Part 3

DEAR PETHERTON,--How perfectly splendid! Everything has worked out beautifully up till now. Your first note was pitched in just the proper key, and now comes your second, a perfect gem in its way. Your style reminds me more than ever of CHESTERFIELD, to whom a chair was a chair and nothing more, but a couch was an inspiration. I enclose two yellow tickets this time. Perhaps you didn't like the others. Some people don't care for pink tickets. These jolly little yellow chaps are only 1_s._ each, a consideration in these hard times.

Yours very sincerely, HARRY FORDYCE.

P.S.--We have a job line of green tickets at 6_d._ each to clear. Perhaps you would care to look at some. We are selling quite a lot of them this year.

Petherton's reply to this was an envelope containing the fragments of two yellow tickets and a sheet of notepaper inscribed "With Mr. Frederick Petherton's compliments."

As the tickets would have to be accounted for, of course there was nothing for it but to send him a bill, so I sent him one:--

F. PETHERTON, Esq.,

_In a/c with the Purbury Concert Committee._

To 2 tickets in yellow cardboard, 3 in. by 2-1/2 in., printed in black, with embellishments, the whole giving right of entry to the Purbury Annual Concert to be held on June 28, 1916 ... 2_s._

Your kind attention will oblige.

To this Petherton made no reply, so after a few days I bought the tickets for (and from) myself, and wrote to Petherton:--

DEAR FREDDY,--You will be glad to hear that I have found someone to take your yellow tickets off my hands at the full market price. Sorry to find that the War has hit you so badly. Certainly two bob is two bob, as you apparently wish me to infer. However it is a blessing to know that the Tommies will get the extra cigarettes, isn't it? It's a pity you won't be at the concert. Your cheery presence will be greatly missed, especially by

Your old pal, HARRY.

The reply I received:--

Who the devil said I shouldn't be at the concert? I bought a dozen pink tickets from the Vicar as soon as I heard you were not going to perform.

FREDERICK PETHERTON.

It seems evident that Petherton has taken a dislike to me for some reason or other.

* * * * *

* * * * *

"Latet Anguis in Herba."

"ROCK PLANTS in pots; 12 different, 2s. 6d. Cobra, rapid growing Climber, 4d. and 6d. each.--Horticultural School, Swaythling."

_Provincial Paper._

Our gardening friends tell us that _Cobæa scandeus_ is much safer as a horticultural pet.

* * * * *

From a description of a mine explosion under the German trenches:--

"Tons of earth were flung hundreds of feet high, carrying away trenches, dugouts and handbags."--_Baltimore Paper._

The American correspondent who sends us the cutting says, "I am glad to see that the Hun is losing his grip."

* * * * *

THE BOOKLOVER.

By Charing Cross in London Town There runs a road of high renown, Where antique books are ranged on shelves As dark and dusty as themselves.

And many booklovers have spent Their substance there with great content, And vexed their wives and filled their homes With faded prints and massive tomes.

And ere I sailed to fight in France There did I often woo Romance, Searching for jewels in the dross, Along the road to Charing Cross.

But booksellers and men of taste Have fled the towns the Hun laid waste, And within Ypres Cathedral square I sought but found no bookshops there.

What little hope have books to dwell 'Twixt Flemish mud and German shell? Yet have I still upon my back, Hid safely in my haversack,

A tattered Horace, printed fine (Anchor and Fish, the printer's sign), Of sage advice, of classic wit; Much wisdom have I gained from it.

And should I suffer sad mischance When Summer brings the Great Advance, I pray no cultured Bosch may bag My Aldus print to swell his swag.

Yet would I rather ask of Fate So to consider my estate, That I may live to loiter down By Charing Cross in London Town.

* * * * *

The Reward of "Frightfulness."

"Amsterdam, Sunday.--Admiral von Tirpitz has been offered the degree of doctor hororis."--_Provincial Paper._

* * * * *

Taking it Badly.

"AUSTRIAN DEFENCES GRUMBLING BEFORE THE RUSSIANS."

_Scotch Paper._

* * * * *

"What is Port?" asks an evening paper. According to Admiral VON SCHEER it is "A very present help in time of trouble."

* * * * *

The Chameleon.

From a feuilleton:--

"The black sheep had flushed crimson, but the hot colour soon died down leaving him very pale."--_The Daily Mirror._

* * * * *

"Experienced nurses wanted immediately; temporary £1 to 15_s._ weekly. Also excellent situations for ladies' first babies, £40 to £28."

_Daily Paper._

The demand for juvenile labour is surely being overdone.

* * * * *

RUIN O' ENGLAND.

(_At "The Plough and Horses."_)

"Upper classes be stirrin' o' theirselves to rights now, seemin'ly."

"'Ow be you meanin', George?"

"Squire be by my place 'tother day when I be 'avin' a bit o' quiet pipe by my gate, same as you might be, Luther Cherriman, an' 'e stops--which 'e ain't been in the 'abit o' doin'--an' 'e says, ''Ullo, George,' 'e says, 'bain't you the man as allus used to keep a pig ereabouts?' An' I answers 'im as I cert'nly did use to keep a pig pretty constant when food-stuffs was cheaper than what they be now."

"What's 'e say to that, George?"

"'E says, 'My good man, if you was a bit more thrifty like, an' wasn't above collectin' 'ouse'old scraps,' 'e says, 'an', moreover, if you wasn't so blamed penny wise an' poun' foolish,' 'e says, 'you'd be keepin' y'r pigs--breedin' of 'em--now, when you could get biggest price for 'em. You'd be doin' o' y'rself a good turn an' settin' a 'xample to y'r neighbours,' 'e says, 'as they badly needs. Well, any'ow, think it over,' 'e says--an' away 'e goes."

"You been thinkin' it over, George?"

"In a manner o' speakin' I be thinkin' it over now, this very minute. In a manner o' speakin' I were thinkin' it over when I goes up to the Court over a bit o' business yesterday. 'Owever, I were really doin' no more 'n airin' my mind, as you might say, to the Cook--a decent 'nough young woman. I 'adn't no idea o' nothin' more."

"What you say to 'er, then?"

"I were lookin' at a bit of a lawn they 'as up there to the left o' their back-door. Middlin' poor bit o' lawn it be, not like them in front, an' I says of it what I've often said afore. 'Too much lawn to this 'ere 'ouse,' I says, 'to please me. Ruin o' England,' I says, 'lawns do be. Orter be dug up,' I says. 'Sow a matter o' fower bushels o' taters,' I says, 'on that poor little bit 'lone. Don't like t' see all this waste o' groun',' I says, 'an' us at war.'"

"What did Cook say to that? Some'at saucy, I be bound."

"'You be very practical, George,' she says, 'but food ain't everything, even in times o' war. You did ought to have seen wounded soldiers,' she says, 'settin' 'bout on all these 'ere lawns last summer time, like a lot o' bluebottles, 'joyin' o' theirselves to rights,' she says. 'An' 'ow could they a-done it, poor chaps,' she says, 'if we'd 'ad nothin' but an ol' tater patch to offer 'em?'"

"You'd got y'r answer to that, I dessay."

"I 'ad. 'They soldier chaps could very well 'ave sat on the paths,' I says--for the paths be wasteful wide to my thinkin'. 'A bit of a bench or a chair or so, an' they'd 'ave been right as rain, with some'at to look at as was sensible, too. A close-cut lawn ain't no manner o' interest to a thinkin' man, not like a medder or a few rows o' good early taters be.'"

"What did Cook say to that 'ere?"

"She laughs, an' she says, 'You be done courtin' then, George, I can see. You ain't got no thought of a second wife, seemin'ly.' ''Ow d' you know that?' I asks; an' she laughs again an' says she knows, 'cos if 'twasn't so I'd like the thought of a bit o' lawn to sit out on warm evenings an' such. An' then she says, 'You think too much o' y'r stomach, George'--which fair rattled me."

"What you say?"

"I says again, 'They lawns be the ruin o' England, I tell ye'--an' then I see 'er start an' go red 's a poppy, an' then she sort o' plunges in at 'er door. An' then I looks round for first time an' I sees Squire standin' there, 'earin' all as 'ad been said, an' for the moment I'd 'ave been glad 'nough for a back-door too--so I would."

"Lord-a-mercy, George, you're a rare-un for puttin' y'r foot in it wi' gentry! What to gracious did 'e make o' it?"

"'E sort o' smiled--but crooked like. An' then 'e says, 'No but what you're right, George'--which were 'bout 'undred miles from what I 'spected 'im to say. 'Look 'ere,' 'e goes on, 'I'll make a bargain wi' ye. You send me up 'alf-a-bushel o' seed potatoes,' 'e says, 'to start on, an' I'll send you a young sow out o' the last litter. What d' you say?'"

"What did ye say?"

"I says, 'Thank ye kindly, Sir. An' if I've done my bit to save England from ruin I be fine an' glad.' And so I be."

* * * * *

More Tampering with the Calendar.

"Among the objections to flag days is that they have detracted from the novelty of Alexandra Rose Day, which this year is being held on June 31."--_Daily Paper._

This attempt to shove Alexandra Day right off the calendar, has, we are glad to say, been unsuccessful; and to-day, June 21st, sees roses, roses all the way as usual.

* * * * *

From a concert programme:--

"BALLET. (for which Miss Gladys Groom has won the Challenge Cub in connection with Lady Rachel Byng's Olympic Game Tests)

SONG. 'Show us how to do the Fox Trot' (Miss Ruby Groom and chorus)."

It seems to us that Miss GLADYS'S reward would have been more appropriate to Miss RUBY.

* * * * *

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

There is no doubt that one of the greatest pieces of luck that has come the way of the Empire is LOUIS BOTHA. Mr. HAROLD SPENDER'S legitimately uncritical biography, _General Botha: The Career and the Man_ (CONSTABLE), fills in the details of the romance; and astonishing details they are. BOTHA, the anti-Krugerite, one of the seven in the Volksraad who voted against the fateful ultimatum in October, 1899, threw himself, when war was unavoidable, with all his energy into the task of his country's defence. Rapidly proving himself, he succeeded his sick chief, JOUBERT, with at first, and luckily for us, a mitigated authority. Here was no mere slim guerilla playing little disconcerting tricks on a clumsy enemy, but a general to respect, as BULLER found at Colenso and BENSON at Bakenlaagte. And his staff college was just his own occiput. When the inevitable end came, long delayed by his and his brother-generals' skill and courage, he laboured for a lasting peace, and took a line of steady fealty to the ideal of British citizenship, which he has unfalteringly pursued to this day. It is good, by the way, to recall the admirable and patient diplomacy, at and after Vereeniging, of Lord KITCHENER, who was the chief pleader for generous concessions to the gallant beaten enemy--an attitude BOTHA never forgot. BOTHA is indeed the pilot of modern South Africa--the first Premier of the Transvaal after the gift of responsible government, the first Premier of the Union after the federation of the four states. To him has fallen the honour (and the task) of crushing the rebellion, wherein he had the supreme wisdom to throw the burden upon the loyal Dutch in order not to risk reopening racial bitterness by using British elements against the rebels. He has entered Windhuk a conqueror. May his old luck follow him in the still difficult days of the youngest of the Dominions! I've forgotten Mr. SPENDER'S book. But of course this is all out of it. And there's plenty more good stuff in it.

* * * * *

I have for some time now had my prophetic eye upon Mr. J. C. SNAITH as a writer from whom uncommon things were to be looked for. So it has pleased me to find this belief entirely justified by _The Sailor_ (SMITH, ELDER), which is as good and absorbing a tale as anything I have encountered this great while. It is the life-history of one _Henry Harper_ that Mr. SNAITH sets out to tell; incidentally it is also the record of the development of a popular novelist out of a slum child, through such seemingly unpromising stages as tramp-sailor and professional footballer. There is a strength and (to use the most fitting term) a punch about the telling of it that carries the reader forward quite irresistibly. Moreover, like all histories of expanding fortune, it is cheery reading for that sake alone. Personally, I think I liked most the football section. I knew from _Willow the King_ that Mr. SNAITH knew all about cricket; for his football mastery I was unprepared. There is a fresh poignancy in Mr. SNAITH'S handling of professional sport in its most frankly gladiatorial aspect that gives one a new sympathy with the young giants who are now mostly engaged Delia raised her eyebrows contest. What I liked least about the book were the _Sailor's_ two matrimonial adventures. His entrapment by the detestable _Cora_ is so painful that perhaps I was glad to think it also slightly incredible. Even the lady whose hand is his ultimate great reward failed to rouse me to any enthusiasm. But the _Sailor_ himself is so human and likeable a figure that he perhaps absorbed my interest to the exclusion of the other characters, which I hope is as Mr. SNAITH intended it.

In _Verdun to the Vosges_ (ARNOLD) MR. GERALD CAMPBELL has paid a generous tribute to the indomitable courage of our French Allies. His position as Special Correspondent of _The Times_ gave him opportunities--strictly limited, of course, but unique--of recording in particular the earlier phases of the War on the fortress frontier of France; and he has produced a volume which shows no trace of civilian authorship, except in those qualities which confess the art of a trained writer. Never obtruding his own personality, he gives us here and there a glimpse of privileged experiences and happy relationships with the French authorities, civil and military, notably the Préfet of Meurthe et Moselle, whose letter to the author, published as an epilogue, is a document of astounding force and eloquence. If I have a complaint to make it is that in a serious history--the kind that you must follow very closely on the map--Mr. CAMPBELL should have spent so much time on general reflections and homilies which might just as well have been compose in Fleet Street or the salient of Ypres. And it is perhaps a pity that, where his subject gave him no chance of dealing with his own country's share in the War, he should have exposed at considerable length certain defects in the English character which delayed the adoption of national service. It is true that universal compulsion had not been adopted at the time when Mr. CAMPBELL was writing, and it is certain that no one who knows the good work he has done in helping the two nations to a better understanding of one another will question his motives; but I think that these reflections upon England, very English in their candour, have no proper place in a history of the achievements of France; and I hope that they may be cut out of the French translation which is shortly to appear. For the rest (and a good big rest) it is an enthralling book; and if I were a Frenchman I should read it with a very great pride. Even as it is, and notwithstanding what I have said, I am proud enough that an Englishman should have written it.

* * * * *

* * * * *

_The Scratch Pack_ (HUTCHINSON) is another of those jovial, out-door stories, for which Miss DOROTHEA CONYERS has already endeared herself to a considerable public. As before, her scene is Ireland. It is somewhere on the south coast of that emotional island that a maiden called _Gheena Freyne_ determines, in the war-absence of the local M.F.H., to do her bit by dealing faithfully with the foxes, who are rather above themselves through neglect. So she, and one _Darby Dillon_, who is crippled and unable to do anything but ride (and adore _Gheena_), get together a very scratch pack of the farmers' foot-dogs. What sport results, and how buoyantly it is told, those with experience of Miss CONYERS' vigorous gifts can easily imagine. There is however another thread to the story. A second suitor pervades the scene, one _Basil Stafford_, who, though hale and vigorous, persists, even under white-feather provocation, in an attitude of taciturn reserve about the War. Also he takes mysterious walks at night on the cliffs, somewhere off which a German submarine is said to be hiding, _Gheena_ accordingly suspects him of being (i) a shirker, (ii) a spy. Apparently, as far as young ladies on the South coast of Ireland are concerned, Messrs. VEDRENNE and EADIE have simply lived in vain. The more sophisticated reader, while not sharing _Gheena's_ astonishment at the climax, will none the less enjoy some pleasant thrills that lead up to it. In short _The Scratch Pack_ can show you an excellent day's sport.

* * * * *

I suppose we owe our grotesquely insular ignorance of the Art of Russia (other than music) to the fact that hitherto no one has been so enterprising as ROSA NEWMARCH. In _The Russian Arts_ (JENKINS), she sets out to give us a brief history of painting in Russia, from the ikon to the Futurist diagram, with a preamble on architecture and a postscript on sculpture. It is indeed a dismal thing to be brought to realise, even from quite inadequate illustrations in monochrome half-tone, that one does not know anything of such artists as REPIN and NESTEROF--to take but two widely differing types of a notable family. Art, such triumphant art, say, as the ballet with the gorgeous scenic accessories that we know, does not spring into being without ancestry, and this book gives us some notes on artistic pedigree--enough perhaps to save us from abject shame when, after this war, we sit at dinner next some knowledgeable Russian guest.... And this is likely often to happen. It is odd that Mrs. NEWMARCH seems to be interested in the literary rather than the graphic content of the pictures she describes--odd because she seems to know the painter's creed.

* * * * *

An Impending Apology.

Extract from a soldier's letter recently received by the wife of a distinguished retired officer:--

"Please tell Colonel W---- I was asking for him. Tell him this is a rough war, not the same as in his time. It is all brains now, and machinery."

* * * * *

Extract from _The Seamanship Manual_, vol. ii., chap, vii., "Disembarking Troops":--

"This method is satisfactory for horses, mules, or cattle, but does not answer with the camel. The latter, if not drowned on the way ashore, is very little use when landed."

This disparaging remark about the "ship of the desert" is attributable, we fear, to professional jealousy.

* * * * *

"The impression I carried away was that the Kiel Canal was a splendid bit of engineering, and that in case of war it would be invaluable, not only as a refuge for the German Fleet, but also as a quick means of getting the Kiel squadron quickly into the North Sea, or _vice versâ_."--_Sunday Chronicle._

The British Fleet has proved even better than the Kiel Canal as a quick means of accomplishing the vice-versâ operation.

* * * * *

"The last sale of home mad cooking will take place on Saturday."

_Avonlea Advocate (Saskatchewan)._

If only it were the last!