Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 153, Sept. 26, 1917 - Various
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 153.
SEPTEMBER 26, 1917.
CHARIVARIA.
Three bandits have been executed in Mexico without a proper trial or
sentence. This, we understand, renders the executions null and void.
***
The campaign against the cabbage butterfly in this country has reached
such an alarming stage that cautious butterflies are now going about
in couples.
***
After spending a one-pound Treasury note on cakes, chocolates, fish
and chips, biscuits, apples, bananas, damsons, cigarettes, toffee,
five bottles of ginger "pop" and a tin of salmon, a Chatham boy told
a policeman that he was not feeling well. It was thought to be due to
something the boy had been eating.
***
Incidentally the boy desires us to point out that the trouble was not
that he had too much to eat but that there was not quite enough boy to
go round.
***
"I read all English books," says Dr. HARDING in _The New York Times_,
"because they are all equally good." This looks dangerously like a
studied slight to Mr. H.G. WELLS.
***
We understand that, owing to the paper shortage, future exposures of
German intrigues will only be announced on alternate days.
***
At the Kingston Red Cross Exhibition a potato was shown bearing
a remarkable likeness to the German CROWN PRINCE. By a curious
coincidence a report has recently been received that somewhere
in Germany they have a Crown Prince who bears an extraordinary
resemblance to a potato.
***
Mystery still attaches to the authorship of _The Book of Artemas_,
but we have authority for saying that Lord SYDENHAM does not remember
having written it.
***
At Neath Fair, the other day, a soldier just home from the Front
entered a lions' den. The lions bore up bravely.
***
The question of body armour for the troops, it is stated, is still
under consideration by the authorities. This is not to be confused
with bully ARMOUR which has long been used to line the inside of the
troops.
***
Mr. WALTER HOWARD O'BRIEN, of New York, has sent to Queen Alexandra's
Field Force Fund 1,719,000 cigarettes. Several British small boys have
decided to write and ask him if he has such a thing as a cigarette
picture to spare.
***
Doctors in many parts of London are said to be raising their fees.
They should remember that there is such thing as curing the goose that
lays the golden eggs.
***
The _Muenchener Neueste Nachrichten_ accuses the United States of
having stolen the cipher key of the LUXBURG despatches. It is this
sort of thing that is gradually convincing Germany that it is beneath
her dignity to fight with a nation like America.
***
A fine porpoise has been seen disporting itself in the Thames near
Hampton Court. It is just as well to know that such things can be seen
almost as well with Government ale as with the stronger brews.
***
Another statue has been stolen from Berlin, but Londoners need not be
envious. Quite a lot of Americans will be in this country shortly, and
it is hoped that their well-known propensity for souvenir-collecting
may yet be diverted into useful channels.
***
The Midland Dairy Farmers' Association have expressed themselves as
satisfied with the prices fixed for Winter milk. In other agricultural
quarters this action is regarded as a dangerous precedent, the view
being that no farmer should be satisfied about anything.
***
"My hopes of fortune have been dispelled by unremunerative Government
contracts," said a contractor at the Liverpool Bankruptcy Court. It is
good to read for once of the Government getting the best of a bargain.
***
"What is a bun?" asked the Willesden magistrate last week; which only
shows that with a little practice magistrates will get into the way of
doing these things almost as well as the High Court judges.
***
The _Frankfurter Zeitung_ declares that "the Germany that President
Wilson wants to talk peace with will only be a Germany beaten to its
knees." Our own opinion is that it will be a Germany beaten to a
frazzle.
***
There appears to be a great demand for small second-hand yachts. The
fact is connected, in well-informed circles, with the report that _The
Daily Mail_ contemplates taking up the anti-submarine question.
***
Some solicitors have been helping to run the gas works of a certain
Corporation during a strike. While commending this action, we admit
that we can conceive of nothing more likely to undermine the resolute
patriotism of the man in the street than a gas bill furnished by
solicitor.
***
Women are formally warned by the Ministry of Munitions against
using T.N.T. as a means of acquiring auburn hair. Any important
object striking the head--a chimney-pot or a bomb from an enemy
aeroplane--would be almost certain to cause an explosion, with
possible injury to the scalp.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "I'M COMING TO YOU WITH 'ARF A TON IN A MINUTE, SO
DON'T FRET YOURSELF, OLE PERISCOPE."]
* * * * *
GERMAN THOROUGHNESS AGAIN.
"TO HOLD POTATO CROP.
"NEW GERMAN FOOD DICTATOR WILL CONSUME ALL FOOD."--_Victoria Daily
Times_.
* * * * *
"An intelligent postal service has delivered those addressed to
1,000, Upper Grosvenor Street, W. 1, to the Ministry of Good at
Grosvenor House."--_Daily Mail_.
This is the first we have heard of this Ministry.
* * * * *
TO THE POTSDAM PACIFIST.
Now for the fourth time since you broke your word,
And started hacking through, the seasons' cycle
Brings Autumn on; the goose, devoted bird,
Prepares her shrift against the mass of MICHAEL;
Earth takes the dead leaves' stain,
And Peace, that hardy annual, sprouts again.
Yet why should _you_ support the Papal Chair
In fostering this recurrent apparition?
Never (we gather) were your hopes more fair,
Your _moral_ in a more superb condition;
Never did Victory's goal
Seem more adjacent to your sanguine soul.
HINDENBURG holds your British foes in baulk
Prior to trampling them to pulp like vermin;
Russia is at your mercy--you can walk
Through her to-morrow if you so determine;
There is no France to fight--
Your gallant WILLIE'S blade has "bled her white."
In England (as exposed by trusty spies)
We are reduced to starve on dog and thistles;
London, with all her forts, in ashes lies;
Through Scarboro's breached redoubts the sea-wind whistles:
And Margate, quite unmanned,
Would cause no trouble if you cared to land.
Roumania is your granary, whence you draw
For loyal turns a constant cornucopia;
Belgium, quiescent under Culture's law,
Serves as a type of Teutonised Utopia;
And, as for U.S.A.,
They're scheduled to arrive behind The Day.
Why, then, this talk of Peace? The victor's meed
Lies underneath your nose--why not continue?
_Because humanity makes your bosom bleed_;
So, though you have a giant's strength within you,
Your gentle heart would shrink
To use it like a giant--I don't think.
O.S.
* * * * *
MISTAKEN CHARITY.
Slip was riding a big chestnut mare down the street and humming an
accompaniment to the tune she was playing with her bit. He pulled up
when he saw me and, still humming, sat looking down at me.
"Stables in ten minutes," I said. "You're heading the wrong way."
"A dispensation, my lad," he replied. "I'm taking Miss Spangles up on
the hill to get her warm--'tis a nipping and an eager air."
A man was coming across the road towards us. He was incredibly old and
stiff and the dirt of many weeks was upon him. He stood before us and
held out a battered yachting cap. "M'sieur," he said plaintively.
Miss Spangles cocked an ear and began to derange the surface of the
road with a shapely foreleg. She was bored.
"Tell him," said Slip, "that I am poorer even than he is; that this
beautiful horse which he admires so much is the property of the King
of ENGLAND, and that my clothes are not yet paid for."
I passed this on.
"M'sieur," said the old man, holding the yachting cap a little nearer.
"Give him a piece of money to buy soap with," said Slip. "Come up,
Topsy," and he trotted slowly on.
I gave the old man something for soap and went my way.
That night at dinner the Mandril, who loves argument better than life,
said _a propos_ of nothing that any man who gave to a beggar was a
public menace and little better than a felon. He was delighted to find
every man's hand against him.
"RUSKIN," said Slip, "decrees that not only should one give to
beggars, but that one should give kindly and deliberately and not
as though the coin were red-hot."
The Mandril threw himself wildly into the argument. He told us
dreadful stories of beggars and their ways--of advertisements he
had seen in which the advertisers undertook to supply beggars with
emaciated children at so much per day. Children with visible sores
were in great demand, he said; nothing like a child to charm money
from the pockets of passers-by, etc., etc. Presently he grew tired
and changed the subject as rapidly as he had started it.
It was at lunch a few days later that the Mess waiter came in with a
worried look on his face.
"There is a man at the door, Sir," he said. "Me and Burler can't make
out what he wants, but he won't go away, not no'ow."
"What's he like?" I asked.
"Oh, he's old, Sir, and none too clean, and he's got a sack with him."
"Stop," said Slip. "Now, Tailer, think carefully before you answer my
next question. Does he wear a yachting cap?"
"Yes, Sir," said Tailer, "that's it, Sir, 'e do wear a sort of sea
'at, Sir."
"This is very terrible," said Slip. "Are we his sole means of support?
However--" and he drew a clean plate towards him and put a franc on
it. The plate went slowly round the table and everyone subscribed.
Stephen, who was immersed in a book on Mayflies, put in ten francs
under the impression that he was subscribing towards the rent of the
Mess. The Mandril appeared to have quite forgotten his dislike of
beggars.
Tailer took the plate out and returned with it empty. "He's gone,
Sir," he said.
"I'm glad for your sake, dear Mandril, that you have fallen in with
our views," said Slip.
"What!" shouted the Mandril. "I quite forgot. A beggar!--the wretched
impostor." He rushed to the window. An old man had rounded the corner
of the house and was crossing the road on his way to a small cafe
opposite.
"He's going to drink it," screamed the Mandril; "battery will fire a
salvo;" and he seized two oranges from the sideboard. The first was
a perfect shot and hit the target between the shoulder-blades, and
the second burst with fearful force against the wall of the cafe.
The victim turned and looked about him in a dazed fashion and then
disappeared.
That night I received a note from Monsieur Le Roux, hardware merchant
and incidentally our landlord, thanking me for sixteen francs
seventy-five centimes paid in advance to his workman, and asking me
to name a day on which he could call to mend our broken stove.
* * * * *
"It is not a little pathetic to observe that a year ago, and even
two years ago, _The Daily Mail_ was urging the Government then
in power to introduce compulsory rations. Thus on November 13,
1916, we said: 'Ministers should at once prepare the organisation
for a system of bread tickets. It took the diligent Germans six
months to get their system into action, and it will take our ...
officials quite as long. They ought to be getting to work on it
now, not putting it off.'"--_Daily Mail_.
We dare not guess what was the suppressed adjective that _The Daily
Mail_ applied to "our officials."
* * * * *
[Illustration: OUR UNEMPLOYED.
WAR OFFICE BRASS HAT (_to Volunteer, "A" Class_). "AND MIND YOU, IF
YOU DON'T FULFIL YOUR OBLIGATIONS YOU'LL BE COURT-MARTIALLED!"
MR. PUNCH. "THAT WON'T WORRY HIM. HIS TROUBLE IS THAT, WHEN HE DOES
FULFIL HIS OBLIGATIONS, YOU MAKE SO LITTLE USE OF HIM."]
* * * * *
SUGAR CONTROL.
"Good evening, Sir," said Lord RHONDDA'S minion (the man who does
his dirty work), moistening his lips with a bit of pencil. "You were
allocated one hundredweight of sugar for jam-making in respect of your
soft fruit, I believe?"
"How _did_ you guess?" I said. "I say, do tell me when the War's going
to end. Just between ourselves, you know."
"This being the case," he went on (evidently trying to change the
subject--no War Office secrets to be got out of _him_, you notice),
"I must request you to show me your fruit-trees and also your jam
cupboard."
"The latter," I said--for he had called just after tea--"is rather
full at present, but doing nicely, thanks. As you observe, however, we
think it wiser not to try to close the bottom button of the door."
"Perhaps your wife--" suggested the man tentatively.
"My wife does her best, of course. She often says, 'Dearest, a third
pot of tea if you _like_, but I'm sure a third cup of jam wouldn't be
good for you.' By the way, don't you want to see the tea-orchard too?
The Cox's Orange Pekoes have done frightfully well this year--the new
blend, you know; or should I say hybrid?"
At this moment my wife appeared, looking particularly charming in a
_mousseline de soie aux fines herbes--anglice_, a sprigged muslin. I
seized her hand and led her aside.
"Lord RHONDDA'S myrmidon is upon us!" I hissed. "'Tis for your
husband's life, child. Hold the minion of the law in check--attract
him; fascinate him; play him that little thing on the piano--you
know, 'Tum-ti-tum'--while I slope off to the secret chamber, where my
ancestor lay hid before--I mean after--the Battle of Worcester. By the
way, I hope it's been dusted lately? Hush! if he sees us hold secret
parlance I'm lost."
"Alas!" said my wife, "the secret chamber is where we keep the jam."
She smiled subtly at me and then winningly at the inspector as she
turned towards him.
"Step this way, please," she continued.
I caught the idea at once and, blessing the quick wit of woman,
followed in the victim's wake, ready to close the secret panel behind
him and leave him to a lingering death.
My wife slid open the trap, turning with a triumphant smile as she did
so, and I saw at once that the death of anyone shut up inside would be
a lot more lingering than I had imagined, for the place seemed full of
jam. I was surprised.
"Can I be going to eat all that?" I thought; and life seemed suddenly
a very beautiful thing.
The inspector ran a hungry eye over it all, and if he had tried to
clamber inside for a closer inspection I should not have given him the
quick push I had planned. I should have held him back by his coat. My
own way of testing the amount of jam which my wife had made was not
for the likes of him.
"About a hundred-and-fifty pounds," he said at last.
"Just a little over," nodded my wife.
"I tell you," I whispered, "this chap knows everything." Then aloud,
"I say, Sir, if you wouldn't mind putting me on to something for the
Cotsall Selling Plate. Simply," I added hastily, "in the national
interest, of course. Keeping up the breed of horses."
The inspector changed the subject again. "You were allocated one
hundredweight of sugar, I believe, Ma'am," he said.
"Oh, yes," replied my wife. "But you see some of our jam is still
sticking to the trees. Perhaps this gentleman would like to see the
orchard, Wenceslaus," she added, turning to me.
(Of course, you know, my Christian name isn't really Wenceslaus, but
we authors enjoy so little privacy nowadays that I must really be
allowed to leave it at that.)
So I took the inspector off to see the orchard, pausing on the way at
the strawberry bed.
"This," I explained, "was to have made up quite fifty pounds of our
allocation, but I'm afraid the crop failed this year. So that must
account for any little discrepancy in the weight of fruit." I was very
firm about this.
"Strawberries have done well enough elsewhere," said Nemesis
suspiciously. "I'm surprised that yours should have failed."
"When I say 'failed,'" I explained, "I mean 'failed to get as far as
the preserving pan.' I always retain an option on eating the crop
fresh."
The inspector frowned and was going to make a note of this, so I tried
to distract his attention.
"Do you know," I said, "a short time ago people persisted in mistaking
me for a brother of the Duke of Cotsall?"
"Why?" he asked--rather rudely.
"Because of the strawberry mark on my upper lip. Ah, I think this
is the orchard. There was a wealth of bloom here when I put in my
application."
"Applications were not made till the fruit was on the trees," said
Lord RHONDDA'S minion, sharply. "Ah, there's a nice lot of plums."
This seemed more satisfactory.
"Yes, isn't there?" I said enthusiastically. "Now I'm sure _this_
makes up the amount all right."
"Plums are stone fruit," he observed stonily, "and you were allocated
one hundredweight of sugar for your _soft_ fruit, I believe?"
One really gets very tired of people who go on harping on the same
thing over and over again.
"What about raspberries?" I inquired.
"Soft fruit, of course," said the inspector.
"But they contain stones," I urged. "Nasty little things wot gits into
the 'ollers of your teeth somethink cruel, as cook says. Really, the
Government ought to give us more careful instructions. And what about
the apples? Are pips stones?"
"Apples are not used for jam-making," he retorted.
"What!" I exclaimed. "Tell that to the--to the Army in general!
Plum-and-apple jam, my dear Sir! And that reminds me: a jam composed
of half stone and half soft fruit--how do we stand in respect to
that?"
"Well, Sir," said the inspector, closing his notebook grudgingly, "I
don't think we need go into that. I think you've got just about the
requisite amount of soft fruit for the one hundredweight of sugar
which, I believe, you were allocated."
"There's still the rose garden," I said, "if you're not satisfied."
"Been turning that into an orchard, have you?" he asked. "Very
patriotic, I'm sure."
"Well, I don't know," I said. "My wife wants to make _pot-pourri_ as
usual, but what I say is, in these days--and with all that sugar--it
would surely be more patriotic (as you say) to make _fleurs de Nice._"
"It would be more patriotic perhaps," observed Lord RHONDDA'S minion
sententiously, "not to make jam at all."
"Ah!" I said. "Have a glass of beer before you go."
W. B.
* * * * *
[Illustration: UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE.
_Chorus_. "HERE SHALL HE SEE
NO ENEMY
BUT WINTER AND ROUGH WEATHER."]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Taxi-driver (who has forced lady-driver on to the
pavement)._ "NOW, THEN, IF YOU WANT TO LOOK IN THE SHOP WINDOWS WHY
DON'T YOU TAKE A DAY OFF?"]
* * * * *
Headline in _The Yorkshire Daily Observer_:--
"KAISER'S 1904 PLOTS"
No doubt there were quite as many as that, but we should like to know
how our contemporary arrives at the exact number.
* * * * *
AN EXTRAORDINARY DAY.
1. A Staff Officer came back from the line without having had a narrow
escape.
2. A General visited the line and expressed unqualified approval of
everything he saw.
3. A Quartermaster-Sergeant put _all_ the contents of the rum-jar into
the tea.
4. A sniper fired at a Hun and reported a miss.
5. A bombing-party threw bombs into a sap without reporting "shrieks
and groans were heard, and it is thought that many casualties were
inflicted."
6. A Sergeant-Major complimented a new squad of recruits.
7. Somebody read an Intelligence Summary.
8. A very high official fired the first shot to open the new
rifle-range and failed to hit the bull.
NOTE--(a) The Marker was not court-martialled for spreading alarm
and despondency in His Majesty's forces; but
(b) The quality of mercy was fearfully strained.
9. A bombing-class came back from practice without a single casualty.
10. A Subaltern got leave on compassionate grounds. He wanted to be
married.
11. A Corps Commander was punctual at an inspection. And
12. It did not rain on the day of the offensive.
Truly an extraordinary day. Shall we ever live to see it, I wonder?
* * * * *
MORE SEX PROBLEMS
"For Sale.--Dark red Shorthorn Bulls, from two years downwards,
bred to milk for thirty years."--_Farmer's Weekly_.
"For Sale by Auction, one Mare Colt."--_Kent and Sussex Courier_.
"Then again the cockerel is a summer layer."--_Irish Farming
World_.
* * * * *
"Sir Godfrey Baring, the sitting Liberal member, is not standing
again."--_Evening Paper_.
If he's not going to sit or stand, he'll have to take it lying down.
* * * * *
A Venetian boy-scout on the Lido
Had sighted a hostile torpedo,
So he cried, "Don't suppoge
You can blow up the Doge;
You must do without him--as we do."
* * * * *
"WEST OF ENGLAND.--To be Sold, a perfect gentleman's Residence, in
faultless condition and all modern improvements, and a pedigree
Stock Farm of 150 acres adjoining, with possession."--_Daily
Paper_.
We hope the pedigree of the perfect gentleman is included as well as
that of the stock farm.
* * * * *
PETHERTON AND THE RAG AUCTION.
A letter I received last Friday gave me one of those welcome excuses
to get into closer touch with my neighbour, Petherton, than our daily
proximity might seem to connote. I wrote to him thus:--
DEAR MR. PETHERTON,--Miss Gore-Langley has written to me to say
that she is getting up a Rag Auction on behalf of the Belgian
Relief Fund, and not knowing you personally, and having probably
heard that I am connected by ties of kinship with you, she asked
me to approach you on the subject of any old clothes you may have
to spare in such a cause.
Of course I'm not suggesting you should allow yourself to be
denuded in the cause (like Lady GODIVA), but I daresay you have
some odds and ends stowed away that you would contribute; for
instance, that delightful old topper that you were wont to go to
church in before the War, and that used to cause a titter among
the choir--can't you get the moths to let you have it? Neckties,
again. Where are the tartans of '71? Surely there may be some
bonny stragglers left in your tie-bins. And who fears to talk of
'98 and its fancy waistcoats? All rancour about them has passed
away, and if you have any ring-straked or spotted survivors, no
doubt they would fetch _something_ in a good cause. I hope you
will see what you can do for
Yours very truly,
HENRY J. FORDYCE.
Petherton's reply was brief. He wrote:--
SIR--Had Miss Gore-Langley chosen a better channel for the
conveyance of her wishes I should have been only too pleased to do
what I could to help. As it is, I do not care to have anything to
do with the affair.
Yours faithfully,
FREDERICK PETHERTON.
But he was better than his word, as I soon discovered. So I wrote:--
DEAR PETHERTON,--I have had such a treat to-day. I took one or two
things across to Miss Gore-Langley, who was unpacking your noble
contributions when I arrived. Talk about family histories; your
parcel spoke volumes.
I was frightfully interested in that brown bowler with the flat
brim, and those jam-pot collars. Parting with them must have been
such sweet sorrow.
I feel like bidding for some of your things, among which I also
noted an elegantly-worked pair of braces. With a little grafting
on to the remains of those I am now wearing, the result should be
something really serviceable. I don't mind confessing to you that
I simply can't bring my mind to buying any new wearing apparel
just now. I'd like the bowler too. It should help to keep the
birds from my vegetables, and incidentally the wolf from the door.
And seeing it fluttering in the breeze you would have a continual
reminder of your own salad days.
Surely the priceless family portrait in the Oxford oak frame got
into the parcel by mistake. I am expecting to acquire that for a
song, as it cannot be of interest except to one of the family, and
I should be glad to number it among my heirlooms.
Miss G.-L. is awfully braced with the haul, and asked me to thank
you, which is one of my objects in writing this.
Yours sincerely,
HARRY FORDYCE.
Petherton was breathing hard by this time, and let drive with:--
SIR,--It is like your confounded impertinence to overhaul the
few things I sent to Miss Gore-Langley, and had I known that you
would have had the opportunity of seeing what my wife insisted on
sending I should certainly not have permitted their despatch.