Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 152, March 28, 1917
Date: 2005-02-02T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: English wit and humor -- Periodicals

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 152, March 28, 1917

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 152, March 28, 1917

Author: Various

Release date: February 1, 2005 [eBook #14856]
Most recently updated: December 19, 2020

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Keith Edkins and the PG Online
Distributed Proofreading Team

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI, VOLUME 152, MARCH 28, 1917 ***

PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 152.

March 28th, 1917.

Torpedoed mine-sweeper (to his pal). "AS I WAS A-SAYIN', BOB, WHEN WE WAS INTERRUPTED, IT'S MY BELIEF AS 'OW THE SUBMARINE BLOKES AIN'T ON 'ARF AS RISKY A JOB AS THE BOYS IN THE AIRY-O-PLANES."

CHARIVARIA.

Charged at Kingston with being an absentee from military service, a man of retiring habits stated that he did not know the country was at war. When told that we were fighting the Germans he was greatly interested.

The Hamburg hotel-keepers have decided to abolish the practice of charging more for food in cases where wine or beer are not consumed. The reason given—that there was no wine or beer to be consumed—is so trivial that a deeper motive may well be suspected.

"That is how we lawyers live, because lay-men have such queer ideas," said Judge CLUER in a recent case. Nevertheless, the view that lawyers shouldn't be allowed to live is not without its ardent supporters.

The Manchester Guardian has issued an "Empire number." It is pleasant to know that all differences between the Empire and our contemporary, due to the former's ill-advised participation in the War, have been satisfactorily adjusted.

Events have happened so swiftly of late that up to the time of going to press a contemporary had not decided who should be "The Man who Dined with the Tsar."

Virginia-creepers are recommended by a contemporary as a "tasty vegetable." In one large house where the experiment was tried they were pronounced to be quite all right on the second floor, but rather tough in the basement.

The businesses of Southgate men called to the colours are being conducted by a committee. Small sons of those absent fathers are going very warily until they have ascertained exactly how far the powers of the committee extend.

Writing on the German retreat Major MORAHT says: "Only a personality like that of Marshal von Hindenburg could give proofs of so great an initiative." Possibly he has never heard of the Dukes of York and Plaza Toro.

A boy of eleven charged with the theft of clothes is said to have stolen the notebook of the policeman who arrested him. His first idea was to pinch his captor's whistle, but he rejected this plan on finding that the policeman was attached to it.

Russian soldiers under the new régime will be allowed to smoke in the streets, travel inside trains, visit clubs and attend political meetings. There is a very strong rumour that they will also be allowed to go on fighting.

A ten-months-old boy at Prescot, Lancashire, has been called up for military service. It is, however, authoritatively stated that this is merely a precautionary measure on the part of the War Office, and will not necessarily apply to other men in the same class.

A Bromley gentleman is advertising for a chauffeur "to drive Ford car out of cab-yard." Kindness is a great thing in cases of this sort, and we suggest trying to entice it out with a piece of cheese.

"You have lost the privilege of serving on the last grand jury during the War," said the judge at the London Sessions last week to a shipowner who arrived at the court late. We understand that the poor fellow broke down and sobbed bitterly.

Nearly every Russian newspaper contains congratulatory references to Free Russia, and poets are busy composing verses on the same theme. It is this latter item which is said to be keeping the Germans from having a similar revolution.

We understand that the new "No Smoking near Magazines" enactment is profoundly resented in editorial circles.

To fill the gap which will be left in the ranks of Parliamentary humorists by the retirement of Mr. JOSEPH KING, M.P., who has decided not to seek re-election, the Variety Artistes Federation have nominated a candidate for the Brixton Division.

"On whatever day you sow your wheat," says Miss MARIE CORELLI, "you cannot stop its growing on Sundays." Mr. HALL CAINE has not yet spoken on this point, and his silence is regarded as significant.

Incidentally we are not so sure that you cannot stop wheat growing on Sundays. There is good precedent for plucking its ears on the Sabbath, and that ought to stop it.

The KAISER, it appears, is much annoyed at the CROWN PRINCE and the way he has mis-managed so many brilliant opportunities. It is even suggested in some quarters that the KAISER has threatened, if LITTLE WILLIE does not improve, to abdicate in his favour.

A respectably dressed man was recently arrested for behaving in a strange manner in Downing Street. Others have done the same thing before now, but have escaped the notice of the police by doing it indoors.

With reference to the taxi-cab which stopped in the Strand the other day when hailed by a pedestrian, a satisfactory explanation is to hand. It had broken down.

Overheard by a distinguished singer, who has just concluded the first of two Scotch ballads.

Jock (to his neighbour). "A FINE VOICE, YON LASSIE. I'VE HEARD WORSE AN' PAID FOR IT."

TO PARIS BY THE "HINDENBURG LINE."

A TEUTON TRIBUTE TO THE ORGANISER OF VICTORY.

That man at dawn should certainly be shot

For being such a liar,

Who says that you, my HINDENBURG, are not

As high as our All-Highest, mate of GOTT

(Or even slightly higher).

Stout thruster, in the push you have no peer,

Yet more supremely brilliant

This crowning stroke of progress toward the rear,

This strong recoil from which with heartened cheer

We hope to bound resilient.

Lo! the creative spirit's vital spark!

None but a genius, we say,

Would make his onset backward in the dark

Or choose this route for getting at the Arc

De Triomphe (Champs Elysées).

Nor to your care for detail are we blind;

Your handiwork we view in

The reeking waste our warriors leave behind;

We read the motions of a master-mind

In that red trail of ruin.

And not alone by yonder blackened beams,

By garth and homestead burning,

You put the sanguine enemy off your schemes,

Who gaily follows up and never dreams

That we'll be soon returning;

But by these speaking signs of godly hate,

This ruthless ravage (prosit!),

You teach a barbarous world how truly great

Our German Gospel, and how grim the fate

Of people who oppose it!

Then praised be Heaven because we cannot fail

With HINDENBURG to boss us;

And for each hearth stript naked to the gale

Let grateful homage plug another nail

In your superb colossus.

O.S.

RATIONS.

As I said to John, I can bear anger and sarcasm—but contempt, not. Binny and Joe are our cats, and the most pampered of pets. Every day, when our meals were served, there was spread upon the carpet a newspaper, on which Binny and Joe would trample, clamouring, until a plate containing their substantial portion was laid down: after which we were free to proceed with our own meal.

Then came the paralysing shock of Lord DEVONPORT'S ration announcement, in which no mention is made of cats. Binny and Joe looked at one another in consternation over their porridge as I read aloud his statement from the newspaper at breakfast.

When I came in to luncheon I had a letter in my hand and accidentally dropped the envelope. Paper of any kind upon the carpet is associated in Binny's mind with the advent of food. Straightway he thudded from his arm-chair and sat down upon the envelope. You will notice that I speak above of Binny and Joe. I do so instinctively, because, though Binny is only half Joe's age of one year, somehow he always occurs everywhere before Joe. Joe was lying on the same arm-chair, and the same idea struck him too; but Binny got there first and continued sitting on the envelope, until, for very shame, I asked Ann, the maid, to spread a newspaper and try them with potato and gravy. They looked at it and then at me, and then, without tasting, walked off and began their usual after-luncheon ablutions of mouth, face and paws. But, as I have said, I can endure sarcasm.

The next day, just before luncheon, a mass of sparrow feathers was found on the hall-mat. The second day there were feathers of a blackbird. And the third day, when I came down to breakfast, I found a few thrush feathers carelessly left under the breakfast-room table. I began to search my mind, anxiously wondering whether any of my near neighbours kept chickens.

But the matter was settled that night. When the dinner-gong sounded, Binny and Joe rose from their arm-chair, looked at the vegetarian dishes now adorning a board which had been wont to send up savoury meaty steams (fish in these parts has become a rarity almost unprocurable, and we had exhausted our allowance of meat at luncheon, which we had taken at a restaurant), and then, with noses in the air and tails erect, stalked haughtily to the drawing-room, and there remained until dinner was finished.

So now the butcher leaves two pennorth of lights at my door regularly. He assures me that Lord DEVONPORT won't mind as it is not strictly human food.

THE INVADERS.

"I SUPPOSE OLD HINDENBURG KNOWS WHAT HE'S ABOUT?"

"ANYHOW, EVERY STEP TAKES US NEARER THE FATHERLAND."

THE WATCH DOGS.

LVIII.

MY DEAR CHARLES,—Recent events calling for strong comment, I turned to my friend, my brick-red friend who is able to retain his well-fed prosperous look notwithstanding the rigours of trench life, Rrobert James McGrregor. I took a map with me and, calling his attention to the general position, asked him what about it? McGregor, as you may guess, is a Scot, whose national sense of economy seems to have spread to his uniform, in that the cap he wears covers but a third-part of his head, and his tunic (which I ought really not to call a tunic but a service jacket) appears to have exhausted itself and its material at the fourth button. Notwithstanding all this, I attach great weight to his truculent views, and, the better to incite him into something outright, addressed him in My best Scottish, which is, at any rate, as good as his best English. "Rrrrrobert," I said, "what like is the VON HINDENBURG line?" Whereupon McGregor, helping himself to our mess whisky and cursing it as the vilest production of this vile War, spoke out.

McGregor has no respect whatever for HINDENBURG or anything which is his. He says that HINDENBURG and his crew have all along taken the line which any man could, but no gentleman would. In HINDENBURG he sees the personification of Prussian militarism, and for the Prussians and their militarism he has no use whatsoever. I forget what exactly is the Highland phrase for "no use whatsoever," but its meaning is even worse than its sound, and the sound of it alone is terrible to hear. Whatever befalls in the interval, it is certain that when at last McGregor and HINDENBURG meet they will not get on well together.

McGregor hates militarism. It is entirely inconsistent with his wild ideas of liberty. As such he is determined to do it down on all occasions and by every means. Not only is he a Scot, he is also a barrister of the most pronounced type. Brief him in your cause, and provided it is not a mean one he will set out to lay flat the whole earth, if need be, in its defence. He will overwhelm opposing counsel with the mere ferocity of his mien; he will overbear the Judge himself with the mere power of his lungs, and he will carry you through to a verdict with the mere momentum of his loyal support. Once he has made a cause his own, no other cause can survive the terror of his bushy eyebrows and his flaring face. He is a caged lion, but he does not grow thin or wasted in captivity. As ever, he grows stout and strong on his own enthusiasms. The cage will not hold much longer. Heaven be praised, it's HINDENBURG and not me he's taken a dislike to.

He loathes militarism. Having waited nearly thirty years for a fight, it's himself is overjoyed that he has Prussian militarism for the victim of his murderous designs. To this end he has become a soldier, such a bloodthirsty soldier as never was before and never will be again. The thoroughness of it, for an anti-militarist, is almost appalling. The click of his heels and the shine of his buttons frighten me. His salute is such that even the most deserving General must pause and ask himself if it is humanly possible to merit such respect as it indicates. No man, even upon the most legitimate instance, may venture, in the presence of the dangerous McGregor, the slightest criticism of the British Army or of anything remotely appertaining thereto. He will not even permit a sly dig, in a quiet corner, at the Staff.

Nevertheless McGregor hates, loathes and detests militarism. His convictions are quite clear and convincing. Soldiers are one thing; militarists are another. Rrobert James McGrregor, for the moment at least, is by the grace of God and the generosity of His Majesty a soldier. That creature HINDENBURG is a militarist. Quite so, I agreed; but then what about the line? He helped himself to some more whisky, showing that he could forgive anybody anything except a Prussian his militarism, and said he was coming to that. But first as to HINDENBURG.

The man represents his type and is, says McGregor, a mere bully. He has become a bully because he could succeed as nothing else. Given peace, it is doubtful if he could get and keep the job of errand-boy in a second-rate butcher's shop. Lacking the intelligence or spirit to succeed normally, he has not the decency to live quietly in the cheaper suburbs of Berlin and let other people do it. Flourish they must, HINDENBURG and his lot, and so the world is at war to keep their end up.

Now, says McGregor, it is undoubtedly sinful to fight, but he can't help half forgiving those whose desire to have a round is such that they must needs cause the bothers. But do I suppose that HINDENBURG ever wanted to fight, ever meant or ever means to do it? Not he; and that is why the War goes on and on and on. We've got to work through all the other Germans, says he, before we'll get to their militarists, who are all alive and doing nicely, thank you, behind. When we are getting near the throat of the first of them then the War will end.

McGregor cannot bring himself to detest all the Bosches. After all, he says, they do stick it out, and their very stupidity makes some call on his generosity. But HINDENBURG, he is convinced, never stuck anything out, except snubs from his competitor, WILHELM, in the course of his uprising career; he makes no call on anybody's generosity, taking everything he wants, including (says McGregor) the best cigars. Without ever having studied them closely, McGregor has the most precise ideas of HINDENBURG'S daily life and habits. He is quite sure he smokes all day the most expensive cigars, without paying for them or removing the bands. He rose, says McGregor, by artifice combined with ostentation. While his good soldiers were studying their musketry, he was practising ferocious expressions before his glass. If he ever did get mixed up in a real battle (which McGregor doubts) he was undoubtedly last in and first out. However it may appear in print, his military career would not bear close scrutiny; for that reason McGregor does not propose to scrutinise it. And as for his indomitable will, he sees nothing to admire in the man's persistence, since, when he stops persisting, he'll become ungummed and, at the best, forgotten.

So said McGregor, and when I besought him to come to the point, he said he'd dealt with it, and if I had any sympathy left for HINDENBURG or his line I was no better than a slave-driving, sit-at-home-and-push-others-over-the-parapet Prussian militarist myself. As for the map, it didn't matter in the least where HINDENBURG took his old line to, since wherever in Europe it endeavoured to conceal itself his own little line would scent it out and follow it. And if the HINDENBURG line was more than two hundred miles long and the Rrobert James McGrregor line less than two hundred yards, still it didn't matter; for when a Scot takes a dislike to somebody, that somebody's number is up.

McGregor didn't say that last, but he looked it.

Yours ever,

HENRY.

McTavish (purchasing paper of posterless newsboy). "AWEEL, IT'S A 'PIG IN A POKE,' BUT AH'LL RISK IT."

"Frightfulness" in England.

"Boys wanted for Kicking. ——— Stamping Works."—Midland Evening News.

"'THE MAGIC FLUTE.'

One ingenious commentator has suggested that the opera has some basis in 'A Midsummer Night's Dream.' Sarastro is Prospero, Pamina Miranda, Tamino Ferdinand, and perhaps Monostatos Caliban."—Glasgow Herald.

The fact that these Shakespeare characters all occur in "The Tempest" enhances the ingenuity of the suggestion.

"The biggest fire in living memory occurred in Chapelhall on Monday morning, when the Roman Catholic School was partly destroyed along with the recreation rooms, damage amounting to £2,000."—Scotch Local Paper.

The parish pump was probably out of order when this unparalleled conflagration occurred; but is seems to be at work again now.

"MOTHER, D'YOU KNOW I'VE ALWAYS WONDERED WHAT BECAME OF OLD TOP-HATS."

TO MY GODSON.

(Aged six weeks.)

Small bundle, enveloped in laces,

For whom I stood sponsor last week,

When you slept, with the pinkest of faces,

And never emitted a squeak;

Though vain is the task of illuming

The Future's inscrutable scroll,

I cannot refrain from assuming

A semi-prophetical rôle,

I predict that in paths Montessorian

Your infantile steps will be led,

And with modes which are Phrygian and Dorian

Your musical appetite fed;

You'll be taught how to dance by a Russian,

"Eurhythmics" you'll learn from a Swiss,

How not to behave like a Prussian—

No teaching is needed for this!

Will you learn Esperanto at Eton?

Or, if Eton by then is suppressed,

Be sent to grow apples or wheat on

A ranche in the ultimate West?

Will you aim at a modern diploma

In civics or commerce or stinks?

Inhale the Wisconsin aroma

Or think as the Humanist thinks?

Will you learn to play tennis from COVEY

Or model your stroke on JAY GOULD?

Will you play the piano like TOVEY

Or by gramophone records be schooled?

Will you golf, or will golfing be banished

To answer the needs of the plough,

And links from the landscape have vanished

To pasture the sheep and the cow?

Your taste in the region of letters

I only can dimly foresee,

But guess that from metrical fetters

The verse you'll affect must be free;

And I shan't be surprised or astounded

If your generation rebels

Against adulation unbounded

Of MASEFIELD and BENNETT and WELLS.

Upholding ancestral tradition

Your uncle has booked you at Lord's,

But I doubt if you'll sate your ambition

Athletic on well-levelled swards;

No, I rather opine that you'll follow

The lead that we owe to the WRIGHTS,

And soar like the eagle or swallow

On far and adventurous flights.

But no matter—in joy and affliction,

In seasons of failure or fame,

I cherish the certain conviction

You'll never dishonour your name;

For the love of the mother that bore you,

The life and the death of your sire

Will shine as a lantern before you,

To guide and exalt and inspire.

Life's Little Ironies.

"Ever-ready Safety Razor, strop, outfit, 12 blades, new; exchange something useful."—The Model Engineer and Electrician.

"The marriage of Captain ——, Grenadier Guards, to Miss —— was a very quiet affair, and not more than a score of people attended the ceremony at St. Andrew's, Wells-street, during the week.—Observer.

Quiet, perhaps, but unusually protracted.

How it Happened.

From a publisher's advt.:—

"NEW NOVELS

THE HISTORY OF AN ATTRACTION

HE LOOKED IN MY WINDOW."

Collectors of coincidences will not fail to notice that what the papers call "The Great Allied Sweep" in France was contemporaneous with the arrival of General SMUTS in England.

CHILDREN'S TALES FOR GROWN-UPS.

IV.

THE HUNGER-STRIKE.

"Did you hear that?" cried the white hen.

"What?" asked all the other hens.

"He called us—cluck-cluck-cluck," said the white hen.

"Why shouldn't he?" asked all the other hens.

"I didn't mean he called us 'cluck-cluck-cluck,'" said the white hen hastily. "I was only choking with rage when I said that. He called us—cluck-cluck-cluck—"

"She's going to lay an egg," said the black hen with interest.

"Poultry!" screamed the white hen suddenly.

"Poultry?" gasped the other hens.

"Poultry!—he called us 'poultry'—oh, cluck-cluck-cluck—"

"Something must be done," said the yellow hen.

"Something must be done," repeated all the hens.

"We must have a hunger-strike till he apologises," said the thin hen importantly.

"But we shall be hungry," cried all the hens.

"That is the essence of a hunger-strike," said the thin hen.

Just then the keeper arrived with food for the fowls.

"We mustn't run to him," they said to one another. "It's a hunger-strike, you know."

Suddenly the fat hen began running to him.

"Come back; it's a hunger-strike, you know!" cried the hens.

"I have an idea," shouted the fat hen as she ran; "the more we eat the longer we shall hold out."

"So we shall," cried all the hens as they scurried after the fat one.

Officer (to applicant for War-work). "WHAT'S YOUR NAME?"             Ex-flapper. "CISSIE"

THE FAVORITE.

Some people would die rather than talk aloud in a 'bus; others would rather die than hold their peace there. This second kind is more fun, and four of it made part of my journey the other day from Victoria to Oxford Street (I forget the number of the 'bus, but it goes up Bond Street) much less tedious. They were all young women in the latest teens or the earliest twenties, and all were what is called well-to-do, and they were fluent talkers.

Years ago, when poor LEWIS WALLER was at the height of his fame, we used to hear of a real or fictitious "Waller Club," the members of which were young women who spent as much time as they could in visiting his theatre and rejoicing in the sight of his brave gestures and the sound of his vibrant voice. It was even said that they had a badge by which they could know each other; although on the face of it, judging by what sparse scraps of information concerning the nature of woman I have been able painfully to collect, I should say that segregation would be, in such a case as this, more to their taste.

Be that true or only invented, it is very clear that in spite of the War and its shattering way with so many ancient shibboleths the cult of the actor is still strong; for this is the kind of thing that lasted all the way from Hyde Park Corner to Vere Street:—

"Did you see him the other day in that ballet? Of course I knew he could dance, because he can do everything, but I never thought he was going to be so gloriously graceful as he was."

"But surely you ought to have known. Don't you remember him as the Prince at the LORD MAYOR'S Ball?"

"And what a wonderful figure he has!"

"I couldn't help wishing that he had only stained his legs instead of putting on red tights."

"My dear!!!"

"It's his grace that's the wonderful thing about him, I always think. His ease. He moves so—how shall I put it?—so, well, so easily and gracefully."

"Don't you love him when he stands with his hands in his pockets?"

"My dear, yes. But what a wonderful tailor he goes to. I always used to tell my brother to try and find out where his things were made and go to the same place."

"But of course it's the way clothes are worn much more than the clothes themselves. I mean, some men can never look well dressed, whereas others can look well in anything."

"But he does go to the best tailor, I'm sure."

"How many times have you seen this new piece?"

"Six."

"Only six! I've seen it eleven."

"I've seen it three times."

"I've seen it five times; but one of those doesn't count, because when we got there we found he was ill with chicken-pox. Wasn't that rotten luck?"

"I heard he had been ill, but I didn't know what it was. Was it really chicken-pox?"

"Yes, poor darling."

"Fancy him having a thing like that! I suppose it's part of the price of keeping so young."

"Oh, yes, isn't he young!"

"They say this thing's going to run for years."

"I hope not. I want to see him in something new. It's so wonderful how he's always the same and yet always different."

"I want him to be in every play. I never go to one without thinking how much better he would be than the other leading man."

"I saw that little what's-his-name imitate him the other evening. Really it's rather a shame."

"Yes, I've seen it. I couldn't help laughing, but I hated myself for it. I'm sure, too, he doesn't waggle his head like that."

"No! I couldn't see the point of that at all; but the people shrieked."

"Pooh, they'd laugh at anything."

"What did you like him best of all in?"

"That's difficult. Of course he was priceless as the policeman. But then he was priceless as the American too, in that thing before this."

"Well, I think—"

And so on. Except that I never mention his name, and I have suppressed the titles of the plays, this is practically an exact reproduction of the conversation. Naturally many of the sentences overlapped, for ladies no less than gentlemen often talk at the same time; but otherwise I have reported faithfully.

And who was the subject of these eulogies? You will guess at once when I say that he is probably the only actor in history who is referred to more often by his Christian name only than by his surname or full name. These young women who adored WALLER spoke of him not as LEWIS, but as LEWIS WALLER; and that is the usual custom. The divine SARAH is perhaps the only other histrion, and she is a woman, who may be spoken of simply as SARAH, with no risk of ambiguity. Ordinarily, as I say, we use either the surname only or the surname and Christian name combined, as ELLEN TERRY, VIOLET LORAINE, GEORGE GRAVES, GEORGE ROBEY, LESLIE HENSON, NELSON KEYS. But these four devotees referred to their hero always as GERALD; just GERALD.

Gallant Major (temporarily in the care of H.M.'s Navy). "ANOTHER ONE OF THAT SORT AND—I SHALL DO AS I LIKE."

Survivor from U-Boat. "KAMERAD! KAMERAD! IF I VOS ON LAND I VOS HOLD UP MEIN HANDS!"

Ordinary Seaman. "WELL, YOUR FEET 'LL DO INSTEAD."

A.B. "GIVE US YER KNIFE."           Boy. "AIN'T GOT IT."

A.B. (with bitter scorn of non-essentials). "GOT YER WRIST-WATCH ALL RIGHT, I S'POSE?"

Apollo. "I NEVER SAID NOTHING TO 'ER—DID I?"

Neptune. "NO. BUT YOU WAS TRYIN' ON ONE OF YER FASCINATIN' LOOKS."

ECHOES FROM JUTLAND.

Wine Steward (acting as one of Ammunition Supply Party). "WILL YOU TAKE LYDDITE OR SHRAPNEL, SIR?"

SNOOKER POOL AFLOAT.

Commander (as the black he has tried to pot threatens to touch the port cushion). "LIST HER TO STARBOARD!"

THE "DAMNÉD SPOT."

"YOU OUGHT REALLY TO MANAGE TO GET BLOWN TO BITS SOMEHOW, NOBBY. YOU'D MAKE A CHAMPION JIG-SAW PUZZLE."

"HEY, DONAL'! HERE'S A WEE BETTLESHIP COMIN' ALONG."

"OCH! A WISH IT MICHT BE A U-BOAT."

Old Lady. "PARDON ME! I SUPPOSE YOU'VE JUST COME FROM THE SEA. CAN YOU TELL ME WHY I'VE HAD TO PAY A PENNY MORE FOR SCALLOPS TO-DAY?"

Landlord. "WHATEVER DID YOU LET THE FIRE OUT FOR? WHY DIDN'T YOU PUT SOME COALS ON?"

Stoker. "NOT LIKELY! I'M ON LEAVE, I AM."

Friend. "SEE YOU'RE IN A HURRY. WON'T KEEP YOU. OFF TO ADMIRALTY, I SUPPOSE?"

Sub-Lieutenant H.M.S. "Unbendable." "NOT EXACTLY. FACT IS I'M DUE AT MME. GIROUETTE'S ACADEMY. STRUCK AGAINST A COUPLE OF NEW STEPS IN THE FOX TROT AT THE PILKINGTONS' LAST NIGHT—RATHER WORRIED ME. BYE-BYE. MUST SHOVE OFF!"

Apologetic Golfer. "I SHOUTED 'FORE!' YOU KNOW."             Sailor. "WELL, YOU'VE HIT ME AFT!"

Tar (by way of opening the conversation). "AHEM! BEEN OUT IN THE LIFEBOAT OFTEN, MISS?"

Jones (who in going through his wardrobe has unearthed a memento of happier days at Margate). "WELL, IF THEY SHOULD CALL UP THE FORTY-FIVES, I THINK IT WILL HAVE TO BE THE NAVY."

The Artist (impatiently). "FOR GOODNESS' SAKE PUT SOME EXPRESSION INTO IT! JUST IMAGINE YOU'VE COME THROUGH A TERRIBLE EXPERIENCE—SHIP TORPEDOED—YOU SOLE SURVIVOR. AFTER CLINGING TO A BELAYING-PIN NINETEEN HOURS IN THE OPEN SEA YOU ARE RESCUED AT THE LAST GASP. YOU ARE NOW RELATING YOUR ADVENTURES TO YOUR AGED PARENTS."

Model (obligingly). "THAT'S ALL RIGHT, SIR—I CAN MANAGE IT. BUT EXCUSE ME. DID YOU SAY EIGHTEEN HOURS, OR WAS IT NINETEEN?"

King Alfred (founder of the Navy). "MADAM, I WAS EXPERIMENTING ON BISCUITS FOR MY SEA-DOGS."

"LET HER GO!"

A TRAMP CHANTEY.

'Er keel was laid in 'seventy-four

(Let 'er go—let 'er go);

They built 'er cheap an' they scamped 'er sore,

'Er rivets was putty, 'er plates was poor,

And then come in the PLIMSOLL line

Or I wouldn't be singin' this song o' mine.

(Let 'er go!)

She was cranky an' foul, she was stubborn an' slow

(Let 'er go—let 'er go),

An' she shipped it green when it come on to blow;

'Er crews was starved an' their wage was low,

An 'er bloomin' owners was ready to faint

At a scrape o' pitch or a penn'orth o' paint.

(Let 'er go!)

But she's been 'ere an' she's been there

(Let 'er go—let 'er go),

An' she's been almost everywhere;

An' wherever you went you'd sure see 'er,

With 'er rust-red hawse an' 'er battered old funnel,

All muck an' dirt from 'er keel to 'er gun'le.

(Let 'er go!)

She's earned 'er keep in a number o' climes

(Let 'er go—let 'er go);

She's changed 'er name a number o' times,

Which won't fit right into these 'ere rhymes,

But the name of 'er now is the Sound o' Mull,

Built on the Tyne an' sails out of 'Ull.

(Let 'er go!)

'Er keel was laid in 'seventy-four

(Let 'er go—let 'er go),

An' a breaker's price was 'er price before

The ships was scarce an' the freights did soar;

But she's fetched 'er fourteen pound a ton

On the Baltic Exchange since the War begun.

(Let 'er go!)

So she's doin' 'er bit, which we all must do

(Let 'er go—let 'er go),

An' whether she's old or whether she's new

Don't make much odds to a war-time crew,

But 'ooever's sunk or 'ooever's drowned,

The Sound o' Mull keeps pluggin' around.

(Let 'er go!)

An' when she goes, by night or by day

(Let 'er go—let 'er go),

Either up or down, as she likely may,

I only 'ope as someone'll say:

"'Er keel was laid in 'seventy-four;

She done 'er best an' she couldn't do more;

She warn't no swell an' she warn't no beauty,

But she come by 'er end in the way of 'er duty."

(Let 'er go!)

C. F. S.

"THINK WE'LL 'AVE ANOTHER CUT AT THE 'UNS BEFORE THE WAR ENDS, JACK?"

"NO FEAR! IT SAYS 'ERE THAT 'INDENBURG'S TAKEN ALL THE ABLE-BODIED AN' PUT 'EM ON TO WORK OF NATIONAL IMPORTANCE."

THE POULTICE.

Call this cold? You orter been with me in '63, when I was whalin' in the North Atlantic. I was steward on the Ella Wheeler, 6,000 tons, out from New Caledonia. Our skipper was a reg'lar old bluenose, and some Tartar, I don't think! Why, 'e'd lay yer out sooner than look at yer; an' once 'e put the cook in irons for two days 'cos the poor devil 'ad tumbled up against the side of the galley an' burnt the 'air off the side of 'is 'ead, and the old man said it was untidy; and we all 'ad to 'ave cold grub for two days—and in them latitudes! Lord, 'ow we 'ated 'im!

But the worst of it was that we 'ad no doctor on board, and when anybody took sick the old man insisted on doctorin' 'im 'isself; and 'e 'ad only one way of treatin' every disease in the 'orspitals. "Put 'im into 'is bunk," he says, "and wait till I bring 'im a 'ot linseed poultice for's chest." Tooth-ache or chilblains, a pain in yer stummick or ring-worm—'e always says the same thing, "Put 'im in his bunk," he says, "and I'll bring 'im a 'ot linseed poultice for 's chest." And 'e brought it and put it on with 'is own 'ands too! There was no gettin' out of it if once 'e 'eard you were sick. Lord, 'ow we 'ated 'im!

There was Pete Malone—'ad a great mop of 'air like a lion or a musician—must needs go washing one day on deck, like a fool. It was all right as long as 'e 'ad the 'ot water and the soapsuds goin'; but 'e give 'is 'ead a rinse, an' stood up, and, swelpme, before 'e could get the towel to work every single 'air 'e 'd got 'ad its own private icicle, an' 'is silly 'ead looked like a silver-plated porkypine.

Well, as I was saying, we were about a 'undred-and-fifty mile from the nearest land, which 'ud be the West coast of Greenland, bearin' about E. by N., when we thought that at last we were going' to get one back on the old man. It was this way. One bitter cold night 'e was makin' 'is way aft to turn in, when 'e slips up where a wave 'ad froze on the deck, an' e' goes wallop down the 'ole length of the companion, from top to bottom, an' busts three of 'is ribs. Of course we all ran an' picked 'im up, an' said we 'oped 'e wasn't much 'urt. But 'e says, "None of yer jabber, ye swines; 'elp me inter my bunk, and two of yer bring me a 'ot linseed poultice for my chest."

Well, we puts 'im in 'is bunk, and I catches the eye of the first mate, and we goes out together. "Mick," says I, "'e's askin' for a 'ot poultice. Lord send there's a good fire in the galley!" "If there ain't," says Micky to me, "we'll damn'd soon make one." So we makes a fire such as none of the ship's company 'ad ever seen; and we gets two buckets of water, one very near full, and the other about a quarter full, and we soon 'as 'em both on the boil. Then we makes the poultice in the drop of water; and when 'e was ready, we gets the grid and puts it across the top of the other bucket, and lays the poultice on the grid, and me and the mate picks up the full bucket with two pair o' tongs, 'olding a torch under 'er to keep 'er at the boil.

When the old man saw us 'is face twisted a bit! But talk about cold! We slapped the poultice on to 'im, and, if you'll believe me, inside o' ninety seconds the thing 'ad froze 'ard on 'im, and formed a splint, and—saved 'is life, blarst 'im!

SOME CATCH: THE ANGLER'S DREAM.

SOME CATCH: THE ANGLER'S DREAM.

Lieutenant ——, R.N., to Lieutenant ——, R.N. (they are paying one of those periodical visits to a lonely island in the South Pacific). "THESE WRETCHED ISLANDERS, CUT OFF AS THEY ARE FROM ALL THE WORLD, ARE, I SUPPOSE, HARDLY CIVILISED."

First Wretched Islander to Second Wretched Islander. "DOES THIS VISIT INTRIGUE YOU?"

"AND THE LAST THING MY MISSUS SAID TO ME WAS, 'BRING US 'OME SOME SORT OF AN OLD CURIOSITY FROM FURREN PARTS.'"

Fond Teuton Parent (to super-tar home on leave). "AND YOU LIKE YOUR SHIP, FRITZ?"

Fritz. "I LOVE HER! SHE'S A WONDER! SUCH SPEED! WHENEVER WE RACE BACK TO PORT SHE'S BEEN FIRST EVERY TIME."

Karl. "WHAT WORRIES ME IS THE FACT THAT WE WANT MORE MEN FOR THE NAVY. WHAT I SHOULD LIKE TO KNOW IS, WHERE ARE THEY TO COME FROM?"

Gretchen. "BE CALM, KARL. DOUBTLESS OUR GLORIOUS PROFESSORS OF CHEMISTRY WILL INVENT A SUBSTITUTE."

THE INFECTIOUS HORNPIPE.

THE BREATH OF LIBERTY.

THE GERMAN AUTOCRAT. "THEY MAY FIND THIS WIND VERY BRACING IN RUSSIA BUT IT MAKES ME FEEL EXTREMELY UNCOMFORTABLE."

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

Monday, March 19th.—Captain BATHURST announced that the FOOD CONTROLLER would issue an order fixing the retail price of swedes at a figure involving a reduction of "something like 200 per cent." The FOOD CONTROLLER, as his faithful henchman subsequently remarked, "is always doing his best," but if he can really reduce the price of a commodity to 100 per cent. less than nothing I hope he will not confine his activity to a solitary vegetable.

I am afraid that envy was the predominant feeling aroused by Mr. SNOWDEN'S story of the family in New Cavendish Street which secured in a single order from a single firm no less than sixty-three pounds of sugar. Lest any Hon. Members should be tempted to try and do likewise Captain BATHURST promptly announced that another order prohibiting hoarding would shortly be issued. The House cheered, for, as a journalist Member remarked with gloomy satisfaction, "It is only fair that 'no posters' should be followed by 'no hoarding.'"

The PRIME MINISTER paid one of his angelic visits to the House to give the latest information of the revolution in Russia. His description of it as "one of the landmarks in the history of the world" evoked loud cheers, but even louder were those which came from the Nationalist benches when he remarked that "free peoples are the best defenders of their own honour."

Tuesday, March 20th.—A long cross-examination of the representative of the Air Board produced one valuable statement which Members generally might bear in mind. Mr. BILLING asked if it was not "in the public interest or in the interests of this House" that certain contracts should be discussed. Fixing him with his eye-glass, Major BAIRD replied, "No, the interests of the House and of the public, I take it, are the same as the interests of the nation."

DEFENSIVE DUET BY MESSRS. ASQUITH AND WINSTON CHURCHILL.

If there was any lingering doubt as to the main responsibility for the inception—as apart from the carrying out—of the Dardanelles affair Mr. CHURCHILL himself must have removed it. Unlike his former chief he welcomes the publication of the Report, which in his opinion has shared among a number of eminent personages a burden formerly borne by himself alone. But his enthusiasm for the project as it originally formed itself in his fertile brain is undiminished, and he still marvels that for the want of a little further sacrifice we should have abandoned the chance of cutting Turkey out of the War, and uniting in one friendly federation the States of the Balkans.

Wednesday, March 21st.—General MAUDE'S manifesto to the people of Baghdad, with its allusions to the tyranny under which they had long been suffering, did not escape the eagle eye of Mr. DEVLIN, ever anxious to scarify British hypocrisy. So he drafted a long question to the PRIME MINISTER, embodying the most salient passages of the manifesto. Much to his disgust it appeared on the Paper without its "most beautiful and striking passages." The SPEAKER explained that he had blue-pencilled "a good deal of Oriental and flowery language not suitable to our Western climate." Not the least part of the joke is the rumour that the manifesto was largely the work of a Member of the House well versed in Eastern lore.

Thursday, March 22nd.—The Ministry of National Service, being unprovided at present with a Parliamentary Secretary, is supposed to be represented in the House by Mr. ARTHUR HENDERSON. But as the Member for Barnard Castle has important functions to perform in the War Cabinet and is rarely in the House he usually deputes some other Member of the Government to answer Questions addressed to him. To-day the lot fell upon Mr. BECK, who good-temperedly explained, when a shower of "supplementaries" rained down upon him, that he really knew nothing about the Department he was temporarily representing. This led to a tragedy, for Mr. SWIFT MACNEILL worked himself into a paroxysm of excitement over this constitutional enormity, and finally sat down on his hat. "I only wish his head had been in it," muttered a brother Irishman—from Ulster.

Believers in "the hidden hand," which is supposed to paralyse our military efforts, are divided in opinion as to whether this cryptic member is most actively employed by Lord HALDANE, Sir WILLIAM ROBERTSON or Sir EYRE CROWE, Assistant-Secretary to the Foreign Office. They will probably regard Lord ROBERT CECIL'S statement that some seven years ago Sir EYRE drew up a memorandum calling the attention of Sir EDWARD GREY to the grave dangers that threatened this country from Germany as further evidence of his duplicity. The rest of the world will rejoice at Lord ROBERT'S spirited vindication of "one of the ablest of our public servants," who, despite Miss CHRISTABEL PANKHURST, is not one of "the three black crows" of legendary fame.

When Sir H. DALZIEL, at the outset of his appeal to the Government to make another attempt to settle the Irish Question, promised that he would not "explore the noxious vapours of the past," I feared the worst. But he was as good as his word, and spared us any gruesome excavations in ancient Irish history. Major HILLS did even better by implying that it was only during the last ten years that the question had warped and diverted our domestic politics. If all Irishmen were as reasonable and moderate as Mr. RONALD McNEILL showed himself this afternoon it would not need settling, for it would never have arisen. He only asked, if sacrifices were necessary, that Ulster should not alone be expected to make them. Sir HAMAR GREENWOOD, as the great-grandson of a Canadian rebel who took twelve sons into the field—"almost his whole family," added his descendant—insisted that the Colonial method of securing Home Rule was the best—first agree among yourselves, and then go to the Imperial Parliament to sanction your scheme. And perhaps, after the conciliatory spirit displayed in to-day's debate, that is not so impossible oven in Ireland as it seemed a few weeks ago. Hitherto every attempt of the British Sisyphus to roll the Stone of Destiny up the Hill of Tara has found a couple of Irishmen at the top ready to roll it down again. Let us hope that this time they will co-operate to instal it there as the throne of a loyal and united Ireland.

HERBS OF GRACE.

IV.

THYME.

All things true,

All things sweet—

Summer-dawn dew

And Love's heart-beat;

All things holy,

Hill-flow'rs lowly,

A far church-chime—

These things dwell

In the smell

Of Thyme.

All things clean,

All things pure—

Joys that have been

And faiths that endure;

All things sunny,

Bee-song and honey,

Sheep-walks, rhyme—

These things dwell

In the smell

Of Thyme.

All things set

With sharp sweet pain—

April regret

For vows yet vain;

All things fragrant,

Thoughts long vagrant

From Beauty's clime—

These things dwell

In the smell

Of Thyme.

"Sir John Simon, K.C., cited as an illustration the friendship between Daniel and Jonathan. The Lord Chief Justice: I become very nervous when you support your law by quoting Scripture."—Daily Mail.

We always feel more nervous when people misquote Scripture for their purpose.

"The Lord Mayor of London, Sir William Dunn, accompanied by other members of the City Council in their robes, and the Lady Mayoress, were amongst the very large conflagration at St. Patrick's, Soho. An eloquent sermon was preached."—Irish Paper.

"Burning words," indeed.

From a description of the difficulties of the members of the Press Gallery in reporting Mr. BONAR LAW:—

"Since he has become leader of the House they have aged and grown haggard and dejected. The sound of his voice fills them with bread."—Birmingham Daily Post.

Well, in these days that ought to afford them ample consolation.

"Sir Richard L. Borden's name, now a household word, became familiar only six years ago."—Daily Paper.

But even now he is not so well known as Sir ROBERT!

DE PROFUNDIS.

When I went round the trenches a day or two before we were to move in, the great frost was still in possession; but there was a mild feeling in the air.

"I can thoroughly recommend these trenches to you, Sir," said the occupier in a businesslike manner. "Commodious and well built, fitted throughout with the latest pattern duck-boards and reached by three charmingly sequestered communication trenches, named Hic, Haec and Hoc. The dug-outs are well equipped and well sunk. The whole would form an ideal retreat for gentlemen of quiet tastes."

"Good. And the people over the way?"

"Unobtrusive and retiring to a degree."

"In fact," I said, "a most select neighbourhood—unless it thaws."

He dropped pleasantries and answered very seriously. "If it thaws, Heaven help you. There's enough water frozen up in these walls to drown the lot of you."

It did thaw.

When we relieved, we waded up to the line through miles of trenches all knee-deep in water, to the accompaniment of ominous splashes as the sides began to fall in. When daylight came we found our select estate converted into a system of canals filled with a substance varying in consistency from coffee to glue. Hic, Haec and Hoc, owing to the wear and tear of constant traffic, became especially gluey, and after a time we rechristened them respectively the Great Ooze, the Little Ooze and the River Styx—the last not solely in reference to its adhesive qualities, but also because such a number of things went West in it. Some time after the original duck-boards had sunk out of our depth we could still move along Styx on a solid bottom composed of lost gum-boots, abandoned rations and the like. At last, when Frankie, struggling up to the line with the rum ration, was forced to dump his precious burden in order to save his life, we pronounced Styx impassable and thenceforth proceeded along the top after dusk.

The Great Ooze still remained just possible for those whose business took them back and forward during the day, but even here were spots in which it was worse than unwise to linger. As I squelched painfully through one of these on our last day in the line, I found one Private Harrison firmly embedded to the top of his thigh-boots. He told me he had been struggling vainly for about an hour.

"Give me your hands," I said.

I tugged, but could get no proper purchase. Harrison grew gradually black in the face, but remained immovable. I tried another plan. I turned about, and Harrison clasped his hands round my neck. Then I walked away.... At least that was the idea.

"Harrison," I said anxiously after a determined struggle, "were you standing on the duckboards?"

"Yes, Sir. I still am."

"Heavens, so am I. Let go. I've got to get myself out now."

By using Harrison as a stepping-stone to higher things I just managed to heave myself out. I surveyed him panting.

"In about an hour it'll be dusk. I'll bring some men and a rope and haul you out then. If that fails we'll simply have to hand you over as trench stores when we get relieved."

As soon as Fritz's wire had disappeared into the gathering gloom I took out my little rescue party. We threw the captive a rope and began to pull scientifically under direction of a sergeant skilled in tugs-of-war.

"Heave, you men," I whispered excitedly. "He's coming."

He was, but without his boots. Inch by inch we dragged him out of them. The strain was terrific. Suddenly—much too suddenly—the tension broke. Harrison shot into the air and fell again with a dull thud in the Ooze beside his boots, while the rescue party collapsed head over heels into an adjacent shell-hole.

Harrison seemed a little peevish, but consented to try again. The rope tautened, and there was a sharp crack from below.

"'Old on," cried the prisoner sharply, "me braces is bust."

"Can't think o' braces now," grunted my burly sergeant. "Heave-ho, lads, up she comes!"

Harrison was pulled clean out of his nether garments, cursing bitterly as the wind caught his bare legs, and hung suspended between earth and water, amid ribald comments from above.

One more pull would do it. But at that moment Fritz, apparently feeling that we weren't taking his war seriously enough, opened up with a machine-gun. The rescue party dropped the rope and rolled heavily into the shell-hole, and the sorely tried Harrison found himself back again, but face downwards this time, and held by his arms up to the elbows.

We could hear horrible language, and after a moment, all being quiet, I crawled to the edge and looked over. His last struggle had split Harrison's tunic and pulled it clean off his back; and now, with his shirt-tail trailing dismally in the Ooze, he was making the best of his own way to the dressing-station, ungratefully consigning his gallant rescuers to complete and lasting perdition as he went.

"A LOT OF KHAKI ABOUT, WAITER."

"YES, SIR. IT MAKES SOME OF US OLDER ONES FEEL A BIT MUFTI, DON'T IT?"

A TOPICAL TRAGEDY.

Jim Startin was not loved at school;

We thought him rather knave than fool.

Migrating thence to Oxford, he

Failed to secure a pass degree.

Years sped—some twenty—ere again

Jim Startin swam into my ken.

I met him strolling down the Strand

Well-dressed, well-nourished, sleek and bland,

A high-class journalistic swell—

The Headline Expert of The Yell.

Great at the art, in peaceful days,

Of finding means our scalps to raise,

The War had since revealed in him

A super-Transatlantic vim,

And day by day his paper's bills

Gave us fresh epileptic thrills.

The sons of Belial, in the rhyme

Of DRYDEN, had a glorious time,

But never managed to attain

To Jim's success in giving pain.

But while his power was at its height

It perished in a single night;

For, with his bills by law abolished,

Jim's occupation was demolished;

Headlines that can't be blazed abroad

On bills and posters are a fraud;

They cease to titillate the mob

Or draw the pennies from its fob,

So Jim was "fired" and lost his job.

Lady (to coalheavers). "SO SWEET OF YOU TO COME. I DO HOPE YOU'LL COME AGAIN."

"More to the west the British marked fresh progress south of Achiet-le-Petit, where their lines were advanced on a front of 2 kilometres (1¼ miles). Finally the Germans fell back for the length of 2 kilometres (5/8 mile) between Essarts and Gommecourt."—The Evening News.

The road home always seems shorter.

"The enemy went at the moment when he left because he was shelled out."—Daily Mail.

Of course he might have had a different motive if he had gone the moment after he left.

"She was wearing a three-quarter red coat with glass buttons to match a heavy blue skirt with low neck."

We never have approved of these décolletés skirts.

First Flapper. "THE CHEEK OF THAT CONDUCTOR! HE GLARED AT ME AS IF I HADN'T PAID ANY FARE."

Second Flapper. "AND WHAT DID YOU DO?"

First Flapper. "I JUST GLARED BACK AT HIM—AS IF I HAD!"

THE FRUIT MERCHANT.

"I feel regular down this morning, Sir," said Private Thomas Weeks, as I seated myself beside his bed; "regular down, I do."

It was such a very unusual greeting from this source that I said anxiously, "Not the leg gone wrong?"

"No, the old leg's fine. It's the stopping of the imports." He indicated the morning paper which he had just laid aside. "It's just about bust up my old business."

I took the paper and glanced down the list of prohibited articles. Clocks and parts thereof, perfumery, and quails (live) caught my eye. I didn't think it could be any of these.

"What was your business?" I asked.

"Fruit merchant, Sir. Barrow trade, you understand. 'Awker, some calls it. But it don't much matter now what it's called, 'cos it's bust up."

"Not quite bust up, is it?" I said. "Only a bit cut down for a time."

"That may be," he said, "but I got a strong affection for the trade, Sir, a very strong affection, and I can't 'elp feeling it. Why, rightly speaking, it was the fruit trade what got me my D.C.M."

"Did it though? How was that?"

"Well, it was like this. I bin callin' fruit a good many years. I could call fruit with anyone. When I calls ''Oo sez a blood orange?' at Kennington Lane, you could 'ear it pretty well as far as New Cross. Same with ''Ave a banana?' If you're to do the trade you must make the people 'ear. It ain't no good bein' like them chaps what stands in the gutter and whispers, 'Umberella ring a penny,' to their boots."

"But what about the D.C.M.?"

"I'm comin' to it, Sir. You see, I got it in connection with a little bit o' work Trones Wood way. Through various circs, fault o' nobody really, me and Sam Corney found ourselves alone alongside a dug-out full o' Bosches. If we'd 'ad a few bombs we'd 'a' bin all right, but we 'adn't. I sez to Sam, 'We must scare 'em,' I sez, and I shouts, ''Oo says a blood orange?' at the top o' my voice into the dug-out, which was dark, of course, and I stands in the doorway with my bayonet ready. I can't say what they mistook it for. Crack o' doom, Sam sez. But eight come out o' that dug-out with their 'ands up. I sent Sam off 'ome with 'em, though they'd 'a' gone with no escort at all, I reckon, bein' sort o' stunned. And I went on down the trench.

"At the turn there was another dug-out. ''Ave a banana?' I yells, and out come ten of 'em, cryin' for mercy. I took 'em back to what we calls Petticoat Lane and 'ands 'em over and come up again. But I didn't get no more barrow-work that day, and my D.C.M. was for them prisoners right enough. So now you see what I feels like about the fruit business. It's like an old pal bein' done in."

"I shouldn't worry too much about it," I said. "You've each had a bit of a knock-out; but you'll soon be on your legs again, and so will your barrow, and going strong, both of you."

SCOTLAND YET.

[Dr. GEORG BIEDENKAPP, writing in the Münchner Neueste Nachrichten, says that if you examine any famous "Englishman" you find that he really comes from Scotland, to which country he assigns a place with Suabia, Thuringia, and the Hartz Mountains as "a cradle of Kultur and a fountain of first-class genius."]

Man Sandy, here's a German Hun

Wha thinks he's on a track

That nane hae trodden, having fun'

A new an' stairtlin' fac';

A' English thocht he doots is nocht,

An' English ways are henious,

But ah, says he, in Scotland see

The hame o' first-class genius.

New? Why, my feyther kent it fine,

An', Sandy, I'll be sworn

The knowledge o' the fac' was mine

Or ever I was born;

If there be ane wad daur maintain

The truth is still to settle,

I haena met the madman yet

In bonny braw Kingskettle.

Ay, yon's a truth that's kent fu' weel

In ilka but an' ben;

But I could teach the German chiel

A truth he doesna ken;

Gin ye would find the hame o' mind

An' intellectual life, man,

Ye needna look far frae the Nook,

The bonny Nook o' Fife, man.

Whaur did our good EX-PREMIER go

Whene'er he wished to swank?

To Lunnon? Edinburgh? No!

He cam' to Ladybank;

Nae doot he thocht if there was ocht

Would put him on his mettle

'Twas meetin' men o' brain, ye ken,

Like us frae auld Kingskettle.

Fleet Street is fu' o' Fifers tae;

The Cockneys want the views

O' men like JOCK MCFARLANE frae

The Crail and Cupar News;

For if a chiel can write sae weel

That you an' me will read him,

Why, man, withoot a shade o' doot

Lunnon is sure to need him.

Then tak' the Army. What d'ye see?

Wha's chief? Nae need to tell

That DOUGLAS HAIG is prood to be

A Fifer like mesel';

An' weel he may, for truth to say

There's something aye aboot us:

In ilka trade they want oor aid—

They canna win withoot us.

Wedding Fashions, B.C.

"The bridesmaid was attired in pink carnations."—"Daily Colonist," Victoria, British Columbia.

FRIGHTFULNESS ON THE ALLOTMENTS.

THE HARDSHIPS OF BILLETS.

Jim and me could never 'ave got through the six weeks we was billeted with Mrs. Sweedle if we 'adn't been 'ardened by Mrs. Larkins in the way I 'ave described.

Mrs. Sweedle were a widow woman with a big family, besides a aged father and a brother who suffered with fits. The billetin' orficer was afraid she wouldn't he able to take us in, but Mrs. Sweedle was willin' and eager.

"Bless their hearts, that I will," she said; "it shall never be said I turned a soldier from my door. Nobody knows better than I do what soldiers is in an 'ouse. Always merry and bright and ready to put their 'ands to anything when a poor woman's work's never done and she's delicate and liable to the sick-'eadache in the mornin's. There's the week's clothes to go through the wringer, but I know what soldiers is for a wringer; they can't leave it alone. And if I 'appens to overlay meself I know there's no cause to worry about Grandfer's cup o' tea, nor yet Bobby and Tom and Albert gettin' off to school tidy. Like as not they'll do me more credit than if I washed 'em meself; there's nobody like a soldier for puttin' a polish on children."

Mrs. Sweedle overlaid herself the very first mornin', and sent word by Albert if we would be so kind as make her a cup o' tea when we was makin' Grandfer's it might save her a doctor; and the wood for the fire was out in the yard, and she knew, bein' soldiers, we should chop her a barrer-load while we was about it; and when she crawled downstairs presently the breakfast things would be washed and put away, as was the 'abit of soldiers, and very likely the pertaters peeled for dinner.

It bein' a strange 'ouse and we not knowin' where to put our 'ands on anythin', and, when we'd got the kettle to boil, not bein' able to let it out of our sight owin' to the youngest little Sweedle wantin' to drink out of the spout, Jim and me was regler drove. We was as near late for parade as we 'ave ever been in our lives. Mrs. Sweedle was very upset. "I know what soldiers is for punctuality," she said, "a minute late and they're court-martialled. How would it be if you was to lay the fire over-night and scrub over the floor? It 'ud save ye a lot in the mornin', if so be I'm forced to keep me bed."

We done as she advised, and it were fortunate. She 'ad another sick-'eadache the next day, and sent word by Albert would we be so good as bake her a mouthful of toast; she knew what soldiers' toast was like, it give ye a appetite to look at it, thin and crisp, with the butter laid on smooth as cream and cut in fingers.

We never run no risk after that. 'Owever dog-tired we was and 'owever Mrs. Sweedle seemed in 'ealth we always got the work forward over-night, and when we could catch 'old of Bobby and Tom and Albert we washed 'em to save time in the mornin' and parted their 'air.

One day Mrs. Sweedle were well enough to get up. "I know who's goin' to 'ave a treat now," she said. Our 'arts leapt. We did 'ope she might be goin' to say we was to sit down to our breakfasts.

"Grandfer's goin' to be shaved, and not 'ave to pay tuppence out of 'is poor pension," she said. "There's nobody can shave like a soldier." And when Jim 'ad got the old man by the nose she said to me, "I can see what you want to be at, shakin' these mats with your strong arm and savin' me comin' on giddy."

It were very 'ard at first, but after a bit Jim and me got into the work at Mrs. Sweedle's and was just able to get through with it, except the mornin' her brother 'ad a fit when we was racin' to finish the washin'-up. That fair broke our backs. We 'ad a sort of seizure on parade and 'ad to fall out till we got our breaths back.

THE RECOGNISED.

Give ear to my words and you shall hear

The song of the British Volunteer,

Who started out when the War began

As a middle-aged mostly grey-haired man.

Too old to be sent to join the dance

Of the doughty fellows who fought in France,

He refused to go on the dusty shelf,

And he set to work and he bought himself

A spirited grey-green uniform,

With a cap to match and a British warm,

And he took his fill

Of the latest drill;

But somehow they didn't seem to prize him

Or wish in the least to recognise him.

But now they have let him cast away

His excellent clothes of green and grey;

They think they can use him,

And don't refuse him,

And they've dressed him up and they've dressed him down

In a regular suit of khaki brown;

He has been gazetted

And properly vetted

As able to march five miles at least,

Though he puffs a bit when the speed 's increased;

And he can double

Without much trouble,

And do such deeds as a man must do

Who is willing to help to see things through.

A Wholesale Order.

"Lieut-Colonel —— received the K.C.B. and other decorations, including C.M.G.s, D.S.O.s, Military Crosses, and Royal Red Crosses."—Evening Standard.

From "Paris Theatrical Notes":—

"The programme for to-day at the Opéra compromises 'Samson et Dalila.'"—Continental Daily Mail.

It sounds a little superfluous.

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

(By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks.)

Alfred Lyttelton: An Account of his Life, by EDITH LYTTELTON (LONGMANS), is a most fascinating book. Mrs. ALFRED LYTTELTON might perhaps have contented herself with writing a formal biography of her husband. It would have been difficult for her, but she might, as I say, have done it. Instead of this she takes her readers by the hand in the friendliest manner and admits them with her into the heart and soul of the man with whom she was for twenty years associated. She shows him as what he was, a noble and upright English gentleman, straightforward and tender-hearted, and beloved in a quite exceptional measure by all who were privileged to be his friends. I can only be grateful to Mrs. LYTTELTON for having interpreted her duty in this manner, and for having carried it out with so sure a hand. As I read her pages I saw again in my mind's eye the loose-limbed, curly-headed young son of Anak as he swung down Jesus Lane, Cambridge, or as he witched the world with noble cricketing at Fenner's or at Lord's. It is good to be able to remember him. His Eton tutor described him as being "like a running stream with the sun on it," and there was, indeed, a charm about him that was irresistible. Mrs. LYTTELTON devotes a beautiful chapter to the memory of ALFRED'S first wife, LAURA, who died after one short year of happiness. "She was a flame," says Mrs. LYTTELTON, "beautiful, dancing, ardent, leaping up from the earth in joyous rapture, touching everyone with fire as she passed. The wind of life was too fierce for such a spirit—she could not live in it. Surely it was Love that gathered her." I have only one little bone to pick, and that not with Mrs. LYTTELTON, but with Lord MIDLETON, who in a page or two of reminiscences describes as one of ALFRED'S triumphs at the Bar his appearance as counsel for the Warden of Morton, Mr. GEORGE BRODRICK. The Warden, having said something offensive about Mr. DILLON, was hailed before the Parnell Commission for contempt of court. ALFRED put in an affidavit by the Warden, in which the whole thing was said to be a joke, and in his speech he chaffed Mr. REID (now Lord LOREBURN), who was counsel for Mr. DILLON, for being a Scotsman, with a natural incapacity for seeing a joke. So far Lord MIDLETON; but he omits Mr. REID'S crushing retort. "Even a Scotsman," said Mr. REID, "may be pardoned for not seeing a joke which has to be certified by affidavit."

Mr. JEFFERY E. JEFFERY has been playing cheerful tricks on the British public. We must forgive him, because he has for a long time been doing far worse than that to the Huns; but it is undeniable that in following the winding trail of his beloved guns we are in no small danger of losing our sense of direction. This is because along with imaginary tales, some of them written before August, 1914, when of course he could not fix precisely the chronology and locality of his fights, he has mixed almost indiscriminately the record of his own actual experiences during two distinct phases of the War. Not until the last page does he abandon the jest to explain—with something of a school-boy grin—just where fact and fiction meet, and so enable me to recover from my bewilderment and pass on a word of warning. Once on your guard, however, you will find his story of the Servants of the Guns (SMITH, ELDER), and more especially the first half of it (dealing, in diary form, with his recent adventures as an officer of Artillery—he does not state his present rank), as vivid and real as anything of the sort you have seen. Field-gun warfare of to-day—mathematics, telephones and mud—with little more of old-time dash and jingle than the hope that some to-morrow may revive them in the Great Pursuit—this is his theme; and above all the loyalty of the gunner to his guns. Even the story-book part in the middle of the volume speaks of this finely and movingly; but here and there amongst his personal experiences comes a passage less consciously composed that tells it even better in the bareness of a great simplicity.

Mr. J.D. BERESFORD'S new story, House-Mates (CASSELL), might be regarded as an awful warning to young gentlemen seeking bachelor-apartments. Because, if the hero had been a little more careful about his fellow-lodgers at No. 73 Keppel Street, he would not, in the first place, have been defrauded of a large sum of money, or, in the second, have been involved in a peculiarly revolting murder. (The special hatefulness of this murder strikes me as rather superfluous. But this by the way.) On the other hand, of course, he would never have married the heroine, and we should have missed a very agreeable study of expanding adolescence. This, I take it, is the real motive of Mr. BERESFORD'S story, as exemplified by his pleasant introductory metaphor of the chicken and the egg. From the feminine point of view, indeed, the tale might be not inaptly labelled "Treatise on Cub-hunting." Anyhow, what with strange actresses and I.D.B. criminals and painted ladies and reviewers (they were a queer lot at No. 73!) the hero completes his tenancy with enough experience of life, chiefly on its shadowy side, to last him for some time. An original and rather appealing story, told with a good deal of charm.

I was waiting for it, and now, behold, it has come. In The Shining Heights (MILLS AND BOON) the War is over and we have to do with some of the results of it. Unfortunately Miss I.A.R. WYLIE is very chary about dates, and she is not encouraging about the changes which most of us hope will come with peace. "Social conditions indeed," she writes, "had scarcely moved. Universal brotherhood was not ... and, for the vast majority of men and women it had been easiest to go back to the old work, the old pleasure, the old love and the old hate." Well, I don't know much about universal brotherhood, but for the rest I sincerely hope that these gloomy prognostications are wrong. As for the story, laid in the Delectable Duchy, no one needs to be told that Miss WYLIE is a novelist of considerable power and capacity, and here she has chosen a theme of very real interest. It is the rivalry of two men, one of whom had returned from the War with wounds and a V.C., while the other had never taken part in it because he believed (with justification) that he was on the point of making a discovery of value to humanity. The story is well constructed and well told, but I am beginning to think that it is time for Cornwall to be declared a prohibited area for all novelists except Mr. CHARLES MARRIOTT and "Q."

Yet more theatrical recollections. The latest volume of them is My Remembrances (CASSELL), in which Mr. EDWARD H. SOTHERN recounts, with the pleasant humour to be expected from him, what he quaintly (and quite unjustifiably) calls "The Melancholy Tale of Me." One has heard that Mr. SOTHERN, now that he has retired from the stage, proposes to live in England; the book explains such an intention by its evidence of the writer's intense love for this country. Naturally he has a rich stock of good stories, amongst which I was delighted to welcome yet once again that old favourite about the departing spectator who, on being told that two Acts remained to be performed, said briefly, "That's why I'm going!" Newer (to me) was the Dundreary tale that told how the elder SOTHERN'S triumph was actually the result of JEFFERSON'S partiality for horse-exercise. The connection I leave you to find out. Like all volumes of its kind, My Remembrances abounds in photographs. At times, indeed, you may be tempted to consider that the domain of the family portrait album has been too largely usurped. But there is even about this a friendliness which, coupled with the brisk style of its writing, will give the book a popularity as wide as that of its author.

We all know that Mr. WILLIAM CAINE has a gay humour, and he indulges it liberally, sometimes rollickingly, in The Fan. With a candour which I warmly commend he states conspicuously that most of these stories have appeared before, and he expresses his acknowledgments to various Editors over a widish range—from Macmillan's Magazine to London Opinion, and from The English Review to Answers. It would be an innocent diversion to have to guess which story was written for which Editor. But for whatever public the author caters he is, with only one or two exceptions, out for fun, and he gets it. Some of his stories are pure extravaganzas, but they are written in a style unusually good for this kind, and by a very shrewd observer of human foibles. Messrs. METHUEN tell us that Mr. CAINE "views life from an angle all his own," and although I do not often find myself in agreement with publishers' opinions of their own wares it is to me a right angle.

THE ECONOMIC ERA.

PROVIDE YOUR OWN WATER SUPPLY AND RELEASE A WATER-RATE COLLECTOR.

"THE FOOD HOARDERS THREATENED.

NOT MORE THAN 1 TON OF COAL AT A TIME."—Daily News.

Then, as the vulgar have it, the food-hoarders will just have to go and eat coke.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI, VOLUME 152, MARCH 28, 1917 ***

Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed.

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark license, especially commercial redistribution.

START: FULL LICENSE

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work (or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at www.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works

1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™ electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property (trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the United States and you are located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™ works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when you share it without charge with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any country other than the United States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, copied or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™ trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™ License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project Gutenberg™ License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website (www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works provided that:

- • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.”

- • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ works.

- • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of receipt of the work.

- • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.

1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGE.

1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.

1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any Defect you cause.

Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™

Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.

Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit 501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.

The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact

Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations ($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.

Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.

Most people start at our website which has the main PG search facility: www.gutenberg.org.

This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™, including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.

back

back

back

back

back

back

back

back

back

back

back

back

back

back

back

back

back

back

back

back

back

back

back

back

back

back

back

back

back

back

back

back

back

back

back

back

back

back

back

Table of Contents

- PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

- Vol. 152.

- March 28th, 1917.

- CHARIVARIA.

- TO PARIS BY THE "HINDENBURG LINE."

- RATIONS.

- THE INVADERS.

- THE WATCH DOGS.

- "Frightfulness" in England.

- TO MY GODSON.

- Life's Little Ironies.

- How it Happened.

- CHILDREN'S TALES FOR GROWN-UPS.

- THE FAVORITE.

- ECHOES FROM JUTLAND.

- SNOOKER POOL AFLOAT.

- THE "DAMNÉD SPOT."

- "LET HER GO!"

- THE POULTICE.

- SOME CATCH: THE ANGLER'S DREAM.

- SOME CATCH: THE ANGLER'S DREAM.

- THE INFECTIOUS HORNPIPE.

- THE BREATH OF LIBERTY.

- ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

- HERBS OF GRACE.

- DE PROFUNDIS.

- A TOPICAL TRAGEDY.

- THE FRUIT MERCHANT.

- SCOTLAND YET.

- Wedding Fashions, B.C.

- FRIGHTFULNESS ON THE ALLOTMENTS.

- THE HARDSHIPS OF BILLETS.

- THE RECOGNISED.

- A Wholesale Order.

- OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE