Part 3

"What I object to about active service," he said, as I came up, "is the awful hardship we have to put up with. When we were mobilised I didn't anticipate that our path would be exactly strewn with roses, but I confess I never expected this. I shall write to _The Times_. The public ought to know about it;" and he settled himself more deeply into his chair, blew out a cloud of smoke, and with a resolute expression sipped his iced lemonade.

_Mr. Punch_, you will be pained to hear that I have lost my hard-earned reputation for sobriety through no fault of my own. A few days ago I went up to the barracks to draw my regimental pay, and found that a number of articles of clothing, issued by the Army authorities, had accumulated for me during my absence--a pair of khaki shorts, a grey flannel shirt with steel buttons the size of sixpences, a pair of worsted socks and three sheets (yes, sheets for the bed; so luxuriously do we fare in India). Perhaps you can guess what happened.

"Oh, by the way, have you drawn your clothing?" asked the Lieutenant, when he had paid me.

"Yes, Sir," I replied.

"What have you got?"

"Sheets, shirt, shorts and shocks--shots, sheeks and shirks----"

"That will do," he interrupted sternly. "You had better come to me again when you are in a condition to express yourself clearly."

Thus easily is a reputation acquired by years of self-control destroyed by the pitfalls of our native tongue.

On the other hand, some people have enviable reputations thrust upon them. This is the case with my friend, Private Walls. The other night, half of what remains of the Battalion were called out to repel an expected attack on the barracks by the other half. Walls chanced to be placed in a rather isolated position, and, armed with six rounds of blank, he took cover behind a large boulder, after receiving whispered orders from his officer not to fire if he suspected the approach of the enemy, but to low like an ox, when assistance would immediately be sent to him.

Though a little diffident of his powers of lowing, Walls determined to do his best, and fell sound asleep.

Now, if you or I had been in his position, an officer would certainly have discovered us in no time, and dire punishment would have followed. But Walls slumbered on undisturbed, until a terrific roar in his ear caused him to wake with a start. What had happened? He seized his rifle and peered into the darkness. Then, to his amazement, he saw the boulder before him rise to its feet and shamble off into the night. It was an ox, and it had lowed!

You might think his luck finished there. But no. The officer and his men came stealthily up, and Walls unblushingly declared that he had heard the foe approaching. It may sound incredible, but it is a fact that a few minutes later the enemy did actually appear, and were, of course, driven back after the customary decimation.

And Walls unhesitatingly accepted the congratulations of his superior on his vigilance, and did not even blench when assured that his was the finest imitation ever heard of the lowing of an ox.

Yours ever, ONE OF THE _PUNCH_ BRIGADE.

* * * * *

* * * * *

"The German resistance is formidable but the allies' artillery has forced the enemy to retire from some trenches abandinging prisoners, dead, and wounded."--_Buenos Aires Standard._

This gives the lie to the many stories of German callousness that we hear.

* * * * *

TURNS OF THE DAY.

[_A fifteen-minutes' speech on affairs by a public man has been added to the programme of the Empire music-hall._]

There is no truth that the late Viceroy of IRELAND is to appear at the Alhambra in a brief address, explaining why he chose the title of "Tara."

All efforts to induce Mr. MASTERMAN to appear at the Holborn Empire next week in a burlesque of _The Seats of the Mighty_ have failed.

Great pressure is being brought to bear upon Mr. BERNARD SHAW to induce him to add gaiety to the Palladium programme next week by a twenty-minutes' exposure of England's folly, hypocrisy, fatuity and crime, a subject on which he knows even more than is to be known.

Up to the present moment Mr. H. G. WELLS has refused all offers to appear at the Palace in the song from _Patience_, "When I first put this uniform on."

Any statement that Mr. EDMUND GOSSE is to appear at the Coliseum at every performance next week, in a little sketch entitled _Swinging the Censor_, is to be taken with salt.

A similar incredulity should probably be adopted in regard to the alluring rumour that Mr. COMPTON MACKENZIE will also contribute at the same house a nightly telephonic sketch from Capri, "_What Tiberius thinks of 'Sinister Street.'_"

Negotiations are still pending, though with little chance of success, between the management of the Hippodrome and Canon RAWNSLEY, with a view to his giving a brief address nightly on the subject "How to write a War sonnet in ten minutes."

We have good reason to fear that, in spite of reiterated announcements of their engagement, Mr. MAX PEMBERTON and Mr. MAX BEERBOHM will not appear on Valentine's Day, and subsequently, at the Chiswick Empire in a topical War duologue as "The Two Max."

* * * * *

Omar Khayyam on the North Sea battle.

They say the _Lion_ and the _Tiger_ sweep Where once the Huns shelled babies from the deep, And _Blücher_, that great cruiser--12-inch guns Roar o'er his head but cannot break his sleep.

* * * * *

YUSSUF.

"Look here," exclaimed the latest subaltern, hurling himself at the remains of the breakfast, "those rotters have sent me a putrid sword!"

"A putrid sword, dear?" his mother repeated.

"Yes, confound them!"

"I don't see why you want a sword at all," Dolly chipped in. "Captain Jones says the big guns are the only weapons that count."

"And how will Archie toast his crumpets?" retorted Henry.

"Oh, shut up, you kids! I say, do you mind having a look at it?" The latest subaltern was actually appealing to me. I stifled a blush, and thought I should like to, very much.

After breakfast Archibald and myself retired to the armoury.

"There!" he exclaimed indignantly. "What do you think of that?" It was lying on the bed with a black-and-gold hilt and a wonderful nickel scabbard with gilt blobs at the top. I looked at it.

"Well," I ventured, "it's a sword."

Archibald sniffed.

"And," I continued hastily, "it's very nice. Perhaps they've run out of the ordinary ones. Does it cut?"

He drew it, and I, assuming the air of a barber's assistant, felt its edge.

"Of course," I remarked, "I don't know much about it, but if there _is_ anything left to cut when you go out I think it should be stropped a bit first."

"Well," said the proud owner, "I ordered it at Slashers', and they ought to know. Suppose we rub it up on young Henry's emery wheel?"

"Wait a minute," I cried; "I should like to see it on."

Archibald buckled on the scabbard and I slapped the trusty blade home.

It certainly looked a bit odd. I surveyed it in profile.

"No!" I exclaimed, "there is something about it ... a Yussuf air ... that little bend at the tip is reminiscent of Turkestan."

We found Henry in the workshop.

"My fairy godmother," he shouted, "did you pinch it from the pantomime?"

We did not deign to reply. Gingerly, very gingerly, we applied Yussuf to the emery wheel.... Little flakes came off him--just little flakes.

It was very distressing.

The gardener joined us and advised some oil; then the coachman brought us some polishing sand; bath-brick and whitening we got from the cook.

It was no good. Nothing could restore those little flakes. So we went indoors to have a look at the Encyclopædia. But there was nothing there to help us. Yussuf was suffering from an absolutely unknown disease.

We put him to bed again.

* * * * *

After lunch Archibald received the following letter:--

"DEAR SIR,--We learn with regret that, by an inadvertence, the wrong sword has been despatched to you. We now hasten to forward yours, trusting that the delay has not inconvenienced you. At the same time our representative will, with your permission, collect the sword now in your possession as it is of exceptional value, and also has to be inscribed immediately for presentation.

Your obedient Servants, SLASHER AND CO."

"For presentation," I repeated; "then it's not meant to cut with, and those blobs really are gold." I touched one respectfully.

The latest subaltern pulled himself together and rang the bell. "When a man calls here for a sword," he told the servant, "give him this"--pointing dramatically at Yussuf. "And Jenkins!"

"Yes, Sir."

"Tell him that I have just sailed for ... er--for the Front."

* * * * *

LE DERNIER CRI.

BEING THE SOLILOQUY OF THE OLDEST PARROT.

_Hallo! Hallo! Hallo! Polly-olly-wolly! Scratch a poll!_ It isn't that I shout the loudest, though I fancy I _could_ keep my end up in the monkey-house if it came to that. Many a parrot wastes all his energy in wind. It's brains, not lungs, that make a full crop. Extend your vocabulary. Another thing--don't make yourself too cheap. The parrot that always gives his show free lives the whole of his life on official rations--and nothing else. _Half-a-pint o' mild-an'-bitter! Pom! Pom!_

I'm the oldest inhabitant, and I've the biggest waist measurement for my height in Regent's Park. That's my reward. I'll admit I've a bad memory; most parrots have, except the one that used to sing "Rule Britannia" and knew the name of every keeper in the Zoo--and _he_ went into hospital with something-on-the-brain. But _I_'ve moved with the times. There aren't many catch-phrases I haven't caught. "Walker," "Who's Griffiths?" and drawing corks in the old "Champagne Charlie" days; and "You're another," "Get your hair cut," "Does your mother know you're out?" "My word, if I catch you bending!" "After you with the cruet." But I've a bad memory. _Have a banana? I don't think!..._

I'm never quite sure of myself, and so just have to say what comes uppermost. _Shun! Stanterteeze! Form-forz, you two! Half-a-pint o'...._

I've found it doesn't do to repeat _everything_ the sergeant says. We had a Naval parrot once.... Why, take for instance that young man with his greasy feathers brushed back like a parrakeet's. He looked good for a few grapes any day, but when, just to encourage him, I chortled, "KITCHENER wants yer!" he frowned and walked away. I did good business later, though. Pulled up a bunch of Khaki people by just shouting "'Alt!" I admired their taste in oranges. _Down with the KAISER!_ By the way, I've shouted "Down with" almost everybody in my time. _Johnny, get your gun; Goobye, Tipperlairlee._

But the best is "_Veeve la Fronce_." Last week one of those foreign officers heard me "veeving" softly to myself. In half a minute he'd collected a dozen of his friends and relatives, and I could see more coming in the distance. The excitement! My tail! "Marie! Alphonse!" he shouted. "_Regarday dong ce brave wozzo!_" They gave me butterscotch; they gave me muscatels; they gave me a meringue, and lots of little sweet biscuits (I don't take monkey-nuts these days, thank you!) and they all talked at once. Then a lovely creature with a cockatoo's crest on her head bent forward and coaxed me in a voice like ripe bananas. And there was I sitting like a fool, my mouth crammed and my mind a blank! The crowd was growing every minute. The cockatoo girl ran to the kiosk and bought me French nougat; I ate it. Then I made a desperate effort--"Has anybody here seen Kelly?"

Bless the camel-keeper! At that very moment I heard him ringing the "all-out" bell.

* * * * *

_The Times_ says that the _Blücher_ was the reply of the German Admiralty to the first British _Dreadnought_.

Admiral Sir DAVID BEATTY begs to state that he has forwarded this reply to the proper quarter.

* * * * *

We have pleasure in culling the following extract from the account of a wedding, as set forth in _The Silver Leaf_ (published at Somerset West, Cape Province):--

"Whilst the register was being signed, Mme. Wortley, of Cape Town, sang 'Entreat me not to leave thee' with great feeling."

It seems perhaps a little early to discuss the question of marital separation.

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE VOLUNTEERS.

_Time_: 7.30 P.M. _Scene: A large disused barn, where forty members of the local Volunteer Training Corps are assembled for drill. They are mostly men well over thirty-eight years of age, but there is a sprinkling of lads of under nineteen, while a few are men of "military age" who for some good and sufficient reason have been unable to join the army. They are all full of enthusiasm, but at present they possess neither uniform nor arms. Please note that in the following dialogue the Sergeant alone speaks aloud; the other person_ thinks, _but gives no utterance to his words_.

_The Sergeant._ Fall in! Fall in! Come smartly there, fall in And recollect that when you've fallen in You stand at ease, a ten-inch space between Your feet--like this; your hands behind your back-- Like this; your head and body both erect; Your weight well poised on both feet, not on one. Dress by the right, and let each rear rank man Quick cover off his special front rank man. That's it; that's good. Now when I say, "Squad, 'shun," Let every left heel swiftly join the right Without a shuffling or a scraping sound And let the angle of your two feet be Just forty-five, the while you smartly drop Hands to your sides, the fingers lightly bent, Thumbs to the front, but every careful thumb Kept well behind your trouser-seams. Squad, 'shun!

_The Volunteer._ Ha! Though I cannot find my trouser-seams, I rather think I did that pretty well. Thomas, my footman, who is on my left, And Batts, the draper, drilling on my right, And e'en the very Sergeant must have seen The lithe precision of my rapid spring.

_The Sergeant._ When next I call you to attention, note You need not slap your hands against your thighs. It is not right to slap your thighs at all.

_The Volunteer._ He's looking at me; I am half afraid I used unnecessary violence And slapped my thighs unduly. It is bad That Thomas should have cause to grin at me And lose his proper feeling of respect, Being a flighty fellow at the best; And Batts the draper must not----

_The Sergeant._ Stand at ease!

_The Volunteer._ Aha! He wants to catch me, but he----

_The Sergeant._ 'Shun!

_The Volunteer._ Bravo, myself! I did not slap them then. I am indubitably getting on. I wonder if the Germans do these things, And what they sound like in the German tongue. The Germans are a----

_The Sergeant._ Sharply number off From right to left, and do not jerk your heads.

[_They number off._

_The Volunteer._ I'm six, an even number, and must do The lion's share in forming fours. What luck For Batts, who's five, and Thomas, who is seven. They also serve, but only stand and wait, While I behind the portly form of Batts Insert myself and then slip out again Clear to the front, observing at the word The ordered sequence of my moving feet. Come let me brace myself and dare----

_The Sergeant._ Form fours!

_The Volunteer._ I cannot see the Sergeant; I'm obscured Behind the acreage of Batts's back. Indeed it is a very noble back And would protect me if we charged in fours Against the Germans, but I rather think We charge two deep, and therefore----

_The Sergeant._ Form two deep!

_The Volunteer._ Thank Heaven I'm there, although I mixed my feet! I am oblivious of the little things That mark the due observance of a drill; And Thomas sees my faults and grins again. Let him grin on; my time will come once more At dinner, when he hands the Brussels sprouts.

[_The drill proceeds._

Now we're in fours and marching like the wind. This is more like it; this is what we need To make us quit ourselves like regulars. Left, right, left, right! The Sergeant gives it out As if he meant it. Stepping out like this We should breed terror in the German hordes And drive them off. The Sergeant has a gleam In either eye; I think he's proud of us. Or does he meditate some stratagem To spoil our marching?

_The Sergeant._ On the left form squad!

_The Volunteer._ There! He has done it! He has ruined us! I'm lost past hope, and Thomas, too, is lost; And in a press of lost and tangled men The great broad back of Batts heaves miles away.

[_The Sergeant explains and the drill proceeds._

_The Volunteer._ No matter; we shall some day learn it all, The standing difference 'twixt our left and right, The bayonet exercise, the musketry, And all the things a soldier does with ease. I must remember it's a long, long way To Tipperary, but my heart's----

_The Sergeant._ Dismiss!

R. C. L.

* * * * *

MARCH AIRS.

AT long last the War Office is waking up to the value of bands for military purposes, and a good deal of interest will be aroused by the discussion now proceeding as to the best airs for use on the march.

The following suggestions have been hastily collected by wireless and other means:--

From the Trenches: "Why not try 'Come into the garden mud'?"

From a very new Subaltern: "I had thought of 'John Brown's Body,' but personally I am more concerned just now with Sam Browne's Belt."

From a Zeppelin-driver: "There's an old Scotch song that I have tried successfully on one of our naval lieutenants. It runs like this:--

O, I'll tak the high road and you'll tak' the low road, An' I'll be in Yarmouth afore ye."

From the Captain of the _Sydney_: "What's the matter with 'The Jolly Müller'?"

From President WILSON: "Have you thought of 'The little rift within the lute,' as played by our Contra-band?"

From Admiral VON TIRPITZ: "A familiar air with me is 'Crocked in the cradle of the deep.'"

From Sir EDWARD GREY: "If it could be done diplomatically, I should like to see recommended, 'Dacia, Dacia, give me your answer, do.'"

From the Crew of the _Lion_: "For England, Home, and Beatty."

From an East Coast Mayor: "Begone, dull scare!"

From the King of RUMANIA: "Now we shan't be long."

* * * * *

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

_The German War Book_ (MURRAY) is a work in whose authenticity many of us would have refused to believe this time last year. It is a pity indeed that it was not then in the hands of all those who still clung to the theory that the Prussian was a civilised and humane being. However, now that everyone can read it, translated and with a wholly admirable preface by Professor J. H. MORGAN, it is to be hoped that the detestable little volume will have a wide publicity. True, it can add little to our recent knowledge of the enemy of mankind; but it is something to have his guiding principles set down upon the authority of his own hand. Cynical is hardly an adequate epithet for them; indeed I do not know that the word exists that could do full justice to the compound of hypocrisy and calculated brutishness that makes up this manual. It may at first strike the reader as surprising to find himself confronted by sentiments almost, one might say, of moderation and benevolence. He will ask with astonishment if the writer has not, after all, been maligned. Before long, however, he will discover that all this morality is very carefully made conditional, and that the conditions are wide. In short, as the Preface puts it, the peculiar logic of the book consists in "ostentatiously laying down unimpeachable rules, and then quietly destroying them by debilitating exceptions." For example, on the question of exposing the inhabitants of occupied territory to the fire of their own troops--the now notorious Prussian method of "women and children first"--the _War Book_, while admitting pious distaste for such practice, blandly argues that its "main justification" lies in its success. Thus, with sobs and tears, like the walrus, the Great General Staff enumerates its suggested list of serviceable infamies. At the day of reckoning what a witness will this little book be! Out of their own mouths they stand here condemned through all the ages.

* * * * *

Mrs. HUMPHRY WARD, chief of novelists-with-a-purpose, vehemently eschews the detachment of the Art-for-Art's-Saker, while a long and honourable practice has enabled her to make her stories bear the burden of her theses much more comfortably than would seem theoretically possible. _Delia Blanchflower_ (WARD, LOCK) is a suffrage novel, dedicated with wholesome intent to the younger generation, and if one compares the talented author's previous record of uncompromising, and indeed rather truculent, anti-suffrage utterances one may note (with approval or dismay) a considerable broadening of view on the vexed question. For her attack here is delivered exclusively on the militant position. Quite a number of decent folk in her pages are suffragistically inclined, and there is a general admission that the eager feet that throng the hill of the Vote are not by any means uniformly shod in elastic-sided boots, if one may speak a parable. It is a very notable admission and does the writer honour; for such revisions are rare with veteran and committed campaigners. The story is laid in the far-away era of the burnings of cricket pavilions and the lesser country houses. _Delia_ is a beautiful goddess-heiress of twenty-two, with eyes of flame and a will of steel, a very agreeable and winning heroine. Her tutor, _Gertrude Marvell_, the desperate villain of the piece, a brilliant fanatic (crossed in love in early youth), wins the younger girl's affections and inspires and accepts her dedication of self and fortune to the grim purposes of the "Daughters of Revolt." _Mark Winnington_, her guardian, appointed by her father to counteract the tutor's baleful influence, finds both women a tough proposition. For _Gertrude_ has brains to back her fanaticism, and _Delia_ is a spirited handful of a ward. Loyalty to her consecration and to her friend outlast her belief in the methods of the revolting ones. Her defences are finally ruined by Cupid, for _Mark_ is a handsome athletic man of forty or so, a paragon of knightly courtesy and persuasive speech and silences, and compares very favourably with the policemen in Parliament Square. Poor _Gertrude_ makes a tragic end in a fire of her own kindling, so that the moral for the younger generation cannot be said to be set forth in ambiguous terms.

* * * * *