Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 153, August 1, 1917. by Various
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Various >> Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 153, August 1, 1917.
PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 153.
August 1, 1917.
CHARIVARIA.
The Imperial aspirations of KING FERDINAND are discussed by a
Frankfort paper in an article entitled "What Bulgaria wants."
Significantly enough the ground covered is almost identical with the
subject-matter of an unpublished article of our own, entitled "What
Bulgaria won't get."
***
The cow which walked down sixteen stairs into a cellar at Willesden
is said to have been the victim of a false air-raid warning.
***
"In Scotland," says Mr. BARNES'S report on Industrial Unrest, "the
subject of liquor restrictions was never mentioned." Some thoughts
are too poignant for utterance.
***
According to the statement of a German paper "A Partial Crisis"
threatens Austria. One of these days we feel sure something really
serious will happen to that country.
***
The Medical Officer of the L.C.C. estimates that in 1916 the total
water which flowed under London Bridge was 875,000,000,000 gallons.
It is not known yet what is to be done about it.
***
The Army Council has forbidden the sale of raffia in the United
Kingdom. Personally we never eat the stuff.
***
Nature Notes: A white sparrow has been seen in Huntingdon; a
well-defined solar halo has been observed in Hertfordshire, and Mr.
WINSTON CHURCHILL was noticed the other day reading _The Morning
Post_.
***
A boy of eighteen told the Stratford magistrate that he had given
up his job because he only got twenty-five shillings a week. He will
however continue to give the War his moral support.
***
The Austrian EMPEROR has told the representative of _The Cologne
Gazette_ that he "detests war." If not true this is certainly a
clever invention on KARL'S part.
***
We feel that the public need not have been so peevish because the
experimental siren air-raid warning was not heard by everybody in
London. They seem to overlook the fact that full particulars of the
warning appeared next morning in the papers.
***
A man who obtained two hundred-weight of sugar from a firm of
ship-brokers has been fined ten pounds at Glasgow. Some curiosity
exists as to the number of ships he had to purchase in order to secure
that amount of sugar.
***
A London magistrate has held that tea and dinner concerts in
restaurants are subject to the entertainment tax. This decision will
come as a great shock to many people who have always regarded the
music as an anaesthetic.
***
The no-tablecloths order has caused great perturbation among the
better-class hotel-keepers in Berlin. Does the Government, they ask
sarcastically, expect their class of patron to wipe their mouths on
their shirt-cuffs?
***
The chairman of the House of Commons' Tribunal complains that while
cats drink milk as usual they no longer catch mice. This however may
easily be remedied if the FOOD-CONTROLLER will meet them halfway on
the question of dilution.
***
The public has been warned by Scotland Yard against a man calling
himself Sid Smith. We wouldn't do it ourselves, of course, but we are
strongly opposed to the police interfering in what is after all purely
a matter of personal taste.
***
The bones of ST. GEORGE have been discovered near Beersheba in
Palestine by members of our Expeditionary Force. This should dispel
the popular delusion which has always ascribed the last resting-place
of England's patron saint to the present site of the Mint.
***
"War bread will keep for a week," stated Mr. CLYNES for the Ministry
of Food. Of course you can keep it longer if you are collecting
curios.
***
It is announced that all salaries in the German Diplomatic Service
have been reduced. We always said that frightfulness didn't really
pay.
***
German women have been asked to place their hair at the disposal of
the authorities. If they do not care to sacrifice their own hair
they can just send along the handful or two which they collect in
the course of waiting in the butter queue.
***
_Hamlet_ has been rendered by amateur actors at the Front, all scenery
being dispensed with. If you must dispense with one or the other, why
not leave out the acting?
***
"To assist in the breaking-up of grass-land," we are told, "the Board
of Agriculture proposes to allocate a number of horses to agricultural
counties." The idea of allocating some of our incurable golfers
to this purpose does not appear to have suggested itself to our
slow-witted authorities.
***
"I have resigned because there is no further need for my services,"
said Mr. KENNEDY-JONES. Several politicians are of the opinion that
this was not a valid reason.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _First ex-Knut_. "WOULDN'T CARE TO BE IN BLIGHTY NOW,
REG., WHEN IT'S ROTTEN FORM TO GO IN FOR FANCY TEAS AND THAT--WHAT?"
_Second ex-Knut_. "HONK!"]
* * * * *
AN EXPANSIVE SMILE.
"SIX HUNDRED SQUARE MILES. BRITISH GAINS SINCE LAST
YEAR."--_The Statesman_ (_India_).
* * * * *
The _Berlin Tageblatt_ says that HERR MIHAELIS in the critical
passages measured his words "as carefully as if they were meat
rations." A wise precaution, in view of the likelihood that he
would have to eat them.
* * * * *
From a Cinema advertisement:--
"KEEPS YOU ON THE EDGE OF YOUR SEATS THROUGHOUT THE FIVE ACTS
OF A STORY THAT UNFOLDS ITSELF MIDST THE ROMANTIC PURLOINS OF
ITALY AND ENGLAND."--_Austrian Paper_.
We gather that the scene is laid in the thieves' quarter.
* * * * *
TO WILLIAM AT THE BACK OF THE GALICIAN FRONT.
Once more you follow in Bellona's train,
(Her train de luxe) in search of cheap reclame;
Once more you flaunt your rearward oriflamme,
A valiant eagle nosing out the slain.
Not to the West, where RUPPRECHT stands at bay,
Hard pushed with hounds of England at his throat,
And WILLIE'S chance grows more and more remote
Of breaking hearts along The Ladies' Way;
But to the East you go, for easier game,
Where traitors to their faith desert the fight,
And better men than yours are swept in flight
By coward Anarchy that sells her shame.
For here, by favour of your new allies,
You'll see recovered all you lost of late,
When, tried in open combat, fair and straight,
Your Huns were flattened out like swatted flies.
Well, make the most of this so timely boom,
For Russia yet may cut the cancer out--
Her heart is big enough--and turn about
Clean-limbed and strong and terrible as doom.
But, though she fail us in the final test,
Not there, not there, my child, the end shall be,
But where, without your option, France and we
Have made our own arrangements further West.
O.S.
* * * * *
DUSTBIN.
He dropped in to tea, quite casually; forced an entry through the mud
wall of our barn, in fact. No, he wouldn't sit down--expected to be
leaving in a few minutes; but he didn't mind if he did have a sardine,
and helped himself to the tinful. Yes, a bit of bully, thanks,
wouldn't be amiss; and a nice piece of coal; cockchafers very good too
when, as now, in season; and, for savoury, a little nibble with a yard
of tarred string and an empty cardboard cigarette-box. Thank you very
much.
"Why, the little brute's a perfect dustbin," said my mate; and
"Dustbin" the puppy was throughout his stay with us.
For six weeks did Dustbin--attached for rations and
discipline--accompany us on our sanitary rounds; set us a fine example
of indifference to shell fire, even to the extent of attempting
to catch spent shrapnel as it fell; and proved the wettest of wet
blankets to the "socials" of the local rats. Then, as happens with
sanitary inspectors in France, there arrived late one afternoon
a despatch requesting the pleasure of my society--in five hours'
time--at a village some twenty kilos distant as the shell flies. I
found I should have fifteen minutes in which to pack, four hours for
my journey, and forty-five minutes between the packing and the start
in which to find a home for Dustbin.
"Take the little dorg off you?" said a Sergeant acquaintance in the
D.A.C. "I couldn't, Corp'l. Why, I don't even know how I'm goin' to
take the foal yonder"--he glared reproachfully at a placid Clydesdale
mare and her tottering one-day-old; "and 'ow I'm goin' to take my posh
breeches--"
I left him hovering despondently over his equipment and a pile of
dirty linen.
We tried the M.G.C. We were on the best of terms and always had been;
they said so. They apologised in advance for the insanitary conditions
I might find; inquired after my health; offered me some coffee and
generally loved me; but they couldn't love my dog. The Cook even went
so far as openly to associate my guileless puppy with a shortage of
dried herrings in the sergeants' mess.
Passing through the E.A.M.C. transport lines I rescued Dustbin from
a hulking native mongrel wearing an identity disc. I judged the
Ambulance would not be wanting another dog; but there was still hope
with the Salvage Company.
The Salvagier whom I met upon the threshold of the "billet" (half a
limber load of bricks and an angle iron) was quite sure the Salvage
Company couldn't take a dog, as they had an infant wild boar and two
fox cubs numbering on their strength; but he thought that he could
plant my prodigy with a friend of his, a bombardier in the E.G.A.,
the only other unit within easy distance. We headed for the E.G.A.
It was just at this point that there occurred one of those little
incidents so dear to the comic draughtsman, but less popular with
"us." A moaning howl, a rushing hissing sound, a moment of tense
and awful silence, a devastating crash, and the E.G.A. officers'
bath-house, "erected at enormous trouble and expense" by a handful of
T.U. men and myself the day before, soared heavenwards with an acre
or two of the surrounding scenery. "Yes," said the Salvage gentleman
as he regained his perpendicular, "as I was sayin', 'is size is in
'is favour (you'd better git down ag'in, Corp'l)--'is size is in 'is
favour; 'e'll go in a dixie easy, or even in a--(there's another bit
orf the church)--even in a tin 'at, if you fold 'im up, but I'm 'fraid
the 'eads ain't much in favour of a dog. Leastways the ole man I
know was a member of the Cat Club--took a lot o' prizes at the Crys'l
Pala..."
"I think we'd better run this little bit, Corp'l," my guide said
suddenly. It was advisable. A sprint along some two hundred yards
of what had once been a road, with a stone wall (like a slab of
_gruyere_ now, alas) upon our right, and we should once more have the
comfortable feeling one always enjoys in a "hot" village when there
are houses upon either hand. A trolley load of rations held the middle
of the road; the ration party was, I believe, in the ditch upon the
left; and a strangled voice exclaimed after each burst, "Oh crummy! I
do 'ope they don't 'it the onions."
We gave our forty-seventh impersonation of a pair of starfish, and
then legged it for the apparent shelter of the houses. At least I
did; the salvage man, less squeamish, found a haven in an adjacent
cookhouse grease-trap and dust-shoot. I listened intently, but it was
only the falling of spent shrapnel, not the patter of Dustbin's baby
but quite enormous feet. A stove-pipe belching smoke and savoury fumes
protruded itself through the pavement on my right. Through the chinks
in the gaping slabs there came the ruddy flicker that bespoke a "home
from home" beneath my feet; and then, still listening for signs of
Dustbin, I heard--
"Didn't I tell you, Erb, to stop up that extra ventilation 'ole with
somethin'?--and now look wot's blown in. 'Ere, steady on, ole man;
that's got to last four men for three days."
"Well, I'm ----," chimed in another voice, "if the bloomin' tin ain't
empty. Why, I only just opened it--that's a 'ole Maconochie 'e's got
inside 'im, not countin' wot you've just.... Poor little beggar must
be starvin'. You're welcome to stop and share our grub, young feller,
but I've got to go on p'rade wiv that--that's a belt, that is...."
I turned towards the dimly lighted road that led to ---- [Censored].
Dustbin had found a home.
* * * * *
[Illustration: A FATEFUL SESSION.
SITTING HEN. "GO AWAY! DON'T HURRY ME!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Inquiring Lady_ (_ninety-ninth question_). "AND WHAT
ARE YOU IN THE NAVY, MAY I ASK?"
_Tar_. "I'M A FLAG-WAGGER, MARM--YES."
_Inquiring Lady_. "OH, REALLY! AND WHAT DO YOU WAG FLAGS FOR?"
_Tar_ (_in a ring-off voice_). "MAKIN' READY FOR THE PEACE
CELEBRATIONS."]
* * * * *
THE MUDLARKS.
The scene is a School of Instruction at the back of the Western Front
set in a valley of green meadows bordered by files of plumy poplars
and threaded through by a silver ribbon of water.
On the lazy afternoon breeze come the concerted yells of a bayonet
class, practising frightfulness further down the valley; also the
staccato chatter of Lewis guns punching holes in the near hill-side.
In the centre of one meadow is a turf _manege_. In the centre of the
_manege_ stands the villain of the piece, the Riding-Master.
He wears a crown on his sleeve, tight breeches, jack-boots, vicious
spurs and sable moustachios. His right hand toys with a long, long
whip, his left with his sable moustachios. He looks like DIAVOLO, the
lion-tamer, about to put his man-eating chums through hoops of fire.
His victims, a dozen Infantry officers, circle slowly round the
_manege_. They are mounted on disillusioned cavalry horses who came
out with WELLINGTON and know a thing or two. Now and again they wink
at the Riding-Master and he winks back at them.
The audience consists of an ancient Gaul in picturesque blue pants,
whose _metier_ is to totter round the meadows brushing flies off a
piebald cow; the School Padre, who keeps at long range so that he may
see the sport without hearing the language, and ten little _gamins_,
who have been splashing in the silver stream and are now sitting
drying on the bank like ten little toads.
They come every afternoon, for never have they seen such fun, never
since the great days before the War when the circus with the boxing
kangaroo and the educated porks came to town.
Suddenly the Riding-Master clears his throat. At the sound thereof the
horses cock their ears and their riders grab handfuls of leather and
hair.
_R.-M._ "Now, gentlemen, mind the word. Gently away tra-a-a-at."
The horses break into a slow jog-trot and the cavaliers into a cold
perspiration. The ten little _gamins_ cheer delightedly.
_R.-M._ "Sit down, sit up, 'ollow yer backs, keep the hands down
backs foremost, even pace. Number Two, Sir, 'ollow yer back; don't
sit 'unched up like you'd over-ate yourself. Number Seven, don't
throw yerself about in that drunken manner, you'll miss the saddle
altogether presently, coming down--can't expect the 'orse to catch
you _every time_.
"Number Three, don't flap yer helbows like an 'en; you ain't laid an
hegg, 'ave you?
"'Ollow yer backs, 'eads up, 'eels down; four feet from nose to croup.
"Number One, keep yer feet back, you'll be kickin' that mare's teeth
out, you will.
"Come down off 'is 'ead, Number Seven; this ain't a monkey 'ouse.
"Keep a light an' even feelin' of both reins, backs of the 'ands
foremost, four feet from nose to croup.
"Leggo that mare's tail, Number Seven; you're goin', not comin', and
any'ow that mare likes to keep 'er tail to 'erself. You've upset 'er
now, the tears is fair streamin' down 'er face--'ave a bit of feelin'
for a pore dumb beast.
"'Ollow yer backs, even pace, grip with the knees, shorten yer reins,
four feet from nose to croup. Number Eight, restrain yerself, me lad,
restrain yerself, you ain't shadow-sparrin', you know.
"You too, Number Nine; if you don't calm yer action a bit you'll burst
somethin'.
"Now, remember, a light feelin' of the right rein and pressure
of the left leg. Ride--wa-a-alk! Ri'--tur-r-rn! 'Alt--'pare to
s'mount--s'mount! Dismount, I said, Number Five; that means get down.
No, don't dismount on the flat of yer back, me lad, it don't look
nice. Try to remember you're an horfficer and be more dignified.
"Now listen to me while I enumerate the parts of a norse in language
so simple any bloomin' fool can understand. This'll be useful to you,
for if you ever 'ave a norse to deal with and he loses one of 'is
parts you'll know 'ow to indent for a new one.
"The 'orse 'as two ends, a fore-end--so called from its tendency to
go first, and an 'ind-end or rear rank. The 'orse is provided with
two legs at each end, which can be easily distinguished, the fore legs
being straight and the 'ind legs 'avin' kinks in 'em.
"As the 'orse does seventy-five per cent. of 'is dirty work with 'is
'ind-legs it is advisable to keep clear of 'em, rail 'em off or strap
boxing-gloves on 'em. The legs of the 'orse is very delicate and
liable to crock up, so do not try to trim off any unsightly knobs that
may appear on them with a hand-axe--a little of that 'as been known to
spoil a norse for good.
"Next we come to the 'ead. On the south side of the 'ead we discover
the mouth. The 'orse's mouth was constructed for mincing 'is victuals,
also for 'is rider to 'ang on by. As the 'orse does the other
forty-five per cent. of 'is dirty work with 'is mouth it is advisable
to stand clear of that as well. In fact, what with his mouth at one
end and 'is 'ind-legs at t'other, the middle of the 'orse is about
the only safe spot, and _that is why we place the saddle there_.
Everything in the Harmy is done with a reason, gentlemen.
"And now, Number Ten, tell me what coloured 'orse you are ridin'?
"A chestnut? No 'e ain't no chestnut and never was, no, nor a
raspberry roan neither; 'e's a bay. 'Ow often must I tell you that
a chestnut 'orse is the colour of lager beer, a brown 'orse the
colour of draught ale, and a black 'orse the colour of stout.
"And now, gentlemen, stan' to yer 'orses, 'pare to mount--mount!
"There you go, Number Seven, up one side and down the other. Try
to stop in the saddle for a minute if only for the view. You'll get
yourself 'urted one of these days dashing about all over the 'orse
like that; and 'sposing you was to break your neck, who'd get into
trouble? _Me_, not you. 'Ave a bit of consideration for other people,
please.
"Now mind the word. Ride--ri'--tur-r-rn. Walk march. Tr-a-a-at.
Helbows slightly brushing the ribs--_your_ ribs, not the 'orse's,
Number Three.
"Shorten yer reins, 'eels down, 'eads up, 'ollow yer backs, four feet
from nose to croup.
"Get off that mare's neck, Number Seven, and try ridin' in the saddle
for a change; it'll be more comfortable for everybody.
"You oughter do cowboy stunts for the movin' pictures, Number Six, you
ought really. People would pay money to see you ride a norse upside
down like that. Got a strain of wild Cossack blood in you, eh?
"There you are, now you've been and fell off. Nice way to repay me for
all the patience an' learning I've given you!
"What are you lyin' there for? Day-dreaming? I s'pose you're goin' to
tell me you're 'urted now?' Be writing 'ome to Mother about it next:
'DEAR MA,--A mad mustang 'as trod on me stummick. Please send me a
gold stripe. Your loving child, ALGY.'
"Now mind the word. Ride--Can--ter!"
He cracks his whip; the horses throw up their heads and break into a
canter; the cavaliers turn pea-green about the chops, let go the reins
and clutch saddle-pommels.
The leading horse, a rakish chestnut, finding his head free at last
and being heartily fed-up with the whole business, suddenly bolts out
of the _manege_ and legs it across the meadow, _en route_ for stables
and tea. His eleven mates stream in his wake, emptying saddles as they
go.
The ten little _gamins_ dance ecstatically upon the bank, waving their
shirts and shrilling "_A Berlin! A Berlin!_"
The ancient Gaul props himself up against the pie-bald cow and shakes
his ancient head. "_C'est la guerre_," he croaks.
The deserted Riding-Master damns his eyes and blesses his soul for
a few moments; then sighs resignedly, takes a cigarette from his
cap lining, lights it and waddles off towards the village and his
favourite _estaminet_.
PATLANDER.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Motor Cyclist_. "DO YOU KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT AN
AEROPLANE COMING DOWN SOMEWHERE NEAR HERE?"
_Boy._ "NO, SIR. I'VE ONLY BEEN SHOOTIN' AT SPARRERS."]
* * * * *
"Some of these fish have already found their way to Leeds,
and, it must be added, have not met with a very cordial
reception. Although the fish may be bought at what might be
described as an attractive price, they do not appear likely
to move for some time."--_Yorkshire Paper_.
But if the hot weather continues--
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Convalescent Lieutenant_. "CHEERIO, MARTHA! I'VE GOT
ANOTHER PIP."
_Martha_. "LAWKS, SIR! I 'OPE IT WON'T MEAN MORE VISITS TO THE
'OSPITAL."]
* * * * *
SENSES AND SENSIBILITY.
I.
_From Fred Golightly, comedian, to Sinclair Voyle, dramatic critic._
DEAR VOYLE,--I am not one ordinarily to take any notice of remarks
that are overheard and reported to me; but there are exceptions to
every rule and I am making one now. I was told this evening by a
mutual friend and fellow-member that at the Buskin Club, after lunch
to-day, in the presence of a number of men, you said that the trouble
with me was that I had no sense of humour.
Considering my standing as a comedian, hitherto earning high salaries
and occupying the place I do solely by virtue of my comic gifts (as
the Press and Public unanimously agree), this disparagement from a man
wielding as much power as you do is very damaging. Managers hearing of
it as your honest opinion might fight shy of me.
I therefore ask you to withdraw the criticism with as much publicity
as it had when you defamed me by making it.
Why you should have made it at all I can't imagine, for I have often
seen you laughing in your stall, and we have been friends for many
years.
Believe me, yours sincerely but sorrowfully, FRED GOLIGHTLY.
II.
_From Sinclair Voyle, dramatic critic, to Fred Golightly, comedian._
DEAR GOLIGHTLY,--You have been misinformed. I didn't say you had no
sense of humour; I said you had no sense of honour.
Yours faithfully, SINCLAIR VOYLE.
III.
_From Fred Golightly, comedian, to Sinclair Voyle, dramatic critic._
DEAR OLD CHAP,--You can't think how glad I am to have your disclaimer.
I disliked having to write to you as I did, after so many years of
good fellowship, but you must admit that I had some provocation. It is
a pretty serious thing for a man in my position to be publicly singled
out by a man in yours as being without a sense of humour. However,
your explanation puts everything right, and all's well that ends well.
Yours as ever, FRED.
* * * * *
"PEACE CRANKS AND CROOKS."--_Evening Standard_.
The right hon. Member for Woolwich objects. He has nothing whatever to
do with Ramsayites.
* * * * *
JIMMY--KILLED IN ACTION.
Horses he loved, and laughter, and the sun,
A song, wide spaces and the open air;
The trust of all dumb living things he won,
And never knew the luck too good to share.
His were the simple heart and open hand,
And honest faults he never strove to hide;
Problems of life he could not understand,
But as a man would wish to die he died.
Now, though he will not ride with us again,
His merry spirit seems our comrade yet,
Freed from the power of weariness or pain,
Forbidding us to mourn--or to forget.
* * * * *
A LITERAL EPOCH.
That there rumpus i' the village laast Saturday night? Aye, it were
summat o' a rumpus, begad! Lor! there aren't bin nothin' like it
not since the time when they wuz a-gwain' to burn th' ould parson's
effigy thirty-fower year ago (but it niver come off, because 'e up an'
offered to contribute to the expenses 'isself, an' that kind o' took
the wind out on't).
Ye see, Sir, there's just seven licensed 'ouses i' the village.
Disgraceful? Aye, so 'tis, begad!--on'y seven licensed 'ouses--an'
I do mind when 'twas pretty nigh one man one pub, as the sayin' is.
Howsomever, to-day there's seven, and some goes to one and some goes
to totherun.
Well, laast Friday night me an' Tom Figgures an' Bertie Mayo an' Peter
Ledbetter an' a lot more on us what goes to Reuben Izod's at The Bell,
we come in to 'ave our drink. And, mind you, pretty nigh all on us 'ad
a-bin mouldin'-up taters all day, so's to get _them_ finished afore
the hay; so us could do wi' a drop. Aye, aye!