clouds gathered,
I was prodigal in praise
Of your charm and winning ways;
You became a cult, a craze
(Heavens, how I blathered!);
With an ardour undismayed and treacly
I proposed (without success) bi-weekly.
Now, my dear, it's up to you
To become the hero;
Show us how a man should woo
When he wills to win, and do
Teach us how to bill and coo
With our hopes at zero.
Chloe, for a change (it may amuse you),
_You_ propose to me--_and I'll refuse you_.
* * * * *
From an auction catalogue:--
"PRINCESS, Brown Mare, 7 years, 15-3, has been ridden by a
nervous person, good manners, trained to the High School,
Hant-le-Cole."
_Haute Ecole_ manners are usually of the best and we are glad that
Hant-le-Cole, which we have been unable to find on the map, provides
no exception.
* * * * *
[Illustration: A MISFIT.
_Recruit_. "IT'S NO USE, GUV'NOR. I 'ATES AN' DETESTS 'ORSES, AN' THEY
FAIR LOATHES ME. IT'S A HENGINE-DRIVER I AM--NOT AN 'ORSE-DRIVER."]
* * * * *
THE INVESTITURE.
Be silent, guns! for Bernard is invested,
And wheresoe'er the slaves of strife are found
Let your grim offices be now arrested,
Nor the hot rifle shoot another round,
Nor the pale flarelights toss,
But for a space all devilry be barred,
While Mars hangs motionless in pleased regard
And the hushed lines look West to Palace Yard,
Where on his breast our KING has pinned the Cross.
Oft in the Mess have we rehearsed that moment,
In old French farms have staged the Royal Square,
Or in cool caves by Germans made at Beaumont,
Though there indeed we had no space to spare,
So lifelike was it all,
And when KING GEORGE (the Padre's hard to beat
In that great _role_), surrounded by his suite,
Pinned on the cover of the potted meat,
The very Hippodrome had seemed too small.
Or we would act the homing of our Hector,
Flushed up with pride beneath the ancestral fir,
The cheering rustics and the sweet old Rector
Welcoming back "our brave parishioner;"
And since the lad was shy
We made him get some simple phrases pat
To thank them for the Presentation Bat,
While Maud stood near (the Adjutant did that),
So overcome that she could only sigh.
Ah! Bernard, say our pageants were not wasted,
Not vain the Adjutant's laborious blush!
Was it to Maud this glowing morn you hasted
With yonder bauble in its bed of plush--
Or was it that Miss Blake?
Say not you faced, with ill-concealed dismay,
Your thronging townsmen and had nought to say,
Or from your KING stepped tremblingly away
With someone else's Order by mistake!
Surely you shamed us not! for all that splendour
Can scarce have been more moving to the heart
Than our glad rites, the Princess not so tender
As was myself, who always took that part;
I cannot think the KING,
Nor gorgeous Lords, nor Officers of State,
Nor seedy people peering through the gate,
Felt half so proud or so affectionate
As those far friends when _we_ arranged the thing.
A.P.H.
* * * * *
DISCONCERTING NEWS FOR THE KAISER.
Woman to Vicar: "Please Sir will you write to our George in France?
'is number is a 'undred and eleven million four thousand and six."
* * * * *
"The inmates of buses have changed, too. All classes travel
side by side, the perspiring flower girl, with her heavy
basket of roses, the charwoman clutching her morning purchase
of fish, the daintily dressed lady going out to dinner,
&c."--_The Daily Chronicle_.
A very early dinner, apparently; perhaps with the charwoman.
* * * * *
[Illustration: FREEDOM RENEWS HER VOW. AUGUST 14, 1917.]
* * * * *
ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.
_Monday, July 30th._--The _obiter dicta_ dropped by Mr. BONAR LAW in
the course of debate are gradually furnishing the House with an almost
complete autobiography. To-day it learned that while, unlike Mr.
BALFOUR, he reads a great many newspapers he does not include among
them a certain financial organ which makes a speciality of spy-hunting
in high places.
[Illustration: RAMSAY MACDONALD IN PARIS. "ARC DE TRIOMPHE! THE WORD
HAS A SINISTER SOUND."]
When the National Insurance Scheme was set on foot there were great
complaints because some Friendly Societies were not allowed to share
in its administration. Possibly the officials thought them a little
too friendly in their ways. One of them, we learned to-day, employed
an auditor who signed the return with a mark, like _Bill Stumps_;
while another auditor had a habit of signing it in blank and leaving
the secretary to fill in the figures.
Mr. ASQUITH used to allow his colleagues so much freedom of action
that his Administration was nick-named "the Go-as-you-please
Government"; and eventually it went as he did not please. But I cannot
recall under his gentle rule anything quite so free-and-easy as Mr.
HENDERSON'S visit to Paris. That a member of the War Cabinet should
attend a Conference of French and Russian Socialists at all is in
itself a sufficiently remarkable departure from Ministerial etiquette,
but that he should be accompanied by Mr. RAMSAY MACDONALD, whose
peculiar views upon the questions of war and peace have so recently
been repudiated by the Government and the House of Commons, makes
it still more extraordinary. In the circumstances it was almost
surprising to learn that the complaisance of the Government did not
extend to furnishing Mr. MACDONALD with a war-ship for his journey.
What Mr. BALFOUR, who is responsible for the foreign policy of this
country, thinks about it all one can only surmise, for he said nothing
directly on the subject in his great speech to-night--a speech which
earned him the unique tribute of a compliment from Mr. PRINGLE. But
the FOREIGN SECRETARY'S warning to the House not to try to anticipate
the work of the Peace Congress may well have been inspired by
apprehensions as to what the amateur diplomatists were saying at that
moment in Paris.
_Tuesday, July 31st._--An attempt to obtain further light on the
HENDERSON-MACDONALD excursion met with little success. Mr. BONAR LAW
professed to see nothing unusual in Mr. HENDERSON'S taking part in a
Labour Conference, and declared, on the somewhat slender ground that
only the Allies were represented, that it was not of an international
character. Mr. HOGGE essayed to move the adjournment, but had omitted
to have his motion ready. The result of his hurried effort to draft
one was not satisfactory, for the SPEAKER ruled that it constituted
an attack on Mr. HENDERSON and ought not in fairness to be moved until
the right hon. gentleman was back in his place. So the Government
escaped--for the moment.
Wearing a jacket suit of Navy blue, and escorted by Lord EDMUND TALBOT
and Mr. RAWLINSON, the new FIRST LORD OF THE ADMIRALTY walked up the
floor to take the Oath. Members noted with satisfaction the buoyancy
of his step and the firmness of his chin. If looks go for anything the
Navy in his hands will not relax the bull-dog grip upon the enemy that
it has maintained these three years.
[Illustration: THE "SHEE-BILLING" AUTUMN WEAR FOR MEMBERS--AND
POLICEMEN--OF THE HOUSE OF COMMONS.]
Asked whether the Government proposed to institute a prosecution
in regard to the disturbance of the peace (with alleged profane
language) that recently occurred within the precincts of the Palace of
Westminster, Sir GEORGE CAVE gravely recited the words of the statute
providing that an offender in such circumstances was liable to have
his right hand stricken off. All eyes instinctively turned to see how
Mr. PEMBERTON-BILLING was taking it; but any anxiety that he may have
felt was relieved when the HOME SECRETARY added that the statute in
question was repealed in 1828.
A question put by Sir HENRY CRAIK about a C1 recruit included the
statement that he was "suffering from Addison's disease"; and Mr.
HOGGE voiced the general curiosity when he asked, obviously out of
solicitude for the late Minister of Munitions, "What is ADDISON'S
disease?" It is believed that the reply, if one had been given, would
have been "Over-dilution."
Good progress was made with the Corn Production Bill, and on the vexed
question as to how far allowances should be reckoned as part of the
minimum wage an amendment was inserted enabling the Wages Boards to
secure for the labourer a little more in cash and less in kind.
In the Lords a satisfactory account of the recent negotiations between
British and German Commissioners at the Hague was given by Lord
NEWTON. Incidentally he disposed of the suggestion that there had been
anything in the way of fraternization. Both sides had held strictly
to the business in hand, which was the exchange of prisoners, not of
compliments.
_Wednesday, August 1st._--The Peers were to have had another
field-day, for Lord SELBORNE had put down a motion calling attention
to the alleged sale of honours. But, to the relief of certain of the
recently ennobled, who could not be sure what the Unnatural History
of SELBORNE might contain, the discussion was postponed.
Three hours' talk over Mr. HENDERSON'S dual personality left the
Commons still vague as to how a Cabinet Minister becomes a Labour
delegate at will. Perhaps the Channel passage may have had something
to do with it.
* * * * *
[Illustration: ANY PORT IN A STORM.]
* * * * *
THE PICTURE POSTCARDS.
A little family party, with an acquaintance or two added, sat in deck
chairs (at twopence each) at the head of the pier. Their complexions
proved that there had been sun at Brightbourne in some strength.
Their noses were already peeling a little, and the ladies had bright
scarlet patches in the V of their blouses. To supply any defects
in the entertainment provided by the ocean itself they had brought
paper-covered novels, the two most popular illustrated dailies and
chocolate. The boy and girl shared _Roaring Chips_ or some such comic
weekly. The father and his gentleman-friend smoked their pipes. All
were placid and contented, extending their limbs to receive every
benediction that sun and sea air could confer.
A little desultory conversation having occurred--"There's a lady at
our boarding-house," said one of the acquaintances, "who reads your
hand wonderfully," a languid argument following on palmistry, in which
one of the gentlemen disbelieved, but the other had had extraordinary
experiences of the accuracy of the science--the mother of the boy
and girl suddenly remembered that not yet had postcards been sent to
Auntie and Uncle, Gus and Beatty, Mr. Brown and Mrs. Venning.
"We promised, you know," she said guiltily.
"Better late than never," said the father's friend jocularly.
"That's right," said the father.
"Come along," said the gentleman-friend to the boy and girl, "we'll go
and choose the cards. There's a stall close by," and off they started.
"Don't let them see everything," the prudent mother called out, having
some acquaintance with the physical trend of the moment in postcard
humour, which has lost nothing in the general moral enfranchisement
brought about by the War, one of the most notable achievements of
which is the death and burial of _Mrs. Grundy_.
"Go on!" said the boy, with all the laughing scorn of youth. "We've
seen them all already."
"You can't keep kids from seeing things nowadays," said the father
sententiously. "Bring them up well and leave the rest to chance, is
what I say."
"Very wise of you," remarked one of the lady-friends. "Besides, aren't
all things pure to the pure?"
Having probably a very distinct idea as to the purity of many of the
postcards which provide Brightbourne with its mirth, the father made
no reply, but turned his attention to the deep-water bathers as they
dived and swam and climbed on the raft and tumbled off it....
"Well, let's see what you've got," said the mother as the foraging
party returned.
"We've got some beauties," said the daughter--"real screams, haven't
we, Mr. Gates?"
"Yes, I think we selected the pick of the bunch," said Mr. Gates
complacently, speaking as a man of the world who knows a good thing
when he sees it.
"My husband's a rare one for fun," said his wife. "A regular
connoozer."
"There's a pretty girl at the postcard place," said the boy. "Mr.
Gates didn't half get off with her, did you?"
Mr. Gates laughed the laugh of triumph.
"She's not bad-looking," he said, "but not quite my sort. Still--"
He stroked his moustache.
"Now, Fred," said Mrs. Gates archly, "that'll do; let's see the
cards."
"This one," said the girl, "is for Gus. He's been called up, you
know, so we got him a military one. You see that girl the soldier's
squeezing? She's rather like his young lady, you know, and it says,
'Come down to Brightbourne and learn how to carry on.' Gus'll show
it to her."
The mother agreed that it was well chosen.
"Where's Beatty's?" she asked.
"Here's Beatty's," said the boy; "I chose it. The one with the shrimp
on it. It says, 'At Breezy Brightbourne. From one giddy young shrimp
to another.' Jolly clever, isn't it? And this is for Mr. Hatton,
because he's so fond of beer. You see there's a glass of beer, and
it says underneath, 'Come where the girls are bright and the tonic's
all right.' There was another one with a bottle called 'The Spirit of
Brightbourne,' but we thought beer was best."
"What about Uncle?" the mother asked.
"Oh!" said the girl, "there's a lovely one for him. Three men on their
hands and knees licking up the whisky spilt from broken bottles."
"Good Heavens!" said the father, "you can't send him that."
"I think not," said the mother. "If you sent Uncle that, all the fat
would be in the fire."
"It's very funny," said the boy.
"Funny, yes," said the father. "But funniness can be very dangerous.
Good Heavens!" and he mopped his brow, "you gave me quite a turn."
"Very well, who shall we give it to?" the boy asked. "We mustn't waste
it."
"I don't care who has it so long as it's not your Uncle," said the
father. "And what have you got for your Aunt Tilly?"
"This one," said the girl. "An old maid looking under the bed for a
man and hoping she'll find one."
"Goodness, Maria!" said the father, "are your children mad? The idea
of sending such a thing to Tilly!"
"But she is an old maid," said the girl.
"Of course she is," said the father. "That's the mischief."
"Well, there's rather a good one where a wife is going through her
husband's trousers and saying, 'Brightbourne's the place for change,'"
said the girl. "Would that suit?"
"Of course not," snapped her father.
"Or the one where the bed is full of fleas?" the boy suggested.
"No jokes about fleas," said the father sternly. "No, you must change
those for something else. Don't be funny at all with either your Uncle
or Aunt. We can't run any risks. Send them local views--coloured ones,
of course, but strictly local."