Chapter 2

But whether he lurks in the morning light Where the tall plantations grow, Or wanders the village fields by nights Telling of ancient woe; Or whether he's making a sporting run For me and a dog or two, An uncanny beast is Little Brother For Christian eyes to view.

For there comes an hour at the full o' the moon When the Boh-tree blossoms fall, And a devil comes out of the afternoon And has him a night in thrall; And he hunts till dawn like a questing hound For souls that have lost their way; And it's well to be clear of Little Brother Till the good gods bring the day.

Wherefore I think I will end my song Wishing him fair good night, For Little Brother's got something wrong That'll never on earth come right; And this perhaps is the honest truth, And the wisest folk agree, The less I know about Little Brother The better by far for me.

* * * * *

HOME THOUGHTS FROM THE TRENCHES.

Old mother mine, at times I find Pauses when fighting's done That make me lonesome and inclined To think of those I left behind-- And most of all of one.

At home you're knitting woolly things-- They're meant for me for choice; There's rain outside, the kettle sings In sobs and frolics till it brings Whispers that seem a voice.

Cheer up! I'm calling, far away; And, wireless, you can hear. Cheer up! you know you'd have me stay And keep on trying day by day; We're winning, never fear.

Although to have me back's your prayer-- I'm willing it should be-- You'd never breathe a word to spare Yourself, and stop me playing fair; You're braver far than me.

So let your dear face twist a smile The way it used to do; And keep on cheery all the while, Rememb'ring hating's not your style-- Germans have mothers too.

And when the work is through, and when I'm coming home to find The one who sent me out, ah! then I'll make you (bless you) laugh again, Old sweetheart left behind.

* * * * *

HIGH JINKS AT HAPPY-THOUGHT HALL.

[_An inevitable article in any decent magazine at this time of the year. Read it carefully, and then have an uproarious time in your own little house._]

IT was a merry party assembled at Happy-Thought Hall for Christmas. The Squire liked company, and the friends whom he had asked down for the festive season had all stayed at Happy-Thought Hall before, and were therefore well acquainted with each other. No wonder, then, that the wit flowed fast and furious, and that the guests all agreed afterwards that they had never spent such a jolly Christmas, and that the best of all possible hosts was Squire Tregarthen!

But first we must introduce some of the Squire's guests to our readers. The Reverend Arthur Manley, a clever young clergyman with a taste for gardening, was talking in one corner to Miss Phipps, a pretty girl of some twenty summers. Captain Bolsover, a smart cavalry officer, together with Professor and Mrs. Smith-Smythe from Oxford, formed a small party in another corner. Handsome Jack Ellison was, as usual, in deep conversation with the beautiful Miss Holden, who, it was agreed among the ladies of the party, was not altogether indifferent to his fine figure and remarkable prospects. There were other guests, but as they chiefly played the part of audience in the events which followed their names will not be of any special interest to our readers. Suffice it to say that they were all intelligent, well-dressed and ready for any sort of fun.

(Now, thank heaven, we can begin.)

A burst of laughter from Captain Bolsover attracted general attention, and everybody turned in his direction.

"By Jove, Professor, that's good," he said, as he slapped his knee; "you must tell the others that."

"It was just a little incident that happened to me to-day as I was coming down here," said the Professor, as he beamed round on the company. "I happened to be rather late for my train, and as I bought my ticket I asked the clerk what time it was. He replied, 'If it takes six seconds for a clock to strike six, how long will it take to strike twelve?' I said twelve seconds, but it seems I was wrong."

The others all said twelve seconds too, but they were all wrong. Can _you_ guess the right answer?

Illustration: FIG. 1.--TO ILLUSTRATE THE PROFESSOR'S DELIGHTFUL STORY OF THE BOOKING-CLERK'S ANSWER.

When the laughter had died down, the Reverend Arthur Manley said:

"That reminds me of an amusing experience which occurred to my housekeeper last Friday. She was ordering a little fish for my lunch, and the fishmonger, when asked the price of herrings, replied, 'Three ha'pence for one and a-half,' to which my housekeeper said, 'Then I will have twelve.' How much did she pay?" He smiled happily at the company.

"One-and-sixpence, of course," said Miss Phipps.

"No, no; ninepence," cried the Squire with a hearty laugh.

Captain Bolsover made it come to £1 3_s._ 2-1/2_d._, and the Professor thought fourpence. But once again they were all wrong. What do _you_ make it come to?

Illustration: FIG. 2.--TO ILLUSTRATE THE CURATE'S INGENIOUS PROBLEM OF THE FISHMONGER.

It was now Captain Bolsover's turn for an amusing puzzle, and the others turned eagerly towards him.

"What was that one about a door?" said the Squire. "You were telling me when we were out shooting yesterday, Bolsover."

Captain Bolsover looked surprised.

"Ah, no, it was young Reggie Worlock," said the Squire with a hearty laugh.

"Oh, do tell us, Squire," said everybody.

"It was just a little riddle, my dear," said the Squire to Miss Phipps, always a favourite of his. "When is a door not a door?"

Miss Phipps said when it was a cucumber; but she was wrong. So were the others. See if _you_ can be more successful.

"Yes, that's very good," said Captain Bolsover; "it reminds me of something which occurred during the Boer War."

Everybody listened eagerly.

"We were just going into action, and I happened to turn round to my men, and say, 'Now, then, boys, give 'em beans!' To my amusement one of them replied smartly, 'How many blue beans make five?' We were all so interested working it out that we never got into action at all."

"But that's easy," said the Professor. "Five."

"Four," said Miss Phipps. (She would. Silly kid.)

"Six," said the Squire.

Which was right?

Illustration: FIG. 3.--TO ILLUSTRATE THE CAPTAIN'S THRILLING STORY OF THE BOER WAR.

Jack Ellison had been silent during the laughter and jollity, always such a feature of Happy-Thought Hall at Christmas time, but now he contributed an ingenious puzzle to the amusement of the company.

"I met a man in a motor-'bus," he said in a quiet voice, "who told me that he had four sons. The eldest son, Abraham, had a dog who used to go and visit the three brothers occasionally. The dog, my informant told me, was very unwilling to go over the same ground twice, and yet being in a hurry wished to take the shortest journey possible. How did he manage it?"

For a little while the company was puzzled. Then, after deep thought, the Professor said:

"It depends on where they lived."

"Yes," said Ellison. "I forgot to say that my acquaintance drew me a map." He produced a paper from his pocket. "Here it is."

Illustration: FIG. 4.--TO ILLUSTRATE THE JOURNEY OF THE SAGACIOUS HOUND.

The others immediately began to puzzle over the answer, Miss Phipps being unusually foolish, even for her. It was some time before they discovered the correct route. What do _you_ think it is?

"Well," said the Squire, with a hearty laugh, "it's time for bed."

One by one they filed off, saying what a delightful evening they had had. Jack Ellison was particularly emphatic, for the beautiful Miss Holden had promised to be his wife. He, for one, will never forget Christmas at Happy-Thought Hall.

[NOTE.--The originals of the drawings are on sale from the Author at five guineas apiece.]

A. A. M.

* * * * *

Illustration: _Little Tomkins_ (_to Herculean Coalheaver_). "WHY DON'T YOU COME UP THE GREEN A COUPLE O' NIGHTS A WEEK AN' DO A BIT O' SHOOTIN' AN' DRILLIN'? YOU'D GET AS FIT AS A FIDDLE."

* * * * *

STABLE INFORMATION.

Last winter I wasn't familiar with Brown, Our intercourse didn't extend Past a grunt if we met on the journey to town And a nod when I chose to unbend; But times are _mutata_, and now I've begun To cultivate Brown more and more, For Brown has a son who is friends with the son Of a man at the Office of War.

When a fog is concealing how matters progress And editors wearily use (Upholding the goodly repute of the Press) A headline from yesterday's news, Brown's knowledge enables his friends to decide What the future is holding in store, For we gather that KITCHENER _loves_ to confide In that man at the Office of War.

And I in my turn spread the tidings about; To the heart that is apt to be glum And the spirit that suffers severely from doubt Like a sunbeam in winter I come; "The Teuton," I whisper, "will suffer eclipse In the course of a fortnight--no more; I have had it--well, almost direct from the lips Of the Chief of the Office of War."

* * * * *

Illustration: UNRECORDED EVENTS IN THE HISTORY OF THE WAR.

GERMAN SOLDIERS BEING ROUSED TO ENTHUSIASM BY THE "HYMN OF HATE."

* * * * *

MAILS FOR A MAILED FIST.

[The rumours of an invasion of this country, which have been prevalent during the last few days, are presumably responsible for these letters addressed to the Kaiser, which have been intercepted.]

_Northsea Cove, Suffolk._

* * *

Kind Sir,--Should your troops land in this neighbourhood, would you please ask them not to fire off guns between 3 and 4 P.M., as during that hour I have my afternoon rest, and I do not sleep very well.

Yours truly, WILHELMINA TIMMINS.

* * *

Sir,--Hearing that you are thinking of sending over an army, we have formed a small Reception Committee to provide for its comfort, and knowing how concerned you are for the welfare of your troops we think you will be glad to learn that complete arrangements have been made for conveying them to, and accommodating them at, a salubrious spot called Tipperary, immediately on their arrival.

(Signed) J. PUSHER, _Secretary_, Eastern and Home Counties Resorts Association.

* * *

Professor Burgess-Brown, the well-known swimming expert, presents his compliments. He would be pleased to call at Kiel Harbour (or other appointed place) in order to teach the art of natation to German soldiers who may, after arrival in England, suddenly find themselves deprived of their troopships when wishing to return.

* * *

Dear Sir,--We hear that a number of your friends are coming to England, and shall accordingly welcome an enquiry for our advice, which is always at the disposal of the travelling public. We do not know whether you propose personally to come over, but we should certainly recommend this course, as by travelling _viâ_ an English port you could get a boat _direct_ to St. Helena and thus save the wearisome changing to which you might be exposed in sailing from the Continent.

Yours obediently, THE WORLD'S TOURS, LIMITED.

* * *

_Headquarters, Poppy Patrol Boy Scouts, Cliffe, Norfolk._

Dear Sir,--I don't think there is much use in your troops landing. In this county alone there are two hundred and ninety-five more scouts than there were in August, and they are still coming in. Of course come if you like, but don't say I didn't warn you.

Yours, T. SMITH, Patrol Leader.

* * *

_Imperial Studios, Yarmouth._

Sir,--Hearing that your troops are thinking of visiting the above town, we should be glad to take you, in small or large groups. We understand that your excursion will be only a half-day one, but we have facilities for the immediate development of negatives.

Yours obediently, GEORGE GELATINE JONES.

* * *

WARNING! TO THE KAISER.

_From the Huntsman of the Bungay Foxhounds._

Send your men over if you like. Let them turn their guns on all our ancient buildings, destroy crops, blow up bridges; but MIND, if one of your Huns raises a rifle to any Norfolk or Suffolk fox, there will be trouble of a serious kind.

* * * * *

Illustration: KILLED!

[With _Mr. Punch's_ compliments to General BOTHA.]

* * * * *

Illustration: _Old Lady_ (_to District Visitor_). "DID YOU HEAR A STRANGE NOISE THIS MORNING, MISS, AT ABOUT FOUR O'CLOCK? I THOUGHT IT WAS ONE OF THEM AIREOPLANES; AND MY NEIGHBOUR WAS SO SURE IT WAS ONE HE WENT DOWN AND LET HIS DOG LOOSE."

* * * * *

MINOR WAR GAINS.

The year that is stormily ending Has brought us full measure of grief, And yet we must thank it for sending At times unexpected relief; These boons are not felt in the trenches Or make our home burdens less hard; They're not a bonanza, but merit a stanza Or two from the doggerel bard.

The names of musicians and mummers No longer are loud on our lips; By the side of our buglers and drummers CARUSO endures an eclipse; And the legions of freaks and of faddists Who hailed him with rapturous awe, O wonder of wonders, are finding out blunders, And worse, in the writings of SHAW!

Good BEGBIE, no longer upraising His plea for the "uplift" of Hodge, Has ceased for a season from praising LLOYD GEORGE and Sir OLIVER LODGE; And there hasn't been much in the papers About the next novel from CAINE (No doubt he's in Flanders, the guest of commanders Who reverence infinite brain).

JOHN WARD has forgiven the Curragh (The Curragh's forgotten JOHN WARD); No longer he cries "Wurra Wurra!" At sight of an officer's sword; MACDONALD, the terror of tigers, Sits silent and meek as a mouse, And the great VON KEIRHARDI is curiously tardy In "voicing" his spleen in the House.

The screeds of professors and jurists Have quite disappeared from the Press; 'Tis little we hear of Futurists, And frankly we care even less; Why, TREVELYAN, the martyr to candour, Who lately his office resigned, Though waters were heaving has sunk without leaving The tiniest ripple behind.

In fine, though there fall to our fighters Too many hard buffets and humps, 'Tis a comfort to think that our blighters Are down in the deadliest dumps; And whatever the future may bring us In profits or pleasures or pains The ill wind that's blowing to-day is bestowing A number of negative gains.

* * * * *

THE IDEAL CHRISTMAS CARD.

"Are we sending Christmas cards this year? Yes," said Blathers, "but not next year, or the year after that, as we shall be retrenching. They are quite modest trifles, yet at the mere sight of the envelope each recipient will, cheerfully, I hope, pay twopence towards the sinews of war. One hundred of these contributions will amount, I am told, to sixteen shillings and eightpence; not much, but it is my little offering to the country in her hour of need. This is the card I propose to send out in a sealed and unstamped cover":--

MR. AND MRS. BLATHERS WISH YOU A HAPPY CHRISTMAS 1914, 1915 AND 1916, AND A BRIGHT NEW YEAR 1915, 1916 AND 1917.

_The Ferns, Tooting._

* * * * *

"The Russian mining engineers who have been sent to Galicia since the occupation report that the oil districts will suffice to supply the whole of South-Western Russia. The working of the fields will start in the spring; moreover salt and iron abound, also sporadicalli, silver, copper, lead and the rarer metals."

_Cork Examiner._

For vermicelli, however, it will still be necessary to go to Italy.

* * * * *

OUR NATIONAL GUESTS.

III.

To the list of things that the Belgians in Crashie Howe do not understand, along with oatmeal, honey in the comb, and tapioca, must now be added the Scottish climate. They do not complain, but they are puzzled, and after sixty-five consecutive hours of rain they wonder wistfully if it is always like this. We simply dare not tell them the truth.

By every post we are busy hunting for lost relatives who are scattered before the shattering fist of the KAISER over Great Britain, Belgium, Holland and France. We have not been very successful so far, but one or two we have found, at points as far apart as York and Milford Haven, and, best of all, we have unearthed a great-grandmother, last seen in an open coal boat off Ostend, who is now in comfortable quarters in a village in Ayrshire.

Our language difficulties have not been assisted by the arrival of a family from Antwerp who talk nothing but Walloon, but, on the other hand, the progress of the children is now beginning to afford certain frail lines of communication. The least of them, Élise, can already count up to twenty in English (with a strong Scoto-Flemish accent), and so it came about that when I took my little nieces round to pay calls, relations were at once established on a numerical basis.

"One, two, three," said Sheila, holding out her hand.

"Four," retorted Juliette, gurgling with delight.

"Five, six, seven," shouted Betty.

"Eight, nine?" enquired Juliette....

At the next cottage, where we were all rather shy, we began tentatively with "One?" But we finally gained so much confidence that by the time we reached our last visit we ran it up to ten at a single burst, and were consequently received with open arms.

One of our main concerns has been the Santa Claus question, and that is a matter which touches us closely, as we have among our number eleven children of Santa Claus age. There are a good many pitfalls here, and it is now unfortunately too late to warn other people of the chief of them. For the fact is--as we found to our amazement--that Santa Claus (you must, by the way, call him St. Nicholas; after all, it is his proper name) comes to Belgium and Russia, not on December 25th, but on December 6th. All our attempts to explain this phenomenon by the difference in the Russian calendar, though ingenious, have failed; it doesn't work out at all. Still, for some reason, that is how it is, and we cannot but be grateful to St. Nicholas for this delicate attention to our allies, by which no doubt they get the pick of the toys, even though we were nearly let in by him. Indeed Pierre had practically given up hope. He had told his mother that he was afraid St. Nicholas would never find his way to Scotland, it was too far.

Then there is another thing which might easily have been overlooked. It's no use putting out stockings, as we prefer to do in our insular way; one must put out _shoes_. At first sight it looks as if we in this country have the pull over our allies here, for one pair of little shoes does not hold much stuff. But fortunately it is the happy custom in all lands to allow of overflow to any extent. And finally St. Nicholas never comes down the chimney; he pops in through the window (which should be left slightly open at the bottom so that he can get in his thumb and prize it up). Also he never drove a reindeer in his life. He rides a horse. And this is of the first importance, for the one condition attaching to his benevolence is that you must put out a good wisp of hay for the horse, along with your shoes, or else he will simply pass on and you will get nothing at all.

Having collected and considered all these facts we were fully prepared to meet the situation--even down to the small gingerbread animals which always grace the day--on December 6th, and to deal faithfully with the little rows of clogs, bulging with hay, which awaited us on St. Nicholas Eve.

* * * * *

Illustration: _Weary Variety Agent._ "AND WHAT'S _YOUR_ PARTICULAR CLAIM TO ORIGINALITY?"

_Artiste._ "I'M THE ONLY COMEDIAN WHO HAS SO FAR REFRAINED FROM ADDRESSING THE ORCHESTRA AS 'YOU IN THE TRENCH.'"

* * * * *

CHRISTMAS PRESENTS, 1914.

"It's perfectly simple," said the Reverend Henry, adopting his lofty style. "We must cut the whole lot. There is no other course."

"I don't consider that your opinion is of any value whatever," said Eileen. "In fact you ought not to be allowed to take part in this discussion. Every one knows that you have always tried to get out of Christmas presents, and now you are merely using a grave national emergency to further your private ends."

The Reverend Henry was squashed; but Mrs. Sidney had a perfect right to speak, for she has been without doubt the most persistent and painstaking Christmas provider in the family, and has never been known to miss a single relation even at the longest range.

"I quite agree with Henry," said she. "This is no time for Christmas presents--except to hospitals and Belgians and men at the Front."

"You mean that you would scratch the whole lot," said I, "even the pocket diary for 1915 that I send to Uncle William?"

"Yes, even that. You can send the diary to Sidney" (who is in Flanders). "I have always wanted him to keep a diary."

"What about the children?" said I.

"The children must realise," said the Reverend Henry solemnly, "what it means for the nation to be at war."

"Oh, no," Laura broke in impetuously. "How can they realise? How can you expect Kathleen to realise?"

"Do you know," said the Reverend Henry, "that only last Sunday my niece Kathleen was marching all over the house singing at the top of her voice, 'It's a long, long way to Tipperary: the Bible tells me so?' Obviously she realises."

"But what about----" Eileen was beginning.

"Let's have a scrap of paper," said I, "a contract that we can all sign, and then we can put down the exceptions to the rule."

Henry was already hard at work with a sheet of foolscap.

"... not to exchange, give, receive or swap in celebration of Christmas, 1914, any gift, donation, subscription, contribution, grant, token or emblem within the family and its connections: and further not to permit any gift, donation, subscription, contribution, grant, token or emblem to emanate from any member of the family to such as are outside."

"Good so far," said I.

"The following recipients to be excepted," Henry went on,

"(1) All Hospitals; (2) Belgians; (3) His Majesty's Forces----"

"(4) The Poor and Needy," suggested Eileen.

"(5) The Aged and Infirm," said I. "I only want to get in Great-aunt Amelia. She mustn't be allowed to draw a blank."

"That's true," said Henry; "we'll fix the age limit at ninety-one. That'll bring her in."

"(6) Children of such tender age that they are unable to realise the national emergency," said Mrs. Sidney.

"Quite so," said Henry. "What would you suggest as the age limit? Three?"

"Four," said Laura simultaneously.

"I should like to suggest five," said I, "to bring in Kathleen."

"Let's make it seven," said Mrs. Henry. "I can hardly believe that Peter realises, you know."

"Stop a bit," said I. "If you take in Peter you can't possibly leave out Tom. Make it eight-and-a-half."

"That seems a little hard on Alice, doesn't it?" said Eileen.

"Any advance on eight-and-a-half?" called Henry from the writing-desk. And from that moment the discussion assumed the character of an auction, Laura finally running it up to thirteen (which brings in the twins) to the general satisfaction.

When the contract was signed, witnessed and posted on its way to the other signatories there was a general sense of relief that Christmas would not be very different from usual after all. Henry growled a good deal. But we know our Reverend Henry: he will do his duty when the time comes.

* * * * *

"The Prince of Wales noticed a private in his own regiment, the Grenadier Guards, who is six feet inches in height. He is six feet inches in height."--_Scotsman._