Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 156, March 19, 1919 by Various
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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI
VOL. 156
MARCH 19, 1919
CHARIVARIA.
President WILSON is stated to have played several keen games of
"shuffle-board" on the _George Washington_. As it is an open secret
that Lord ROBERT CECIL has been polishing up his "shove-halfpenny" in
the billiard-room of the Hotel Majestic interesting developments are
anticipated.
***
Primroses, daisies and wallflowers are in full bloom in many parts of
the country and young lambs may now be seen frisking in the meadows.
Can the POET LAUREATE be waiting for someone to get sun-stroke?
***
The Commission on the Responsibilities and Crimes of the War have not
yet decided that the ex-Kaiser is guilty. At the same time it is said
that they have an idea that he knew something about it.
***
At a Belfast football match last week the winning team, the police
and the referee were mobbed by the partisans of the losing side.
Local sportsmen condemn the attack on the winning team as a dangerous
innovation.
***
The L.C.C. is training munition girls to be cooks. We understand that
the velocity and range will be clearly stamped on the bottom of all
pork-pies.
***
A Stromness fisherman, on opening a halibut, found a large cormorant
in its stomach. Cormorants, of course, are not fastidious birds. They
don't mind where they nest.
***
The eclipse of the sun on May 28th should be a great success, if we
may judge by the immense time it has taken over rehearsals.
***
Inspector J.G. OGHAM, chief of the Portsmouth Fire Brigade, who is
about to retire, has attended over two thousand fires. Indeed it is
said that most of the local fires know him by sight.
***
"Ghost stories," says a contemporary, "are being spread about vacant
houses in Dublin to decrease the demand for them." The old caretaker's
trick of training a couple of cockroaches to jump out at the
house-hunter is quite useless to-day.
***
Hull merchants complain that only one train leaves Hull per day
on which wet fish can travel. The idea of bringing the fish to
Billingsgate under their own steam has already been ventilated.
***
Found insensible with a bottle of sherry in his pocket, an East Ham
labourer was fined ten shillings for being drunk. It is believed that
had he been carrying the sherry anywhere else nothing could have saved
him.
***
An absconding Trade Society treasurer last week hit upon a novel idea.
He ran away with his own wife.
***
"Is nothing going to be done to stop the incursion of the sea at
Walton-on-the-Naze?" asks a contemporary. Have they tried the effect
of placing notice-boards along the front?
***
For the first time the public have been admitted to a meeting of the
Beckenham Council. It is pleasant to find that the importance of good
wholesome entertainment is not being lost sight of in some places.
***
Asked by the Wood Green magistrates for the names of his six children,
a defendant said that he did not know them. It is a good plan for a
man to get his wife to introduce him to the children.
***
It appears that a certain gentleman has managed to overcome the
domestic servant problem. He has married one.
***
A Salford man giving evidence in a local court told the magistrates
that his wife had repeatedly stuck pins into him. There is no excuse
for such conduct, even with pin-cushions at their present inflated
price.
***
No one seemed to take the rat-plague very seriously in the Isle of
Wight until last week, when several rodents were discovered at the
Seaplane Station at Bembridge busily engaged in trying on the pilots'
flying coats.
***
It is only fair to remark that, although the Government has recently
been found guilty of profiteering, they have never during the War
raised the price: of their ten-shilling notes.
***
Much difficulty is being experienced by the Allies in deciding what.
to do with the German Fleet. Curiously enough this is the very dilemma
that the Germans were faced with during most of the War.
***
We hear that the officials at Lincoln prison are much impressed by the
cleverness of DE VALERA'S escape and are anxious to present him with
an illuminated address, but unfortunately they do not know it at
present.
***
A scientific organ points out that in deciding the fate of Heligoland
it should not be forgotten that it was once a valuable ornithological
observation station. The almost extinct _Pavo Potsdamicus,_ if we
remember correctly, was an occasional visitor to the island.
***
Congress, says a Washington message, is anxious to get back to
domestic business. It does not say whose.
* * * * *
[Illustration: STRANGE CASE IN PUGILISTIC CIRCLES.
A REPORTER LEARNS FROM BILL SLOGGS THAT HE IS NOTHING LIKE AS HARD AS
NAILS AND NOT THE LEAST CONFIDENT.]
* * * * *
"'Easter and Peace will coincide,' declared a member of the
Council of Ten to the Central News correspondent in Paris."
"Easter Day this year is on April 20--less than six hours
hence."--_Evening Paper, March 12th._
How some of our journalists do jump to conclusions!
* * * * *
THE MUD LARKS.
Yesterday morning, a freckled child, dripping oil and perspiration and
clad in a sort of canvas dressing-gown, stumbled into "Remounts" (or
"Demounts," as we should more properly call ourselves nowadays) and
presented me with a slip of paper which entitled him, the bearer, to
immediate demobilisation on pivotal grounds. I handed it back to him,
explaining that he had come to the wrong shop--unless he were a horse,
of course. If he were and could provide his own nosebag, head-stall
and Army Form 1640, testifying that he was guiltless of mange,
ophthalmia or epizootic lymphangitis, I would do what I could for him.
He stared at me for a moment, then at the slip, then, murmuring
something about the mistake being his, began to feel in the numerous
pouches of his dressing-gown, bringing to light the following items:--
(1) A. spanner.
(2) Some attenuated cigarettes.
(3) A picture-postcard fashioned in silk, with tropical birds and
flowers, clasped hands, crossed Union Jacks and the legend "TRUE LOVE"
embroidered thereon.
(4) A handful of cotton waste.
(5) Some brandy-balls.
(6) An oil-can.
(7) The ace of spades.
(8) The portrait (tin-type) of a lady, inscribed "With kind regards
from Lizzie."
(9) A stick of chewing gum.
(10) A mouse (defunct).
(11) A second slip of paper.
He grunted with satisfaction, replaced his treasures carefully in the
pouches and handed the last-named item to me. It read to the effect
that both he and his car were at my disposal for the day. I wriggled
into a coat and followed him out to where his chariot awaited us.
I never pretended to be a judge of motor vehicles, but it does not
need an expert to detect a Drift when he sees one; they have a leggy,
herring-gutted appearance all their own. Where it was not dented in
it bulged out; most of those little knick-knacks that really nice
cars have were missing, and its complexion had peeled off in erratic
designs such as Royal Academicians used to smear on transports to
make U-Boaters imagine they were seeing things they shouldn't and lead
better lives.
I did not like the looks of the thing from the first, and my early
impressions did not improve when, as we bumped off the drive on to the
_pave_, the screen suddenly detached itself from its perch and flopped
into our laps.
However, the car put in some fast work between our chateau gates and
the _estaminet_ of the "Rising Sun" (a distance of fully two hundred
yards), and my hopes soared several points. From the _estaminet_ of
the "Rising Sun" to the village of Bailleul-aux-Hondains the road
wriggles down-hill in two sharp hair-pin bends. The car flung itself
over the edge of the hill and plunged headlong for the first of these.
"Put on the brakes!" I shouted.
The child did some kicking and hauling with his feet and hands which
made no impression whatever on the car.
"Put on the brakes, damme!" I yelled.
The child rolled the whites of his eyes towards me and announced
briefly, "Brake's broke."
I looked about for a soft place to jump. There was none; only
rock-plated highway whizzing past.
We took the first bend with the nearside wheels in the gutter, the
off-side wheels on the bank, the car tilted at an angle of forty-five
degrees. The second bend we navigated at an angle of sixty degrees,
the off-side wheels on the bank, the near-side wheels pawing thin air.
Had there been another bend we should have accomplished it upside
down. Fortunately there were no more; but there remained the village
street. We pounced on it like a tiger upon its prey.
"Blow your horn!" I screamed to the child.
"Bulb's bust," said he shortly, and exhibited the instrument, its
squeeze missing.
I have one accomplishment--only one--acquired at the tender age of
eleven at the price of relentless practice and a half-share in a
ferret. I can whistle on my fingers. Sweeping into that unsuspecting
hamlet I remembered this lone accomplishment of mine, plunged two
fingers into my cheeks and emptied my chest through them.
"Honk, honk," blasted something in my ear and, glancing round, I saw
that the child had swallowed the bulbless end of his horn and was
using it bugle-wise.
Thus, shrilling and honking, we swooped through Bailleul-aux-Hondains,
zig-zagging from kerb to kerb. A speckly cock and his platoon of hens
were out in midstream, souvenir-hunting. We took them in the rear
before they had time to deploy and sent a cloud of fluff-_fricassee_
sky-high. A Tommy was passing the time o' day with the Hebe of the
Hotel des Trois Enfants, his mules contentedly browsing the straw
frost-packing off the town water supply. The off-donkey felt the hot
breath of the car on his hocks and gained the _salle-a-manger_ (_via_
the window) in one bound, taking master and mate along with him.
The great-great-granddam of the hamlet was tottering across to the
undertakers to have her coffin tried on, when my frantic whistling and
the bray of the bugle-horn pierced the deafness of a century. With a
loud creaking of hinges she turned her head, summed up the situation
at a glance and, casting off half-a-dozen decades "like raiment
laid apart," sprang for the side-walk with the agility of an infant
gazelle. We missed her by half-an-inch and she had nobody but herself
to thank.
Against a short incline, just beyond the stricken village, the car
came to a standstill of its own accord, panting brokenly, quivering in
every limb.
"She's red-'ot," said the child, and I believed him.
From the kettle arrangement in the bows came the sound of hot water
singing merrily, while from the spout steam issued hissing. The
tin trunk, in which lurks the clockwork, emitted dense volumes of
petrol-perfumed smoke from every chink. The child climbed across me
and, dropping overboard, opened the lid and crawled inside. I lit a
pipe and perused the current "_La Vie Parisienne_."
The clockwork roared and raged and exploded with the sharp detonations
of a machine-gun. Sounds of violent coughing and tinkering came from
the bowels of the trunk, telling that the child was still alive and
busy. Presently he emerged to breathe and wipe the oil off his nose.
"Cylinder missin'," he announced.
I was not in the least surprised. "Probably dropped off round that
last bend," said I. "Very nearly did myself. How many have we got
left?"
He gaped, muttered something incoherent and plunged back into the
trunk. The noise of coughing and tinkering redoubled. The smoke
enveloped us in an evil-smelling fog.
"Think she'll go now," said the child, emerging once more. He climbed
back over me, grasped the helm and jerked a lever. The car gave a
dreadful shudder, but there was no other movement.
"What's the matter now?" I asked after he had made another trip to
the bows.
He informed me that the car had moulted its winding handle.
"You'll 'ave ter push 'er till the engine starts, Sir," said he.
"Oh, will I? And what will you be doing, pray?" I inquired. He replied
that he was proposing to sit inside and watch events, steer, work the
clutch, and so on.
"That sounds very jolly," said I. "All right; hop up and hold your hat
on." I went round to the stern, set my back against it and hove--there
seemed nothing else for it. Five hundred yards further on I stopped
heaving and interviewed the passenger. He was very hopeful. The engine
had given a few reassuring coughs, he said, and presently would resume
business, he felt convinced. Just a few more heaves, please.
I doffed my British warm and returned to the job. A quarter of an hour
later we had another talk. All was well. The engine had suffered a
regular spasm of coughing and one back-fire, so the child informed me.
In half a jiffy we should be off.
I shed my collar, tie and tunic and bent again to the task. At
Notre Dame de la Belle Esperance we parleyed once more. He was most
enthusiastic. Said a few kind words about the good work I was
doing round at the back and thought everything was going perfectly
splendidly. The car's cough was developing every minute and there had
been two back-fires. All the omens were propitious. A couple of short
sharp shoves would do it. Courage, brave heart!
I reduced my attire to boots and underclothing, and toiled through
Belle Esperance, the curs of the village nibbling my calves, the
children shrilling to their mammas to come and see the strong man from
the circus.
At Quatre Vents the brave heart broke.
"Look here," said I to the protesting child, "if you imagine I'm going
to push you all the way to Arras you're 'straying in the realms of
fancy,' as the poet says. Because I'm not. Just you hop out and do
your bit, me lad. It's my turn to ride."
In vain did he argue that I was not schooled in the mysteries of
either steering or clutching. Assuring him that I precious soon would
be, I dragged him from his perch and took station at the helm. Sulkily
he betook himself to the stern of the vehicle, and presently it began
to move. Slowly at first, then faster and faster. I suddenly perceived
the reason of this. We were going down-hill again, a steep hill at
that, with wicked hair-pin bends in it.
The engine began to cough, the cough became chronic, developing into a
galloping consumption.
"Brakes!" thought I (forgetting they were out of action), and wrenched
at a handle which was offering itself. The car jumped off the mark
like a hunter at a hurdle, jumped clear away from the child (who sat
down abruptly on the _pave_) and bolted down-hill all out. I glimpsed
the low parapet of the bend rushing towards me, an absurdly inadequate
parapet, with the silvery gleam of much cold water beyond it.
I have not preserved my life (often at infinite risk) through four and
a-half years of high-pressure warfare to be mauled to death by a tin
car at the finish. Not I. I got out. As I trundled into the gutter I
saw the car take the parapet in its stride, describe a graceful
curve in the blue, and plunge downwards out of sight. The child and
I reached the parapet together and peered over. Seventy feet below us
the waters of the river spouted for a moment as with the force of some
violent submarine explosion and then subsided. A patch of oil came
floating to the surface, accompanied by my breeches and British warm.
The child looked at me, his eyes goggling with horror. "They won't
'alf fry my liver for this, they won't, not 'alf," he gasped huskily.
I laid a kindly hand upon his shoulder. "Not they, my lad; I'll see
to that. Listen. You have that slip entitling you to immediate
demobilisation?" He nodded, wondering. "Then demobilise yourself
_now_, at once, instantly!" I cried. "Run like blazes to Calais,
Boulogne, Havre, Marseilles--anywhere you like; only run, you little
devil, run!"
"But you, Sir?" he stuttered.
"Oh, don't worry about me," I smiled; "I shall be _quite_ all right.
I'm going to lay all the blame on you."
He shot one scared glance, at me, then, picking up the skirts of his
dressing-gown, scampered off down the road as fast as his ammunition
boots would let him, never looking back.
PATLANDER.
* * * * *
[Illustration: ANOTHER THREATENED INDUSTRY. CHANNEL STEWARD (_infected
with the prevailing strike mania_). "ANY MORE TALK ABOUT THIS TUNNEL
AND I DOWN BASINS!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE HUNTER BAULKED OF HIS PREY.]
* * * * *
COMMERCIAL CANDOUR.
"They were manufacturers of aeroplanes--in their opinion
the best aeroplanes in the world and the most suited for
commercial lying."--_Provincial Paper_.
* * * * *
"A hospital nurse interrupted evidence given in Portuguese at
Thames Police Court on Saturday."--_Provincial Paper._
Very rude of her.
* * * * *
"An experimental air service for Army mails only was begun
a few days ago between Folkestone and Boulogne, with
intermediate points in Belgium, said Mr. Illingworth,
Postmaster-General."--_Daily Chronicle._
"We are a long way yet from the mastery of the air. Out of
fifteen days the Prime Minister's Paris postbag, which it had
been arranged should be sent 'via aloft,' had to go by the old
land and water route in fourteen days."--_Daily Mirror_.
Even that, we suppose, was quicker than to send it by the circuitous
air-route _via_ Belgium.
* * * * *
"Section-Commander ----, who has had charge of the ----
Special Constabulary since their inception, has been
presented by the members with a Sheraton clock at a wind-up
dinner."--_Local Paper_.
It was, of course, the clock that had the wind up, not the
Section-Commander.
* * * * *
"FOREIGN DIPLOMATS TAKE TO PRESIDENT. His Ability in Dealing
with Them Exceeds the Most Sanguinary Expectations."--_New
York Times_.
We shall have to revise our conception of Mr. WILSON as a man of
peace.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Rearguard Officer of Demobilization (collecting
stragglers on route-march)._ "WHAT THE DOOCE ARE YOU?" Straggler._
"I'M WOT T' MULES BROKE AWAY FROM."_]
* * * * *
THE PATRIOT'S REWARD.
Narcissus, in that fateful hour
When Britain's belt was tightly buckled
Against the prowling U-boat's power,
Thou earnest to us newly suckled;
And oh! if interest ties the knot
That binds us to our fellow-creatures,
Be sure we loved thee on the spot,
My pigling with the pensive features.
No niggard hand it was that found
Thy punctual fare, nor short the measure
Of garbage brought from miles around
And meal that cost its weight in treasure;
But ever as the U-boat u'd
And lunch grew relatively lighter
We filled thee up with wholesome food
And watched thy tensile skin grow tighter.
Artless as is the wanton faun
And agile as the Hooluck gibbon,
The children "walked" thee on the lawn,
Tied with a bow of orange ribbon;
And aye as irksomer grew the task
Of fending off the Hun garotters
In our mind's eye--if you must ask--
We ate thee up from tail to trotters.
But Fate, as oft, declined to pour
Our cup of grief till it was quite full;
You scarce had turned your seventh score
When straightway Fritz became less frightful;
And argosies came home to port
As safe as though some inland lake on,
Laden from keel to groaning thwart
With tender ham and toothsome bacon.
No need, old sport, to slay thee now,
Yet in our hearts the thought we'll cherish
That for our sakes, Narcissus, thou,
So young, so fair, wast like to perish;
And, as the years of Peace go by
And war becomes a fireside story,
"Thank Heaven," we'll cry, "thou didst not die,
But lived to reap the fruits of glory;
"Assimilating in repose
Thy fragrant fare of tops and peelings,
Or making all the garden close
Echo with-pregustative squealings,
Or basking, when the sun is high,
Within thy chamber's cool recesses
While some fair child with practised eye
Combs with a rake thy tangled tresses."
And ever, as new twilights burn
Low, and our offspring, loudly yelling,
Hurry the well-heaped votive urn
To thy obscure but ample dwelling,
"Ready at need thou wast to give
Thy life," they'll say, "that want might miss us,
For ever, therefore, shalt thou live
With us and be our love, Narcissus."
ALGOL.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE SCANDAL.
_Tramp (just discharged from workhouse_). "AND TO THINK THAT'S WHAT WE
PAYS RATES FOR!"]
* * * * *
ON THE RHINE.
II.
There is an expression here which I expect will shortly become as
familiar as "Na poo," and that is, "Hoot up!" When I first beard
our mild and gently-mannered Carfax employ it as a vigorous word of
command to a civilian in this small German village, I thought he had
gone a little mad. For no good military purpose, it seemed to me,
could possibly be served by demanding an imitation of an owl at eleven
o'clock on a wintry morning. It argued a perverted sense of humour at
least; and in truth I had been expecting a slight lapse from the paths
of sanity on the part of our Mr. Carfax for some time. For, you see,
he is a pivotal man who cannot get away until others arrive to replace
the pivots, and it is difficult to persuade him that all is for the
best. But he informed me that "Hoot up" had nothing whatever to do
with, the night-cries of owls or any other kind of bird, but was in
fact the idiotic way in which the natives of this country pronounce
"_Hut ab_" (Hat off).
_Now_ you realise what horrid Huns we are. Civilians are obliged to
take off their hats to British officers--a very grim business. In
reality, except that we are the hated English, it makes very little
difference to the Bosch, for the innkeeper here says that orders
concerning the taking off of hats to all and sundry became so
stringent in 1918 that the local postman was constantly interrupted
in his duties to answer the salutes of people who wished to be on the
safe side.
Bosches who have really fought for their country do not object
to "Hoot-upping." They of course are the first to realise that
inhabitants of occupied countries were forced by them to "hoot up,"
and that therefore there is a certain justice now in the retaliation.
Anyway, from these people the procedure does not greatly interest us;
but the overdressed Bosch profiteer, fat and muttony--to hoot him up
in his own village! Really, you know, in some ways the War has been
worth while.
But the knowledge that he is carrying out a perfectly definite order
does not make the subaltern turn any the less pink the first time he
ticks off a civilian for failing to comply with the regulations. No,
you can't produce a really good Hun without lots of practice. I made
almost a companion of the Sergeant-Major at first, because he used
to say it for me; but the second day I got caught. It came as I was
picking my way down the main (and only) street of the village. My
attention being riveted upon keeping my feet, for there are little
streams on either side of the street which freeze and flood it, making
life in army boots difficult, I did not notice the approach of the
fellow until he was on me. And then I saw it was a real Hunnish Hun;
and, oh joy! he had a fur coat and a face which I had not thought
could exist outside bad dreams. His wicked little eyes glared
insolently at me, and he strolled by with his hat stuck at a rakish
angle; and for the life of me, would you believe it? I could _not_
remember the magic words. Turning in desperation I commanded him
without further delay to "hot hoop." He appeared surprised. He made
no sort of motion to comply with my order. "Hut hop!" I cried, purple
with vexation, and still the abominable article of headgear remained
jauntily perched over his square ugly face. Advancing threateningly
I thundered out that it was my firm intention that he should, under
peril of instant arrest, "_take his confounded, hat off_!" At this
final command (the first he had found intelligible) he grabbed hastily
at the offending article, slipped up on the ice, and, in my moment of
triumph, so did I.
It is a sickening business sitting on the ground opposite a man you
don't like, but I had the better of it in the end, for I had sat down
where the water was already frozen, and he hadn't.