Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 153, Nov. 28, 1917 by Various
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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI
VOL. 153
NOVEMBER 28, 1917
CHARIVARIA.
"How the Germans never got wind of it," writes a correspondent of the
British attack on the HINDENBURG line, "is a mystery." The failure of
certain M.P.'s to ask questions about it in Parliament beforehand may
have had something to do with it.
***
An order has been promulgated fixing the composition of horse chaff. The
approach of the pantomime season is thought to be responsible for it.
***
"We are particularly anxious," writes the Ministry of Food, "that
Christmas plum-puddings should not be kept for any length of time." A
Young Patriots' League has been formed, we understand, whose members are
bent on carrying out Lord RHONDDA'S wishes at any cost to their parents.
***
Another birthplace of ST. GEORGE has been captured in Palestine. It is
now definitely established that the sainted warrior's habit of trying to
carry-on in two places at the same time was the subject of much adverse
criticism by the military experts of the period.
***
A Camberley man charged with deserting the Navy and joining the Army
explained that he was tired of waiting for TIRPITZ to come out. We
are informed that Commander CARLYON BELLAIRS, M.P., and Admiral W.H.
HENDERSON have been asked to enlighten the poor fellow as to the true
state of affairs.
***
A skull of the Bronze Age has been found on Salisbury Plain. Several
hats of the brass age have also been seen in the vicinity.
***
Imports of ostrich feathers have fallen from L33,000 in 1915 to L182
in 1917. Ostrich farmers, it appears, are on the verge of ruin as
the result of their inability to obtain scissors and other suitable
foodstuffs for the birds.
***
"Measures are being taken to check pacifists," says Sir GEORGE CAVE.
Prison-yard measures, we hope.
***
A Stoke Newington constable has discovered a happy method of taking
people's minds off their food troubles. During the last month he has
served fifty of them with dog-summonses.
***
Five hundred pounds have been sent to the CHANCELLOR OF THE EXCHEQUER
by an anonymous donor. It is thought that the man is concealing his
identity to avoid being made a baronet.
***
"What is the use of corporations if they can do nothing useful?" asks
Councillor STOCK, of Margate. It is an alluring topic, but a patriotic
Press has decided that it must be postponed in favour of the War.
***
During trench-digging on Salisbury Plain the skeleton of a young man,
apparently buried about the year 600 B.C., was unearthed. The skull was
partially fractured, evidently by a battle-axe. Foul play is suspected.
***
Sugar was sold for half-a-guinea a pound at a charity sale in the
South of England, and local grocers are complaining bitterly of unfair
competition.
***
A contemporary points out that there is a soldier in the North
Staffordshire Regiment whose name is DOUGLAS HAIG. Riots are reported in
Germany.
***
"Can Fish Smell?" asks a weekly paper headline. We can only say that in
our experience they sometimes do, especially on a Monday.
***
An employer pleading for an applicant before the Egham Tribunal stated
that he had an oil-engine which nobody else would go near. We cannot
help thinking that much might be done with a little tact, such as going
up to the engine quietly and stroking its face, or even making a noise
like a piece of oily waste.
***
Germany's new Hymn of Hate has been published. To give greater effect to
the thing and make it more fearful, Germans who contemplate singing it
are requested to grow side-whiskers.
***
It is rumoured that since his recent tirade at York against newspapers
Dr. LYTTELTON has been made an Honorary Member of the Society of
Correctors of the Press.
***
_The Evening News_ informs us that Mr. HENRY WHITE, a grave-digger of
Hellingly, has just dug his thousandth grave. Congratulations to our
contemporary upon being the first to spread the joyful news.
***
Unfortunately, says _The Daily Mail_, Lord NORTHCLIFFE cannot be in four
places at once. Pending a direct contradiction from the new Viscount
himself, we can only counsel the country to bear this announcement with
fortitude.
***
Only the other day _The Daily Chronicle_ referred to the Premier as "Mr.
George," just as if it had always been a penny paper.
***
The rush to a certain Northern suburb has died down. The rumour that
there was a polite grocer there turns out to be cruelly at variance with
the facts.
* * * * *
[Illustration: JOY-RIDING UP-TO-DATE.
THE UNDEFEATED WAR-PROFITEER.]
* * * * *
ANOTHER SEX-PROBLEM.
"Plaintiff was the daughter of an officer in the Royal Irish
Constabulary, and was a grand-nephew of Dr. Abernethy, the famous
surgeon."--_Evening Paper_.
* * * * *
From a recent novel:--
"His face was of the good oatmeal type, and grew upon one."
Useful in these days of rations.
* * * * *
From _The New Statesman's_ comment on Mr. LLOYD GEORGE'S Paris speech.
"He does try to be Biblical sometimes. In the Paris speech he used
the unnatural word 'yea' twice. Each time it gave one shudders down
the back."
No doubt next time, in view of our obligations to U.S.A., the PRIME
MINISTER will say "Yep."
* * * * *
THE VICTORY.
[_For J.B., with the author's affectionate pride._]
HINDENBURG TO MACKENSEN.
Dear MAC, in that prodigious thrust
In which your valiant legions vie
With HANNIBAL'S renown, I trust
You go a shade more strong than I;
Lately I've lost a lot of scalps,
Which is a dem'd unpleasant thing;
You may enjoy the Julian Alps--
I do not like this JULIAN BYNG.
I find him full of crafty pranks:
Without the usual warning fire
He loosed his beastly rows of tanks
And sent 'em wallowing through my wire;
For days and days he kept the lid
Hard down upon his low designs,
Then simply walked across and did
Just what he liked with all my lines.
The fellow doesn't keep the rules;
Experts (I'm one myself) advise
That in trench-warfare even fools
Cannot be taken by surprise;
It isn't done; and yet he came
With never a previous "Are you there?"
And caught me--this is not the game--
Bending my thoughtful gaze elsewhere.
_Later_.--My route is toward the rear.
Where I shall stand and stop the rot
Lord only knows; and now I hear
Your forward pace is none too hot;
Indeed, with BYNG upon the burst,
If at this rate I make for home,
I doubt not who will get there first,
I to the Rhine, or you to Rome.
O.S.
* * * * *
THE LITERARY ADVISER.
No, he does not appear in the _Gazette_. War establishments know him
not and his appointment throws no additional labour upon the staff of
Messrs. COX AND CO. Unofficially he is known as O.C. Split Infinitives.
His duties are to see that the standard of literary excellence, which
makes the correspondence of the Corps a pleasure to receive, is
maintained at the high level set by the Corps Commander himself. Indeed
the velvety quality of our prose is the envy of all other formations.
Apart from duties wholly literary, he is also O.C. Code Names. The
stock-in-trade for this skilled labour is an H.B. pencil and a Webster
Dictionary. The routine is simplicity itself. As soon as anybody informs
him of a new arrival in the area he fishes out the dictionary, plays
Tit-Tat-Toe with the H.B., writes out the word that it lands upon at the
end of his rhyme, and, hey presto! there is another day's work done.
But one day, for the sake of greater secrecy, it became necessary to
rename all the units of the area, and the Literary Adviser suddenly
found himself put to it to provide about three hundred new Code Names at
once. Heroically he set to work with his dictionary, his H.B. pencil,
and his little rhyme. For two days the Resplendent Ones in the General
Staff Office bore patiently with the muttering madman in the corner.
For two days he fluttered the leaves of his dictionary and
whispered hoarsely to himself, "Tit-tat-toe, my-first-go,
three-jolly-nigger-boys-all-in-a-_row_," picking out word after word
with unerring accuracy until the dictionary was a waste of punctures and
three generations of H.B.'s had passed away. Before the second day was
out the jingle had done its dreadful work. It was as much as the clerks
could do to avoid keeping step with it. The climax came when the Senior
Resplendent One, looking down at the telegram he was writing, found to
his horror that he had written, "Situation quiet Tit-Tat-Toe. Hostile
artillery activity normal Tit-Tat-Toe," and so on, substituting this
abomination in place of the official stop, ("Ack-Ack-Ack") throughout.
It was enough. Still gibbering, the Literary Adviser was hurled forth
from the office and told to work his witchcraft in solitude.
Paler, thinner and older by years he emerged from his retirement
triumphant, and the new code names went forth to a flourish of trumpets
or rather of the hooters of the despatch-riders.
Then it began. For days he was subjected to rigorous criticisms of his
selection. "Signals" tripped him up first by pointing out two units with
the same name, and they also went on to point out that the word was
spelt "cable" in the first instance and "cabal" in the second. The
gunners, working in groups, complained bitterly that a babel had arisen
through the similarity of the words allotted to their groups. One
infuriated battery commander said it was as much as he could do to get
anyone else on the telephone but himself.
Touched to the quick by criticism (when was it ever otherwise amongst
his kind?) the Adviser set aside his real work (he was, of course,
writing a book about the War) and applied himself to, the task of
straightening the tangle. Obviously the ideal combination would be for
each unit to have a code name that nobody could mistake no matter how
badly it was pronounced. And to this ideal he applied himself. Often, on
fine afternoons, the serenity of the country-side was disturbed by the
voice of one crying in the wilderness, "Soap--Silk--Salvage--Sympathy,"
to see if any dangerous similarity existed. At dinner a glaze would
suddenly come over his eyes, his lips would move involuntarily and
mutter, as he gazed into vacancy, "Mustard--Mutton--Meat--Muffin."
Histrionic effort played no small part in these attempts and
led to a good deal of misunderstanding, for he felt it incumbent
on him to try his codes in every possible dialect. Instead of
the usual cheery "Good morning," a major of a famous Highland
regiment was scandalised by an elderly subaltern blethering out,
"Cannibal--Custard--Claymore--Caramel," in an abominable Scotch accent.
Another day (on receipt of written orders) he was compelled to visit the
line to see if things had been built as reported, or, if it was just
optimism again. Half-an-hour later a sentry brought him down the trench
at the point of the bayonet for muttering as he rounded the traverse,
"Galoot--Gunning--Grumble--Grumpy," in pseudo-Wessex. Naturally, to
Native Yorkshire this sounded like pure Bosch.
Ah! but he won through in the end. The man who has stood five years of
unsuccessful story-writing for magazines is not the kind to let himself
be beaten easily. There could be no doubt of the final result. When the
revised list was issued the response to the inquiry, "Hullo, is that
Sink?" was met by a "No, this is Smack," that crashed through the
thickest intellect.
But vaulting ambition had o'erleapt itself. As a covering note to the
new issue he had put up the following letter:--
"Ref. G K etc., etc., of 10th inst. On November 3rd all previous issues
of Code Names will be cancelled in favour of the more euphonious
nomenclature which is forwarded herewith."
A shriek of joy echoed through the corps. "Euphonious!" What a word!
What a discovery in a foreign country! The joy of the signal operators,
on whom something of the spirit of the old-time bus-drivers has
descended, was indescribable. You had only to pick up the receiver at
any time and the still small voices of the busy signal world could be
heard chortling, "Hullo-oo? Hullo, Euphonious! How's your father?
Yes, give me Crump." Or, "No, I can't get the General; he's left his
euphonious receiver off."
Poor Euphonious (he has never been called by anything else since)--they
have threatened to make him O.C. Recreations for Troops.
* * * * *
[Illustration: BIRDS OF ILL OMEN.
MR. PUNCH. "ONLY GOT HIM IN THE TAIL, SIR."
THE MAN FROM WHITEHALL. "YES, BUT I MEAN TO GET THE NEXT ONE IN THE
NECK."]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Mistress_. "I HOPE YOU'RE DOING WHAT YOU CAN TO
ECONOMISE THE FOOD."
_Cook_. "OH, YES'M. WE'VE PUT THE CAT ON MILK-AN'-WATER."]
* * * * *
PARS WITH A PUNCH.
ALL THE REAL NEWS ABOUT MEN, WOMEN AND THINGS.
BY OUR RAMBLING GOSSIP.
_(With acknowledgments to some of our contemporaries.)_
_A Long-Felt Want._
The opening, next week, of a Training School for Bus and Tube Travellers
will, it is hoped, supply a long-felt want in the Metropolis. I
understand that a month's course at the establishment will enable the
feeblest of mortals to hold his own and more in the fearful melee that
rages daily round train and vehicle. I have a prospectus before me as
I write; here are some of its sub-heads: "The Strap-Hanger's
Stranglehold," "Foot Frightfulness," "How to Enter a Bus Secretly," "The
Umbrella Barrage," "Explosives--When their Use is Justified," "What to
do when the Conductor Falls off the Bus." This certainly promises a
speedy amelioration of present-day travelling conditions.
_Timbuctoo Tosh_.
Last week, when all those ridiculous rumours anent Timbuctoo were flying
about, you will remember how I warned you to set no faith in them. You
will admit that I was a good counsellor. Nothing _has_ happened at
Timbuctoo. I doubt very much whether anything _could_ happen there.
_Hush!_
On the other hand, keep your eye on a spot not a thousand miles away
from Clubland. Something will certainly happen there some day, and, when
it does, bear in mind that I warned you.
_Amazing Discovery._
Mr. ROOSEVELT'S discovery that, unknown to himself, he has been blind in
one eye for over a year, is surely surpassed by the experience of Mr.
Caractacus Crowsfeet, the popular M.P. for Slushington, who has just
learnt, as the result of a cerebral operation, that he possesses no
brain whatever. "It is indeed remarkable," said Mr. C. to me the other
day, "for I can truthfully assert that in all my arduous political
labours of the past ten years I have never felt the need or even
noticed the absence of this organ." He coughed modestly. "I have always
maintained that in politics it is the man, not the mind, that counts."
_She Has One!_
Mrs. Zebulon Napthaliski proposes to spend the winter on her Brighton
estate. "Yes--I _have_ received my sugar card," she told me, in answer
to my eager query. "More than that I cannot say."
_Fare and Foliage._
That charming fashion of decorating the dinner-table with foliage will
be all the rage this winter. Well-known London hostesses, basket on arm,
may daily be seen in Mayfair garnering fallen leaves from lawn, path or
roadside. Some very daring Society women are dispensing altogether with
a cloth, the table being covered with a complete layer of leaves. I
doubt, however, whether this will become popular, guests showing a
tendency to mislay their knives and forks in the foliage.
_A Bon Mot._
Have you heard the latest _bon mot_ that is going the round of the
clubs? Mrs. Savory Beet, of Pacifist fame, has, as you will recall,
announced her intention of taking up war work. "Ah!" was the comment of
a cynical bachelor, "it was a case of her taking up something or being
taken up herself!" His audience simply screamed with laughter.
* * * * *
_Watch Out!_
Don't be surprised if you hear of some sensational political
developments in the near future. The Minister who said recently that
the inevitable sequel to war was peace, was, in the opinion of those
competent to judge but, by reason of their official position, unable to
criticise, hinting at proposals which, if the signs and portents of the
time go for anything, would have far-reaching effects on the question of
Electoral Representation. I will say no more. Time alone will disclose
my meaning.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Urchin (with an inborn terror of the Force)._ "Oo,
MUVVER! IT WON'T, WILL IT?"]
* * * * *
OMINOUS.
"----went every morning to a firm of sausage-makers by whom he was
employed as a horse-dealer."--_Irish Paper_.
* * * * *
"Rome, Saturday.
"The announcement is made to-day of the award by the King [of Italy]
of gold medals to Lieutenant Giuseppe Castruccio and I sentence him
to three months' hard."--_Manchester Evening Chronicle_.
When will British journalists learn not to interfere with the internal
affairs of friendly nations?
* * * * *
THE LAST MATCH.
This is the last, the very, very last.
Its gay companions, who so snugly lay
Within the corners of their fragile home,
All, all are lightly fled and surely gone;
And their survivor lingers in his pride,
The last of all the matches in the house;
For Mr. Siftings says he has no more,
And Siftings is an honourable man,
And would not state a fact that was not so.
For now he has himself to do without
The flaming boon of matches, having none,
And cannot furnish us as he desires,
Being a grocer and the best of men,
But murmurs vaguely of a future week
When matches shall be numerous again
As leaves in Vallombrosa and as cheap.
Blinks, the tobacconist, he too is spent
With weary waiting in a matchless land;
What Siftings cannot get cannot be got
By men like Blinks, that young tobacconist,
Who tried with all a patriot's fiery zeal
To join the Army, but was sent away
For varicose and too protuberant veins;
And being foiled of all his high intent
Now minds the shop and is a Volunteer,
Drilling on Sundays with the rest of them;
He too, amid his hoards of cigarettes,
Is void of matches as he's full of veins.
So here's a good match in a naughty world,
And what to do with it I do not know,
Save that somehow, when all the place is still,
It shall explode and spurt and flame and burn
Slowly away, not having thus achieved
The lighting of a pipe or any act
Of usefulness, but having spent itself
In lonely grandeur as befits the last
Of all the varied matches I have known.
* * * * *
OUR SAMSONS.
"Wanted at once.--Reliable Man for carrying off motor
lorry."--_Clitheroe Advertiser_.
* * * * *
"To-day the man possesses a second tumb, serviceable for all
ordinary purposes."--_Belfast Evening Telegraph_.
In these days of restricted rations it seems a superflous luxury.
* * * * *
"Diamond Brooch, 15 cwt., set with three blue white diamonds; make a
handsome present; L9 9s."--_Derby Daily Telegraph_.
It seems a lot for the money; but personally we would sooner have the
same weight of coals.
* * * * *
THE WAY DOWN.
SYDNEY SMITH, or NAPOLEON or MARCUS AURELIUS (somebody about that time)
said that after ten days any letter would answer itself. You see what
he meant. Left to itself your invitation from the Duchess to lunch next
Tuesday is no longer a matter to worry about by Wednesday morning. You
were either there or not there; it is unnecessary to write now and say
that a previous invitation from the PRIME MINISTER--and so on. It was
NAPOLEON'S idea (or Dr. JOHNSON'S or MARK ANTONY'S--one of that circle)
that all correspondence can be treated in this manner.
I have followed these early Masters (or whichever one it was) to the
best of my ability. At any given moment in the last few years there have
been ten letters that I absolutely _must_ write, thirty which I _ought_
to write, and fifty which any other person in my position _would_ have
written. Probably I have written two. After all, when your profession
is writing, you have some excuse on returning home in the evenings for
demanding a change of occupation. No doubt if I were a coal-heaver by
day, my wife would see to the fire after dinner while I wrote letters.
As it is, she does the correspondence, while I gaze into the fire and
think about things.
You will say, no doubt, that this was all very well before the War, but
that in the Army a little writing would be a pleasant change after the
day's duties. Allow me to disillusion you. If, three years ago, I ever
conceived a glorious future in which my autograph might be of value to
the more promiscuous collectors, that conception has now been shattered.
Three years in the Army has absolutely spoilt the market. Even were
I revered in the year 2,000 A.D. as SHAKSPEARE is revered now, my
half-million autographs, scattered so lavishly on charge-sheets, passes,
chits, requisitions, indents and applications would keep the price at a
dead level of about ten a penny. No, I have had enough of writing in
the Army and I never want to sign my own name again. "Yours sincerely,
HERBERT ASQUITH," "Faithfully yours, J. JELLICOE"--these by all means;
but not my own.
However, I wrote a letter the other day; it was to the bank. It informed
them that I had arrived in London for a time and should be troubling
them again shortly, London being to all appearances an expensive place.
It also called attention to my new address--a small furnished flat in
which Celia and I can just turn round if we do it separately. When
it was written, there came the question of posting it. I was all for
waiting till the next morning, but Celia explained that there was
actually a letter-box on our own floor, twenty yards down the passage. I
took the letter along and dropped it into the slit.
Then a wonderful thing happened. It went
_Flipperty-flipperty-flipperty-flipperty-flipperty-flipperty-flipperty-
flipperty-flipperty-flipperty--FLOP._
I listened intently, hoping for more ... but that was all. Deeply
disappointed that it was over, but absolutely thrilled with my
discovery, I hurried back to Celia.
"Any letters you want posted?" I said in an off-hand way.
"No, thank you," she said.
"Have you written any while we've been here?"
"I don't think I've had anything to write."
"I think," I said reproachfully, "it's quite time you wrote to
your--your bank or your mother or somebody."
She looked at me and seemed to be struggling for words.
"I know exactly what you're going to say," I said, "but don't say it;
write a little letter instead."
"Well, as a matter of fact I _must_ just write a note to the laundress."
"To the laundress," I said. "Of course, just a note."
When it was written I insisted on her coming with me to post it. With
great generosity I allowed her to place it in the slit. A delightful
thing happened. It went
_Flipperty-flipperty-flipperty-flipperty-flipperty-flipperty-flipperty-
flipperty-flipperty-flipperty--FLOP._
Right down to the letter-box in the hall. Two flipperties a floor. (A
simple calculation shows that we are perched on the fifth floor. I am
glad now that we live so high. It must be very dull to be on the fourth
floor with only eight flipperties, unbearable to be on the first with
only two.)
"_O-oh!_ How _fas_-cinating!" said Celia.
"Now don't you think you ought to write to your mother?"
"Oh, I _must_."
She wrote. We posted it. It went
_Flipperty-flipperty_----However, you know all about that now.
Since this great discovery of mine, life has been a more pleasurable
business. We feel now that there are romantic possibilities about
letters setting forth on their journey from our floor. To start life
with so many flipperties might lead to anything. Each time that we send
a letter off we listen in a tremble of excitement for the final FLOP,
and when it comes I think we both feel vaguely that we are still
waiting for something. We are waiting to hear some magic letter go
_flipperty-flipperty-flipperty-flipperty_ ... and behold! there is
no FLOP ... and still it goes on--_flipperty-flipperty-flipperty-
flipperty_--growing fainter in the distance ... until it arrives at
some wonderland of its own. One day it must happen so. For we cannot
listen always for that FLOP, and hear it always; nothing in this world
is as inevitable as that. One day we shall look at each other with awe
in our faces and say, "But it's still flipperting!" and from that time
forward the Hill of Campden will be a place holy and enchanted. Perhaps
on Midsummer Eve--