Part 3

---- is a place rich in historical interest and scenic beauties. Freed from the rigid bonds of military discipline and the still more hampering restrictions of official routine, I was at liberty to enjoy them to the full. It was the opportunity of a lifetime to see something of the real India. Did I take it? No, _Mr. Punch_, to be honest, I did not.

After hundreds of years (so it seems) of Army active service rations, of greasy mess tins and enamelled iron mugs, I found myself suddenly confronted by civilised food waiting to be eaten in a civilised fashion. And I fell. Starting with _chota hazri_ at 7 A.M., I ate steadily every day till midnight. That is how I spent my holiday. I may as well complete this shameful confession; it was the best time I ever had in my life.

I feel confident that my stomachic feats will never be forgotten in ----. I shouldn't be surprised if in years to come the natives are found worshipping a tree trunk or stone monolith rudely carved into the semblance of an obese Territorial. It is pleasant to think that one may even have founded a new religion.

But I am grieved and troubled about one thing. I ate plantains and guavas and sweet limes and Cape gooseberries and pomolos and numberless other Indian fruits (O bliss!), but not custard apples. Custard apples, it appears, are the best of all, and they went out of season just before I arrived in India and will not come into season again for months and months.

I am confident that you will appreciate my predicament. I want the War to finish quickly, but I want to eat custard apples. I want to get to the Front and have a go at the Germans, but I desire passionately to eat custard apples. I want to get home again to you, but after all I have heard about them I feel that my life will have been lived in vain if I do not eat custard apples. It is a trying position.

Home was very much in my thoughts at Christmas time. The fact of having relatives around me, the plum pudding, the mince pies, the mistletoe, the clean plates, the china cups and saucers, the crackers, the cushions, the absence of stew,--all these and many other circumstances served to remind me vividly of the old life in England. And when regretfully I left ----, and (like a true soldier cheerfully running desperate risks) travelled back in a first-class carriage with a third-class ticket, I found at the Office yet another reminder of home and the old days. My kindly colleagues had determined that I should not feel I was in a strange land amid alien customs. They had let all the work accumulate while I was away and had it waiting for me in a vast pile on my return.

That is why this is such a short letter.

Yours ever,

ONE OF THE _PUNCH_ BRIGADE.

* * * * *

THE CHEERY DOGS.

I.--_Mr. A._

"Well, what have we done?--that's what I want to know. Where are the Germans? In France and Belgium. Where are we? This side of them. Where is their Navy? Still only too active. And so it goes on. My dear fellow, I like to be cheerful, but you give me no material to do it on. The cold truth is that we are just where we were months ago. 'Time is on our side,' you say. May be; but the War can't go on for ever, and meanwhile look at things here--food rising, coal rising, distress all around. What do you think the income-tax is going to be soon? Ha! Still it does not do to air these opinions and doubts. We must all be gay. That is our first duty."

II.--_Mr. B._

"Yes, of course there's Russia, as you say. But what is Russia? You know what Russia is. They've no heart in fighting, and I'm told that many personages in high places, and one very high indeed, are moving at this moment towards peace. That would be a nice thing, wouldn't it? It would liberate all the East frontier men and guns to come over to the West. And there's another thing about Russia too--how is it to get any more ammunition into the country with Archangel frozen? I suppose you know that we have been supplying them with ammunition ever since the start; and there's precious little left, I can tell you. You didn't know that? You surprise me. No, it doesn't do to lean too much on Russia. And money too. Where is that coming from? For ultimately, you know, all wars are fought with money. We shall have to find that too. So it isn't too easy to grin, is it? And yet I flatter myself that I succeed in conveying an impression of distinct optimism."

III.--_Mr. C._

"Well, of course, if all the naturalised Germans in this country are not interned we have only ourselves to thank if we are completely conquered. Think of the terrible advantage to the enemy to have waiters spying on the guests in hotels and at once communicating with Berlin! What chance have we if that kind of thing goes on? I was in an hotel at Aylesbury only yesterday, and I am sure a waiter there was a German, although he was called Swiss. He watched everything I ate. I tell you there are German spies everywhere. What can a waiter at Aylesbury tell Berlin? Ah! that's what we don't understand. But something of the highest moment and all to our disadvantage in war. But we have spies too? Never. I can't believe that England would ever be clever enough to make use of any system of secret service. No, Sir, we're back numbers. Still, it mustn't get out. We must all pretend, as I do, that everything is all right."

IV.--_Mr. D._

"I don't like the look of things in America, I can assure you. Anything but satisfactory. DERNBURG'S a clever fellow and the politicians can't forget what the German vote means to them. I see nothing but trouble for us there. This Shipping Purchase Bill--that's very grave, you know; and they don't like us--it's no use pretending that they do. I read an extract only this morning from a most significant article in _The Wells Fargo Tri-Weekly Leaflet_ which shows only too clearly how the wind is blowing. No, I view America and its share in the future with the gloomiest forebodings, although of course I do my best to conceal them. To the world I turn as brave a face as anyone, I trust."

V.--_Mr. E._

"I don't doubt the bravery of the French; but what I do say is, where is the advance we were promised? Nibbling is all very well, but meanwhile men are dying by the thousand, and the Germans are still in the invaded country. I hear too of serious disaffection in France. There's a stop-the-war party there, growing in strength every day. We'll have 'em here soon, mark my words. The French have no stomach for long campaigns. They want their results quickly, and then back to their meals again. I take a very serious view of the situation, I can tell you, although I do all I can to keep bright and hopeful, and disguise my real feelings."

VI.--_Mr. F._

"This activity of the German submarines is most depressing. Man for man we may have a better navy, but when it comes to submarines they beat us. What kind of chance have we against these stealthy invisible death-dealers? They're the things that are going to do for us. I can see it coming. But I keep the fact to myself as much as possible--one must not be a wet blanket."

VII.--_Mr. G._

"If only we had a decent government, instead of this set of weaklings, I should feel more secure. But with this Cabinet--some of them pro-Germans at heart, if the truth were known--what can you expect? Still, one must not drag party politics in now. We must be solid for the country, and if anyone raises his voice against the Liberals in my presence he gets it hot, I can tell you. None the less a good rousing attack by BONAR LAW on the Government, root and branch, every few days would be a grand thing. As I always say, the duty of the Opposition is to oppose."

And these are not all.

* * * * *

REVERSES.

(_From the Front._)

Just a line to let you know, Jim, howall goes. Well, in spite of Bosches, rain and mud and muck, I've had nothing to complain of as I knows Till last week, when comes a run of rotten luck.

First, a Black Maria busts aside o' me, And I lost, well, I should say a hundred fags! Then I goes and drops a fine mouth-organ--see? And it sinks in one of these here slimy quags.

Then I chucks my kit down when we charged next day (You've no use for eighty pounds odd when you sprints), And while we was at it, what d' yer think, mate, eh? Why, some blighter pinched my tin o' peppermints!

Crool luck, warn't it? But I'm pretty bobbish still-- Here's the Surgeon come, a very decent bloke; I'm in horspital, I should 'a' said--not ill, Just my right leg crocked and four or five ribs broke.

* * * * *

First Lessons in Seamanship.

Extract from the CHURCHILL interview:--

"Pacing his room thoughtfully, Mr. Churchill paused before a globe which he twirled round in his fingers like the rudder of a ship."

* * * * *

This is "What 'Roger' Hears" in _The Northampton Daily Chronicle_:--

"That a burglar entered 34, Birchfield road, Northampton, last evening, and decamped with several articles of jewellery while the residents, Mr. and Mrs. Mace, were out for an hour and a half.

That the Belgian guests who are being so generously entertained by the Mount Pleasant friends were present, and rendered musical items."

On police whistles, we hope.

* * * * *

* * * * *

BROKEN MELODIES.

"Aren't music publishers maddening?" said Clarice. "Here's a tune that promises awfully well, and breaks off suddenly."

I went over to the piano.

On the music-rest was a sheet of music, back to front, showing the opening bars of several songs the publishers wished to commend to our notice; appetisers, as it were.

Clarice played the opening bars, the only ones which were given.

"Please continue," I said; "I'm beginning to like it already."

"How can I?" said Clarice. "How do I know how it goes on? It's simply maddening."

"Aren't there any rules?" I said. "What I mean is, don't certain notes follow certain other notes?"

"Not necessarily," said Clarice. "Why should they?"

"Why shouldn't they?" I persisted. "In hockey, footer, billiards and the other arts certain movements are inevitably followed by certain consequences. It ought to be the same in music. However, as a poet it is the words which really interest me. Listen to this: '_Somebody whispered to me yestre'en, Somebody whispered to me, And my heart gave a flutter and_--' Ah, of course I know--_and I trod on the butter_."

"_Which soon wasn't fit to be seen_," said Clarice.

"Bravo," I said, "very soulful. Now look at the one above it: '_The rosy glow of summer is on thy dimpled cheek, While_----' There's a poser for you."

"Oh, how pretty!" said Clarice. "And listen to the tune." She played what notes there were two or three times over. "I really must get that one," she added.

"Do," I said. "I should like to hear more about that girl. These publishers know how to whet one's appetite, don't they? By Jove, here's a gem--'_I sat by the window dreaming, In the hush of eventide, Of the_----' Now what does one dream about at that time?"

"You dream of dinner chiefly, I've noticed," said Clarice.

"That's the idea," I said. "_Of the soup (tomato) steaming, The steak and mushrooms fried._ Who's the publisher?"

"Crammer," said Clarice.

I took up another sheet of music and hunted for more treasure. "Here's something fruity," I said, "published by Scarey and Co.: '_Oh, the lover hills are happy at the dawning of the day; There are winds to kiss and bless us, there is_----'"

"What?" said Clarice.

"How should I know?" I said. "Let's get the song and find out. Get them all, in fact."

"Do you think we ought to?" said Clarice.

"Yes, certainly," I said. "It's good for trade. My motto is 'Music as Usual during the War.'"

* * * * *

The Contractor's Touch.

From a label on a tin of Army jam:--

"DAMSON AND APPLE,

From Seville Oranges and Refined Sugar only."

Thus monotony is avoided.

* * * * *

"In standing at ease recruits _will_ not carry the left leg twelve paces to the left, and balance the body on both legs equally."--_Royal Magazine._

Probably they think that they would not feel really at ease if they did. Personally we find that two paces and a half is our limit.

* * * * *

MORE THAN TWO.

_Host._ No, please don't sit there.

_1st Guest._ Oh yes, I much prefer it.

_2nd Guest._ Do let me.

_Host._ I can't have you sitting there.

_1st Guest._ I assure you I like being back to the driver.

_Host._ No, if anyone sits there, naturally it must be me.

_2nd Guest._ Do let me.

_1st Guest._ Not at all.

_2nd Guest._ I assure you I prefer it too.

_Host._ No, sit here. When you're both comfortably settled, I'll get in.

_1st Guest._ Oh no, please. I'm sure you never sit there. I hate to take away your own place.

_2nd Guest._ Do let me.

_Host._ I insist.

_1st Guest._ Please don't say any more about it. See, I'm in now and quite comfy.

_Host._ It's very wrong of you to be there.

_2nd Guest._ Do let me.

_Host._ Can't I persuade you to change?

_1st Guest._ No.

_2nd Guest._ Do let me.

_Host._ Well, it's very wrong. I know that.

_1st Guest_. Please let us get on now. I never was more comfy in my life.

_Host._ You're sure?

_2nd Guest._ Do let me.

_Host._ But it's most unsatisfactory.

_1st Guest._ Not at all.

_Host._ Then you're sure you're all right?

_1st Guest._ Absolutely. I love it here.

_Host._ Very well then. (_Sighs._)

_2nd Guest._ Do let me.

_1st Guest._ No, we're all fixed now.

_Host._ All right. (_To chauffeur_) Let her go! (_To 1st Guest_) It's a great shame, though.

_1st Guest._ I love it.

_2nd Guest._ I do wish you had let me.

And that is what happens whenever three polite people are about to ride in a motor-car.

* * * * *

Shares.

"A purse, containing sum of money; owner can have some."--_Advt. in "Portsmouth Evening News._"

And the finder may keep the rest for his trouble.

* * * * *

_The Daily Chronicle_ (Kingston, Jamaica) says of the new Military Decoration:--

"It is of silver, and bears the imperial crown on each arm and in the centre the letters 'G.R.I.' (George, ex-Imperator)."

At least that's WILLIAM'S interpretation of it.

* * * * *

AT THE PLAY.

"A BUSY DAY."

I have always wanted to be a grocer. To spend the morning arranging the currants in the window; to spend the afternoon recommending (with a parent's partiality) such jolly things as bottled gooseberries and bloater paste; to spend the evening examining the till and wondering if you have got off the bad half-crown yet--that is a life. Many grocers, I believe, do not realise it, and envy (foolishly enough) the dramatic critic, knowing little of the troubles hidden behind his apparently spotless shirt-front; but even they will admit that to be a grocer for an hour would be fun.

And that (very nearly) was _Lord Charles Temperleigh's_ luck. Being a spendthrift he was kept at The Bungalow, Ashford, without money; he escaped to the shop of his old nurse at Mudborough, with the idea of borrowing from her--and if you are a clever dramatist you can easily arrange that he should be left alone in the shop and mistaken for the genuine salesman. Unfortunately for my complete happiness (and no doubt _Lord Charles's_ too) the shop was a chandler's; however, if that is not the rose, it is at least very near it. The chandler sells soap and the grocer sells cheese, and you can make a joke about the likeness as Mr. R. C. CARTON did. And if _Lord Charles_ should happen to be Mr. CHARLES HAWTREY and he should be accompanied by Miss COMPTON, you can understand that this and other jokes would lose nothing in their delivery.

Yet somehow the shop scene was not the success it should have been. The First and Third Acts were better; they left more to Mr. HAWTREY. When Mr. CARTON is trying to be funny, even Mr. HAWTREY cannot help him much; but when he is taking it easily then he and Mr. HAWTREY together are delightful. Mr. EDWARD FITZGERALD as an Irish waiter was a joy. Miss COMPTON was Miss COMPTON; if you like her (as I do), then you like her. The others had not much chance. It is a HAWTREY evening, and (as such) an oasis in a desert of War thoughts.

M.

* * * * *

A PRELUDE.

["Birds in London are already growing alive to the approach of Spring."--_The Times._]

A portly, fancy-vested thrush, That carolled, on a wintry spray, A crazy song of Spring-time--Hush! No, not the one By MENDELSSOHN Victorian Britons used to play, But just the sort of casual thing An absent-minded bird might sing.

Observing whom--"Alas," I said, "Good friend, how premature your theme! By some phenomenon misled, You've overshot The date a lot; Things are so seldom what they seem!" "Then hear the simple truth," quoth he, "For that's another rarity.

"There is a foreign, furious man, That sends great engines through the air To deal destruction where they can, To rain their fires On ancient spires, Ousting the birds that settle there, And agitates, of fixed intent, Our pleasaunce in the firmament.

"And everybody says the Spring Will see him pay the price of it, So that is why I choose to sing What isn't true-- But as for you, Be off and do your little bit! It's not for you to stand and quiz-- The season's _what I say it is!_"

* * * * *

"A Chicago Reuter message says that Hugh Henderson has won the American draughts championship by defeating Alfred Jordan, the London champion.

Draught horses were in most demand at Aldridge's, St. Martin's-lane, yesterday, and the sums obtained ranged from 30gs. to 49gs."

_Daily Telegraph_.

The forty-nine guinea one has challenged HUGH HENDERSON.

* * * * *

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks._)

There are few living writers of romance who can carry the sword and doublet with the ease of Miss MARJORIE BOWEN. She has long since proved herself a practised mistress of mediævalism, and _The Carnival of Florence_ (METHUEN) finds her therefore on sure ground. It is a pleasantly stimulating tale of love and adventure in the days of SAVONAROLA. The heroine is one _Aprilis_, a fair Florentine whose matrimonial affairs were complicated by the fact that early in the story she had been abducted (strictly _pour le bon motif_ in order to score off the gentleman to whom she was then engaged) by the too notorious PIERO DEI MEDICI. The unfortunate results were twofold, for though _Aprilis_ was returned unharmed to her father's house her noble betrothed would have no more of her, so she had to put up with another husband who took her for charity, and to suffer in addition the pangs of unrequited love for the Lord of Florence whom she was unable to forget. What happened--how the MEDICI were turned from their heritage, and the part played in all this by the grim Revivalist of San Marco--is the matter of a story well worth reading. As is his way with tales in which he appears, the figure of SAVONAROLA comes gradually to dominate the whole; did he not even master GEORGE ELIOT? The present story is dedicated "In Memory of Florence, Summer 1914." Presumably, therefore, Miss BOWEN shares with me certain memories that have been very vividly recalled by her pages--memories of a June evening when, as in the days of which she writes, the Piazza della Signoria echoed to the clash of swords and the tumult of an angry mob. That it has thus reminded me of what would, but for greater happenings since, have been one of my most thrilling chimney-corner reminiscences, is among the pleasures that I owe to a stirring and successful novel.

* * * * *

Among my favourite gambits in fiction is the return to his impoverished home of one who left it a supposed wastrel, and has now lots and lots of money. Personally, if I have a preference, it is that my wanderer should be at first unrecognised; but I am perhaps too fastidious. Certainly I am not going to complain about _Big Tremaine_ (MILLS AND BOON) just because when he came back to the Virginian township that he had quitted as a bank thief his old coloured nurse saw through him in once. There is, of course, Homeric precedent for the situation; it is one that, deftly handled, can scarcely fail of its effect. And the story of _Big Tremaine_ is very deftly handled almost all through. MARIE VAN VORST evidently knows the gentle Southern life thoroughly; her pictures of it have served to increase my conviction that Virginia must be one of the pleasantest places on earth. Not less true and delicate is her treatment of the relations between masterful _Tremaine_ and the gently obstinate mother who turns so slowly from distrust to adoration of her returned son. There are, in short, a great many qualities in this story that I have found vastly agreeable. Also what seems to me one big defect. But as this latter is so far essential that without it there would be no story I am unable further to tell you about it. Still, I am bound to say that its revelation was a nasty shock to my admiration, which had been roused more than anything else by the sincerity and unconventionality of the argument. This is a matter on which you shall pass your own verdict. Mine would be "A Happy Ending committed through unjustified fear of the libraries"; and in view of the charm of her earlier chapters I should discharge the author with a friendly caution.

* * * * *

Most of us might freely confess to some vagueness in our minds as to "the social and economic state of things in the Prairie Provinces of the Dominion," and not a few of us are ready to spend five shillings and a leisure hour or two in finding out for certain, if only to be prepared with a refuge in the event of England being Teutonised. Miss E. B. MITCHELL, the author of _In Western Canada Before the War_ (MURRAY), knows her subject at first hand and deals with the right matter in the right manner for our purpose; that is to say, she is discriminating in her selection of topics and is always pleasant if never violently exciting or amusing in her treatment of them. The book is short, as such books should be; it does not pretend to be exhaustive, yet it leaves a very clear and precise impression on the mind. But (and every intelligent reader will have been waiting for this "but") why on earth should it be called _In Western Canada Before the War_, seeing that it was clearly written without any thought of the present European conditions and would have been published just about this time even if we had been at peace with everybody everywhere? The only reference in point which I can recall is a passing wonder expressed in a few lines as to what, if any, effect Armageddon will have in Canada; this is hardly enough, I fancy, to justify the topical suggestion of the cover. I cannot help feeling that the object of the last three words of that title was less literary than commercial.