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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. CL.



APRIL 26, 1916.



CHARIVARIA.

GENERAL VILLA, in pursuit of whom a United States army has already
penetrated four hundred miles into Mexico, is alleged to have died.
It is not considered likely, however, that he will escape as easily
as all that.

       ***

"Germans net the Sound," says a recent issue of a contemporary. We
don't know what profit they will get out of it, but we ourselves in
these hard times are only too glad to net anything.

       ***

Bags of coffee taken from a Norwegian steamer and destined for German
consumption have been found to contain rubber. Once more the
immeasurable superiority of the German chemist as a deviser of
synthetic substitutes for ordinary household commodities is clearly
illustrated. What a contrast to our own scientists, whose use of this
most valuable food substitute has never gone far beyond an occasional
fowl or beefsteak.

       ***

It has been suggested that in honour of the tercentenary of
SHAKSPEARE'S birth Barclay's brewery should be replaced by a new
theatre, a replica of the old Globe Theatre, whose site it is supposed
to occupy; and Mr. REGINALD MCKENNA is understood to have stated that
it is quite immaterial to him.

       ***

"Horseflesh is on sale in the West End," says _The Daily Telegraph_,
"and the public analyst at Westminster reports having examined a
smoked horseflesh sausage and found it genuine." It is only fair to
our readers, however, to point out that the method of testing sausages
now in vogue, _i.e._ with a stethoscope, is only useful for
ascertaining the identity of the animal (if any) contained therein,
and is valueless in the case of sausages that are filled with sawdust,
india-rubber shavings, horsehair and other vegetables.

       ***

Wandsworth Borough has refused the offer of a horse trough on the
ground that there are not enough horses to use it. But there are
always plenty of shirkers.

       ***

Colonel CHURCHILL was reported on Tuesday last as having been seen
entering the side door of No. 11, Downing Street. It was, of course,
the critical stage door.

       ***

The Austrian Government has issued an appeal for dogs "for sanitary
purposes." The valuable properties of the dog for sterilising sausage
casings have long been a secret of the Teuton.

       *       *       *       *       *

Commercial Candour.

    "Real Harris Hand-Knitted Socks, _1s. 6d._: worth _2s. 6d._;
    unwearable."--_Scotch Paper._

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Shopkeeper._ "YES, I WANT A GOOD USEFUL LAD TO BE
PARTLY INDOORS AND PARTLY OUTDOORS."

_Applicant._ "AND WHAT BECOMES OF ME WHEN THE DOOR SLAMS?"]

       *       *       *       *       *

A Chance for the Illiterate.

    "Wanted, a good, all-round Gardener; illegible."--_Provincial
    Paper._

    "Gardener.--Wanted at once, clever experienced man with good
    knowledge of toms., cucs., mums., &c., to work up small
    nursery."
                                             _Provincial Paper._

One with a knowledge of nursery language preferred.

       *       *       *       *       *

    "MANCHESTER, ENG. The election of directors of the Manchester
    Chamber of Commerce resulted in the return of eighteen out of
    twenty-two directors who are definitely committed to the
    policy of no free trade with the 60th Canadian Battalion."
                                      _Victoria Colonist (B.C.)._

We hope the battalion will not retaliate by refusing protection to
Manchester, Eng.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE CURSE OF BABEL.

Let me tell you about the Baronne de Blanqueville and her grandson.

The Baronne is a Belgian lady who came to England in the early days of
the refugee movement, and established herself here in our village.

With her came her younger daughter and Lou-lou, the infant son of an
elder daughter, who had for some reason to be left behind in Belgium.

Lou-lou was a year old when, with his grandmother and his aunt, he
settled in England as an _emigre_. He was then inarticulate; now he
has gained the use of his tongue.

He has had a little English nursemaid to attend on him, and he has
become a familiar object in many English families of the
neighbourhood.

In fact, he has had a very English bringing up, and now that he is
more than two years old and can talk, he insists on talking English
with volubility and understanding it with completeness.

I may mention, by the way, that someone has taught him some
expressions unusual in so young a mouth. The other day I met him in
his perambulator. He said, "I take the air. I'm damn comfable;"
whereupon the nursemaid blushed and chid him.

That, however, is not the point--at any rate, not the whole of it.

What I wish to make clear is this: the Baronne neither speaks nor
understands English, whereas Lou-lou speaks a great deal of English
and no French at all. He rejects that language with a violent shake of
his curly head. He stamps his small foot and tells his adoring
grandmother to speak English or leave him alone.

Thus a gulf has begun to yawn between the Baronne and her beloved
Lou-lou. Communications are all but broken off. Lou-lou's aunt is in
better case, for she is slowly acquiring English; but the Baronne, I
think, will never learn _any_ English.

What is to be done?

       *       *       *       *       *

    "The rage for flower-trimming is nothing short of an
    obeisance."--_Evening Paper._

In spite of the War we still bow to the decrees of fashion.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE JOY TAX.

    [By one who is prepared to accept it like a patriot without
    further protest.]

  Now Spring comes laughing down the sky
    To see her buds all busy hatching;
      With tender green the woods are gay,
      And birds, as is their April way,
  Chirp merrily on the bough, and I
    Chirp, too, because it's catching.

  Full many a joy I must eschew
    And to the tempter's voice "No! No!" say;
      With taxes laid on all delights
      Must miss, with other mirthful sights,
  On Monday next my annual view
    Of England's Art Expose.

  I must forgo (and bear the worst
    With what I can of noble calm) a
      Pure bliss from which I only part
      With horrid pain about the heart--
  I mean the humour unrehearsed
    Of serious British drama.

  But, thank the Lord, I need not miss
    The birds that in their leafy nook coo;
      Young Spring is mine to taste at large,
      The Ministry has made no charge
  For earth that warms to April's kiss;
    They haven't taxed the cuckoo!                          O. S.

       *       *       *       *       *

A VOLUNTEER CASUALTY.

We were "standing easy" prior to the assault on the undefended heights
of Spanker's Hill when the voice of the platoon-commander disturbed
our thoughts of home and loved ones, and particularly of our Sunday
dinners, which would be very much out of season before we could get at
them.

"Number 4," he said, in a tone that thrilled us to the bottom twist of
our puttees, "these Body-Snatchers (thus coarsely he alluded to the
Ambulance Section) have been following us all day and haven't had a
single casualty so far. That is why, in the coming advance, I shall be
wounded. Sergeant, you will take over the command, should the worst
befall. Smith and Williams, as you are both big and heavy, you'd
better be knocked out too."

It was with mingled feelings that I heard my name mentioned. In the
first place, a feeling of annoyance was engendered at having my
proportions thus publicly referred to. But other, and I trust
worthier, thoughts came to me, and, turning to my neighbour, I gave
him a few last messages of a suitably moving nature to be delivered to
my friends. The kind-hearted fellow was deeply affected, and in a
voice broken by emotion offered to take charge of my loose change, and
asked for my watch as a keepsake. I thanked him with tears in my eyes,
but said that the burial party would forward all my valuables to my
relations.

Our conversation was interrupted by the command "Platoon--'SHUN. To
the left, to six paces, ex-TEND." By an oversight the preliminary
formation usually adopted as a precaution against artillery had been
omitted, and in a moment we were advancing up the hill in open order.

Scarcely had we started when our officer, the pride of the platoon,
threw up his hands and fell. A moment later, chancing on a piece of
tempting grass, I decided to lie down, and with a choking gurgle
collapsed. As I lay on my back in an appropriate attitude (copied from
the cinema) I wondered when the stretcher-party would appear, for the
grass was damp and the April wind was chilly; but it was not long
before a bright boy, rather over than under military age, ran up and,
after a brief glance at me, began to signal with great vigour. He
meant well, and out of consideration for his feelings I restrained a
desire to tell him that he was creating a beastly draught. However, I
asked him if he had any brandy, and, on receiving an answer in the
negative, groaned deeply.

"Are you very bad?" he asked.

"No," I replied; "but if I lie here much longer I'll catch cold. Tell
your people to hurry up."

When the stretcher-party arrived they decided that I had been shot in
the chest, and, to get at the wound, began to remove my garments, till
arrested by some virile language thrown off from the part affected.
Then they began to carry me towards the gate of the park, despite the
fact that the stretcher had been meant to hold someone about six
inches shorter than I. Almost immediately the rear man, tripping on a
root, fell on top of me, and the front man, being brought to a sudden
stop, sat on my feet. When we had sorted ourselves out, and I had
stopped talking, more from lack of breath than of matter, we resumed
our journey.

After a matter of some three hundred yards the bearers began to feel
tired, and, suddenly rolling me off the stretcher, they informed me
that I was discharged as cured. Thus rapidly does a soldier of the
Volunteers recover. It speaks volumes not only for their high state of
physical condition but for the resilience of their _moral_.

       *       *       *       *       *

Intelligent Anticipation.

    "Bucharest, 8.--The 'Universul' has opened a list of
    subscriptions in favour of the widows and victims of the
    coming Austro-Roumanian war."--_Balkan News._

       *       *       *       *       *

    "'WHERE ANGELS FEAR TO TREAD' AT THE ---- PICTURE
    THEATRE."--_Hastings Observer._

The management doesn't mind so long as the fools rush in.

       *       *       *       *       *

    "The Smyth-Pigotts are the owners of Brockley Court and
    Brockley Hall, near Congresbury, a pretty village which--like
    Majoribanks--is pronounced Coomesbury."--_Daily Sketch._

Just as, according to the old story, Cholmondeley is pronounced
Marjoribanks.

       *       *       *       *       *

    "Monster Carnival! In aid of Returned Soldiers' Association.
    Novel Attractions!!! Realistic Egyptian Pillage, just as our
    soldiers saw it. Egyptian goods can be purchased
    here."--_Adelaide Register._

We hope this does not mean that our gallant Anzacs have been spoiling
the Egyptians.

       *       *       *       *       *

    "A LADY would like to let her beautifully furnished HOUSE or
    part, or three or four paying guests; from L2 10s. each."
                                       _Bournemouth Daily Echo._

We have heard of paying guests whom their hosts would have been glad
to part with at an even lower figure.

       *       *       *       *       *

    "Notice.--Found, a Broadwood Piano. Apply, Barrack Warden,
    No. 1, Barrack Store, ---- Barracks."--_Aldershot Command
    Orders._

We think some recent criticism of Army administration is undeserved.
Care is evidently taken in regard to even little things carelessly
left about by the soldier.

       *       *       *       *       *

    "When the election does come there will be no need to ask
    these useless M.P.'s to resign. They can be kicked out, and
    there are plenty of workmen in the country who are ready to
    lend a hand at the kicking. The genuine Labour M.P. is known
    now, so also is the impostor, who, like the party hack, hails
    from nowhere."
                                         _Letter in "The Times."_

We suppose the manual kick, as described above, is the non-party hack.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: SERBIA COMES AGAIN.

THE BULGAR. "I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD."]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE WATCH DOGS.

XXXVIII.

MY DEAR CHARLES,--One of these days I will tell you the more intimate
history of the Corps to which I have the honour to belong, and this
will give you some cause for mirth. Its members are of all sorts, ages
and origins, and they have had between them some odd experiences since
that first day when, parading hastily in Kensington Gardens, they
wished they hadn't been quite so glib, in their anxiety to get to war,
about professing full knowledge of the ways and wiles of the motor
bicycle. One at least of them paid the price of inexactitude then and
there; he still shudders to think how, put to the test, he
unintentionally left the Park for a no less fashionable but much more
crowded thoroughfare, to arrive eventually, in the prone position, in
a byway of Piccadilly, where small fragments of the machine may still
be collected by industrious seekers of curios.

Another, whom the low cunning of the Criminal Bar enabled to avoid the
immediate test, paid the full price, with compound interest, later on.
Casual observers of the retreat, had there been any, would have become
familiar with the sight of him bringing up the rear--a very poor last.
To see him arrive, perspiring, over the brow of a hill, with his
faithful motor at his side, was to know that the Huns were at the
bottom of it. On one occasion they even beat him in the day's march,
but were too kind or too blind to seize their advantage. As usual he
was taking his obsession along with him, though, if he had but known,
he might have got it to do the work by the simple formality of turning
the petrol tap from OFF to ON. His was ever a curious life, from the
first moment of his joining the Army in tails, a bowler hat, and a
large sword wrapped in a homely newspaper. But the inward fun of it
all is not for the present, Charles; our clear old friends, the
Exigencies, forbidding.

I am reminded of it all by having just crossed with one of the
later-joined members. He came fresh from the line to a Head-quarters,
and he was walking about in a lane, working off some of his awe of his
new surroundings, when he was overtaken by a car containing a General,
who stopped and asked him what he was. So imposing was the account he
gave of himself that it was said to him, "No doubt, then, you'll know
the way to ----," a village at the back of beyond, where a division
was lying at rest. In the Army, at any rate at a Head-quarters, we all
know everything. So he said, "No doubt, Sir," hoping, if the worst
came to the worst, to give some vague directions and not to be present
when they were found wanting. But it was his bad luck to have struck
one of the more affable Generals. Could he spare the time to come
along and direct the driver?

So on to the box he got (it was a closed car) and, with the General's
eye always upon his back, he did his best as guide, a task for which
his previous career of stockbroker had ill qualified him. The first
thing to happen was that the car, proceeding down a narrow lane, got
well into the middle of a battalion on the march, which, when the car
was firmly jammed amongst the transport, ceased to be on the march,
and took a generous ten minutes' halt.... The second thing to happen
was a level crossing; which, as they approached it, changed its mind
about being a road and became a railway. A nice long train duly
arrived, and (this needs no exaggeration) stayed there, with a few
restless movements, for twenty minutes by the clock.... The third
thing to happen was that he lost himself (and the General); the fourth
was the falling of dusk, and the fifth a ploughed field, with which my
friend, alighting, had to confess that he was not so intimately
acquainted as he could have wished.

[Illustration: THE TRENCH TOUCH.

_Warrior in bunker (to caddie, who is seeing if the course is clear)._
"KEEP DOWN, YOU FOOL!"]

Had there been a scene, he could, he says, have endured the worst
bravely, standing to attention and taking it as it came. Not so,
however; his was the wrong sort of General for the purpose. As does
the partner at the dance, over whose priceless gown you have upset the
indelible ice, he said it didn't matter. He said he'd give the
division a miss, and return whence they had come. This they began to
do, when they had got the car out of the ploughed field, and this they
went on doing until the sixth thing happened, which was a burst tyre.

Again, had there been a scene, my man could have explained that this
wasn't his fault; but no one _said_ it was his fault. Equally it was
never openly alleged that he was to blame for the driver's not being
prepared with a spare wheel ready for use. But his embarrassment was
such that my man was grateful to heaven for reminding him at this
juncture of the existence of R.F.C. Head-quarters, about a kilometre
away. He said he'd run and borrow a wheel off them, and before the
General could say him nay he'd started.... He ran all the way, and
burst, panting, into the officers' mess, where he had the misfortune
to strike another itinerant General.

It never rains but it pours, and the area seemed to be infested with
Generals of quite the wrong sort. He couldn't have hit upon a more
kind and genial and inappropriate one than this. No, he wouldn't allow
a word of apology or explanation from this exhausted lieutenant until
the latter had rested and refreshed himself with a cup of tea. No, not
out of that pot; it had been standing too long. Tea which had stood
should not be drunk, for reasons detailed at length. No doubt the
Colonel, whose guest he was, would order some more to be made. It
would take two minutes--it did take twenty. No, no; there was nothing
to say and nothing need be