Chapter 2

"But look at this," said Red Hair, showing me a newspaper-cutting about a group of Russian girls known as "The Twelve Friends," who have been through the campaign and were treated with the utmost respect by the soldiers.

"And there's a woman buried at Brighton," said Black Hair, "who fought as a man for years and lived to be a hundred."

"And think of JOAN OF ARC," said Red Hair.

"And BOADICEA," said Black Hair.

"Well," I said, "leaving JOAN OF ARC and BOADICEA aside, possibly those Russians and that Brighton woman looked like men, which it is certain you don't. But any way we must be serious. What would your people say?"

"We left word," said Red Hair, "that we were going off to do something for our country. They won't worry. Oh, please be kind and help us!"

Here all four of their beautiful eyes grow moist.

I could have hugged both of them, but I kept an iron hand on myself.

"You nice absurd creatures," I said, "do be reasonable. To begin with, passing the doctor is an absolute necessity. That shuts you out. But even if you got through how do you think you would be helping your country? All the men would be falling in love with you; and that's bad enough as it is after working hours; it would be the ruin of discipline. And you could not bear the fatigue. No, go back and learn to be nurses and let your lovely hair grow again."

They were very obstinate and very unwilling to entertain the thought of drudgery such as nursing after all their dreams of excitement; but at last they came to reason, and I sent for a cab and packed them off in it (I simply could not bear the idea of other people seeing them in that masquerade), and told them that the sooner they changed the better.

After they had gone the Sergeant came in about something.

I said nothing, and he said nothing, each of us waiting for the other.

He moved about absolutely silently, and I dared not meet his glance because I knew I should give myself away. The rascal has not been running his eye over young women all these years without being able to spot them in a moment, even in navvy's clothes.

At last I could stand it no longer. "Damn it," I said, "what are you doing? Why don't you go? I didn't send for you." But still I didn't dare look up.

"I thought perhaps you had something to say to me, Sir," he said.

"No, I haven't," I replied. "Why should I? What about?"

"Only about those two young men, Sir," he replied.

"Get out," I said; but before he could go I had burst into laughter.

"Better not mention it," I managed to say.

He promised.

There--won't you find that useful?

Yours, C. S.

* * * * *

A VERY RARE BIRD.

Brown lives next door but one to me. His speciality is birds, and he must be a frightful nuisance to them. I shouldn't care to be a bird if Brown knew where my nest was. It isn't that he takes their eggs. If he would merely rob them and go away it wouldn't matter so much. They could always begin again after a decent interval. But a naturalist of the modern school doesn't want a bird's eggs; he wants to watch her sitting on them. Now sitting is a business that demands concentration, a strong effort of the will and an undistracted mind. How on earth is a bird to concentrate when she knows perfectly well that Brown, disguised as a tree or a sheep or a haycock, is watching her day after day for hours at a stretch and snap-shotting her every five minutes or so for some confounded magazine? In nine cases out of ten she lets her thoughts wander and ends half unconsciously by posing, with the result that most of her eggs don't hatch out.

Brown has a highly-trained sense of hearing. You and I, of course, possess pretty good ears for ordinary purposes. We can catch as soon as anyone else that muffled midnight hum, as of a distant threshing-machine beneath a blanket, which advertises the approach of the roaming Zepp. From constant practice, too, we have learnt, sitting in our drawing room or study, to distinguish the crash of the overturned nursery table upstairs from the duller, less resonant thud of baby's head as it strikes the floor. But can we positively state from the note of the blackbird at the bottom of the garden whether it has three, four or five eggs in its nest, or indeed if it is a house-holder at all? No, we cannot; but Brown can.

Even specialists, however, occasionally make mistakes. A day or two ago, just as dusk was falling, Brown entered my house in a state of considerable excitement and informed me that a pair of reed-warblers were building in my orchard.

"Are you sure?" I asked.

"Quite," he replied. "I have not actually seen the birds yet, but I have heard them from my own garden, and of course the note of the nesting reed-warbler is unmistakable."

"Of course," I agreed.

"It is a most extraordinary occurrence," he continued, "most extraordinary."

"You mean because there are no reeds there?"

"Exactly."

I was quite certain in my own mind that there were no reed-warblers either, but I felt it would be impertinent for a layman like myself to argue with Brown.

"There!" he exclaimed, darting to the open window. "Can't you hear it?"

I listened. "Oh, that," I said; "that's----"

"The mating song of the male reed-warbler," interrupted Brown ecstatically. "Now, whatever happens, don't let them be disturbed. Don't even try to find the nest, or you may alarm them. Leave it all to me. I shan't have a free morning till Saturday, but there's no hurry. I'll bring my camera round then, and when I've located the spot they're building in I'll rig up a hiding-place and take some photos. Don't let anybody go near them; the great thing is to make them feel quite at home." He was gone before I could explain.

It is rather an awkward situation, because, when Brown comes on Saturday morning, I am afraid that if he secures any really successful photos they will prove a disappointment to him. They will represent my gardener, Williams, trundling a barrow, the wheel of which is badly in need of oil.

* * * * *

Tercentenarians.

"It is one of the most marvellous of doubles that William Shakespeare and Miguel de Cervantes died on the very same day of the same year--on the 23rd day of April, 1916."

_The Leader (B.E. Africa)._

* * * * *

ROYAL ACADEMY-FIRST DEPRESSIONS.

* * * * *

"WHEN THE BOYS COME HOME."

* * * * *

THE SOLDIER'S SPRING.

On stormy days I get quite warlike; I find it easy to be fierce In winter, when the land is more like The Arctic Pole, with winds that pierce; With James for foe and all the meadows mired I feel in concord with the wildest plan, And grudge no effort that may be required To enfilade the man.

But now how hard, when Spring is active, To utter anything but purrs; With all the hillside so attractive How can one concentrate on "spurs"? And oh, I sympathise with that young scout Whom anxious folk sent forth to spy the foe, But he came back and cried, "_The lilac's out_! And that is all I know."

They ask me things about my picket, And whether I'm in touch with whom; I want to lie in yonder thicket, I only wish to touch the bloom; And when men agitate about their flanks And say their left is sadly in the air, I hear the missel-thrush and murmur, "Thanks, I wish that I was there."

When we extend and crawl in grim rows, I want to go and wander free; I deviate to pluck a primrose, I stay behind to watch a bee; Nor have the heart to keep the men in line, When some have lingered where the squirrels leap, And some are busy by the eglantine, And some are sound asleep.

And always I am filled with presage That, some fair noon of balmy airs, I shall indite a rude Field Message If Colonels pry in my affairs; Shall tell them simply, "It is early May, And here the daffodils are almost old; About that sentry-group I cannot say---- In fact it leaves me cold."

But, strange, I do not think the enemy In Spring-tide on the Chersonnese Was any whit less vile or venomy When all the heavens whispered Peace; Though wild birds babbled in the cypress dim, And through thick fern the drowsy lizards stole, It never had the least effect on him-- He can't have had a soul.

* * * * *

"Mr. Lloyd George is taking over all the distilleries with patent stills for munition work. Bonded whisky is sufficient for two years' conviction."--_Times of Ceylon._

Provided that you take enough of it.

* * * * *

"It was a delight to hear the voices of the children ring through the class-rooms in songs like 'Orpheus with his Lute' and 'Where is Sylvia?'"--_Daily News._

We note an error in the latter title. It should, of course, have been, "Has anybody here seen Sylvia?"

* * * * *

THE NEW DAMOCLES.

* * * * *

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

_Tuesday, May 2nd._--The House of Commons was unusually well attended this afternoon. Members filled the benches and overflowed into the galleries, and many Peers looked down upon the scene, among them Lord GRENFELL, formerly Commander-in-Chief in Ireland, and Lord MACDONNELL, once Under-Secretary to the Lord-Lieutenant. All were curious to learn what the PRIME MINISTER would have to say about the painful events of the past week. Would he announce that the Government, conscious of failure, had decided to resign _en bloc_? Or would it be merely pruned and strengthened by the lopping of a few of the obviously weaker branches?

Nothing of the sort. Mr. ASQUITH made the barest allusion to the surrender of Kut--an incident which was "not one of serious military significance." As for the insurrection in Dublin, there would be a debate upon it as soon as the Government had completed its enquiries. The main purpose of his speech was to announce that the Government had decided to introduce a Bill for general compulsion, and to get rid of the piece-meal treatment of recruiting to which the House had objected. Members were, I think, hardly prepared for the vigour with which the PRIME MINISTER turned upon his critics, reminding them that just the same denunciation of "vacillating statesmen" was current in the days of PITT. No doubt there had been blunders both in policy and strategy, but nevertheless the contribution of this Kingdom and this Empire to the common cause was growing steadily, and the military situation of the Allies was never so good as it was to-day. If the Government no longer had the confidence of the people, he thundered out, "let the House say so."

While the immediate answer to this challenge was a volley of cheers, most of the speakers in the subsequent debate disguised their confidence in the Government so successfully that it almost appeared to be non-existent. From Sir EDWARD CARSON, who acidly remarked that it was unnecessary for him to praise the Government, as "they always do that for themselves," down to Sir JOHN SIMON, who declared that compulsion was being introduced from considerations of political expediency rather than military necessity, no one seemed to be convinced that the Government even now quite knew its own mind.

The House of Lords, after listening to a moving tribute to the memory of Lord ST. ALDWYN from his old colleague, Lord LANSDOWNE, settled down to a debate on the new Order in Council prohibiting references to Cabinet secrets. It met with equal condemnation from Lord PARMOOR as a constitutional lawyer and from Lord BURNHAM as a practical journalist. The Ministers who "blabbed" were the real criminals. Lord BURNHAM recommended to them the example of the gentleman in the French Revolution, who always wore a gag in order to retain his self-control.

Lord BUCKMASTER, that "most susceptible Chancellor," made a very ingenuous defence of his colleagues. They were the unconscious victims of adroit interviewers, who obtained information from them by a process of extraction so painless that they did not know the value of what they were giving away.

It is time that these innocents were protected against themselves. A gag must in future be issued to every Minister with his Windsor uniform. The discarded G.R. armlets of the V.T.C. might very well serve the purpose.

_Wednesday, May 3rd_.--When, some nine years ago, Mr. AUGUSTINE BIRRELL was appointed Chief Secretary to the Lord-Lieutenant a friend who had some knowledge of Irish affairs wrote to him: "I do not know whether to congratulate you or condole with you, but I think it is the latter."

It was an easy guess, but its confirmation took an unusually long time. Indeed, at one moment it looked as if Mr. BIRRELL would escape the almost invariable fate of Irish Secretaries, and leave Dublin with his political reputation enhanced. When he had placed the National University Act on the Statute-book, thus solving a problem that had baffled his predecessors since the Union, he might have sung his _Nunc Dimittis_ in a halo.

Perhaps he was not sufficiently ambitious to demand release; perhaps none of his colleagues was anxious to take his job; perhaps the Nationalist leader insisted on keeping him in the silken fetters of office as a hostage for Home Rule. Anyhow, the opportunity was missed; and thenceforward Nemesis dogged his track.

Two years ago it seemed that Ulster would be his stumbling-block. The War saved him from that, but only to bring him down through more sinister instruments. In his pathetic apology this afternoon he confessed that he had failed to estimate accurately the strength of the Sinn Fein movement. He might have been wrong in not suppressing it before, but his omission to do so was due to a consuming desire to keep Ireland's front united in face of the common foe.

This frank admission of error would in any case have disarmed hostile criticism; but its effect was strengthened by the unseemly interjections with which Mr. GINNELL accompanied it. If the Member for Westmeath is a sample of the sort of persons with whom the CHIEF SECRETARY had to deal, no wonder that he failed to understand the lengths to which they would go.

Mr. REDMOND, obviously disgusted by the pranks of his nominal supporter, chivalrously shouldered part of the blame that Mr. BIRRELL had taken upon himself; and even Sir EDWARD CARSON, though a life-long and bitter opponent of his policy, was ready to admit that he had been well-intentioned and had done his best.

Later on, when the PRIME MINISTER had introduced the new Military Service Bill, establishing compulsion for all men married or single, Colonel CRAIG made a vain appeal to Mr. REDMOND to get the measure extended to Ireland. Nothing would do more to show the world that the recent rebellion was only the work of an insignificant section of the Irish people.

_Thursday, May 4th_.--Although Mr. GINNELL was one of the Members to whom the Government were ready a week ago to impart secrets of State with which the Press was not deemed fit to be trusted, I gather that he has other sources of information which he considers much more trustworthy. Among various tit-bits with which he regaled the House this afternoon was a suggested reason why British aircraft have not yet bombarded Essen. He has his suspicions that it is because members of the British Cabinet have shares in some of FRAU KRUPP'S subsidiary companies.

Most people know that all leave from the Front was stopped just before Easter, and have hitherto assumed that the stoppage was due to the exigencies of the military situation. To Mr. PETO, an earnest seeker after truth, as befits his name, Mr. TENNANT admitted that there was another reason. Last year, it seems, some returning warriors got so much mixed up in the congested Easter traffic that they never reached home at all, so this year the authorities resolved to keep them out of the danger-zone.

The Government welcomes any suggestion that may help to win the War. Mr. EUGENE WASON'S latest idea is that if the War Office and the Admiralty were to put their heads together they might make it easier for outdoor artists in Cornwall to obtain permits to pursue their studies, at present restricted, in military areas; and Mr. TENNANT assured him that this important matter was still "under consideration."

The Second Reading of the Military Service Bill brought forth some rather trite arguments from Mr. HOLT and other opponents of compulsion, and a lively defence from Mr. LLOYD GEORGE, who thoroughly enjoyed the opportunity, after a long silence, of being able to speak his mind without fear of complications with his colleagues. With examples drawn from France and the American Civil War he argued that compulsory service was an essential incident of true democracy. But an even more effective backing for the Bill came from Mr. ARTHUR HENDERSON. Hitherto, according to his own description, "the heaviest drag-weight of the Cabinet," he now lent it increased momentum, and carried with him into the Lobby all but nine of his colleagues of the Labour Party. Altogether, Sir JOHN SIMON and his friends mustered just three dozen, and the Second Reading was carried against them by a majority of 292.

* * * * *

* * * * *

Another Impending Apology.

"Pigs.--Live Stock Mem of Mark. No. 10.--Alderman ----."

_Live Stock Journal._

* * * * *

"God be with Lord Hardinge wherever he may be, whatever may be his sphere of service, for we fear we shall not look upon his like again."

"It is in this atmosphere of hope and confidence that Lord Chelmsford takes up the mantle of the Viceroyalty."--_Times of India._

Not for the first time the attempt to welcome the coming and speed the parting guest in the same breath has failed to turn out quite happily.

* * * * *

"Evidence was given that the pig, which was introduced in a revue at the Metropolitan Music Hall, was kept at the back of the stage in a crate in which it could not turn or stretch itself ... Mr. Paul Taylor said he was glad the case had been ventilated."

_The Times._

So, no doubt, was the pig.

* * * * *

* * * * *

FASHION-PLATE PATRIOTS.

Since our ranks, Mr. _Punch_, you've seen fit to upbraid (These lines are to show that you're hard on us), When you hear the defence of the fashion-plate maid I'm perfectly certain you'll pardon us; Though our heels and our hose and our frills and our frocks, Regardless of taste and expense, Your notion of war-time economy shocks; We're doing our bit, in a sense.

Now take, for example, Irene and me; She's thin and I'm rather--voluminous; Our skirts, full and frilly, just cover the knee, And our hose-play discourages gloominess; We've a bent for a boot with a soul-stirring spat, Gilt-buttoned and stubbily toed, And a top-gallant plume on a tip-tilted hat When we're ripe for the Park and the road.

The public each week, Mr. _Punch_, you impress With your cool-headed wit and ability, So I wonder you've not had the gumption to guess There's method in our imbecility; Read on, and your premature chiding deplore, For our merciful mission, in brief, Is to brighten the tragical drama of war By providing the comic relief.

* * * * *

If I were like a man I know and _Billing_ were my name, I wouldn't waste my precious time in striving after fame; I'd let it come to me unsought, unstruggled for, and then I'd just go on existing as a perfect specimen.

No care would line my marble brow; I'd take no thought of pelf; I'd lie the long day through at ease a-thinking of myself; For when a man's mere presence lends to any scene delight He needn't worry what he does--whate'er he does is right.

If I could bloom as blooms the rose, and BILLING were a bee, With all my pink and petalled force I'd coax him unto me; I'd open out my honeyed store, and he might linger on, Or cut and cut and come again until the whole were gone.

Such heaps of charm our BILLING has, such tons of _savoir faire_, It irks me much to see him spend his treasures on the air; And, still to hint a further fault, he cultivates the pose Of knowing all of everything, and lets you know he knows.

* * * * *

Reproductions of Mr. Punch's picture "Haven" are to be sold for the benefit of the Star and Garter Building Fund, and may be obtained from the Secretary of the Fund, at 21, Old Bond Street, W. They are to be had in two sizes, at _2s. 6d._ and _1s._, or, with Postage and Packing, _2s. 10d._ and _1s. 2d._

* * * * *

THE LUCKIEST MAN.

We were talking, the other night, about lucky people. Barmer declared that he knew the man (of whom we had all of us heard) who was left a large fortune by an eccentric old gentleman whose hat he had picked up on a windy day at Brighton. A better and more original contribution to the discussion was that of Bastable, a retired Anglo-Indian. I give it as nearly as I can in his own words. "The luckiest man I ever met," he said, "is my groom-gardener, Andrews. I don't mean to say in respect of prosperity or health, for he is a delicate man, and I can only afford to give him a modest wage. But he has a charmed life, as you will admit when you hear of his three escapes.