Part 3

"Oh, ours aren't a bit like that. The trouble with ours is that they hate going out. They sit tight indoors from morning to night."

"Can't you lure them out?"

"Well, I tell them what a wonderful place the British Museum is; but it's no use."

IV.

"Every evening during dinner Madame tells us how she walked from Louvain. Poor creature, she's not slender, and she had to walk mile after mile for eight hours. It must have been dreadful. But she won't remember that we've heard it all before. Everything reminds her of it. We're terrified to speak, Andrew and I, for fear some little tiny word will suggest walking from Louvain, and it always does.... Poor thing, though!"

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* * * * *

Naval Notes.

A correspondent asks us what exactly are the duties of the marines. We have not space to give him an exhaustive account of the work of these handy men, but we can indicate their affectionate nature by the following cutting from _The Liverpool Echo_:--

"One notable case in which a decoration was bestowed was of a young seaman, who at tremendous risk to himself, freed a submarine from a marine which had become attached to it off Heligoland."

Casual meetings off Heligoland are responsible for many such romances. Our correspondent's further enquiries about the duties of the destroyer and the torpedo we will let two other contemporaries answer:--

"Fourteen Roumanian destroyers from the Austro-Hungarian army arrived at Sinaia, Roumania, having crossed the Transylvanian Mountains on foot."--_Bombay Chronicle._

"Newspapers state that a French torpedo entered Dunkirk on Friday and reported having rammed and sunk a German submarine off Westende." _Indian Daily Telegraph._

In advertisement matters it is sometimes asserted that the right uses of type is the great thing. It is, however, a relief to the writer that a certain announcement with an ironic suggestion of reckless benevolence has now been removed from most of the hostelries. Yet it afforded instruction as to ringing the changes upon the sizes of type:--

OUR CHRISTMAS CLUB HAS COMMENCED. PAY WHAT YOU LIKE. HAVE WHAT YOU PLEASE.

TO THE VALUE OF YOUR MONEY.

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"There are complaints concerning the housing of the new Armies which, although now partly rectified, would be the better for further ventilation."--_Times._

In sending us this cutting, our soldier correspondent writes:--"Further ventilation be blowed. I've had to shove the rest of the blessed paper in the cracks, as it is."

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THE ENTERTAINERS.

I feel that I am entitled to speak with perfect freedom of the entertainment lately given in our parish hall, for, except as a spectator and as contributing several of the performers to the programme, without myself knowing anything about it beyond what rumour and the unwonted bustling mystery of the household brought to my knowledge--except, as I say, in these points, I had nothing to do with it. The whole thing was managed by an informal committee of ladies, acting on the discovery that the School Children's Meals Fund was at its last gasp, and required replenishment in order to carry it on through the ensuing year. Upon that the informal committee got to work and held several meetings. Now the methods of a committee of ladies differ from those of men. The ladies meet together in drawing-rooms and, so far as a casual observer can judge, they discuss every subject except the particular one for which they have been summoned. Then comes the moment when they intimate to one another that they must go, and they arise and draw slowly and reluctantly out from the drawing-room through the hall to the front-door step. Then, but never till then, just as they are about to go away, they suddenly remember what they came for, and in another five minutes the whole business is settled, and they stream away with the consciousness of work satisfactorily done. It is an unceremonious method, but a highly efficient one if judged by its results. In this particular case it produced a delightful entertainment, which I may describe as being by the children, for the children and of the children, as well as of the elders who gathered together to applaud the zeal and skill of the little performers.

Fortunately the appointed day was fine and there was a great rush of spectators, who soon filled the hall to its utmost capacity. The entertainment began with a tribute to patriotism in the shape of _tableaux vivants_, all save one selected from the storehouse of our kind old friend _Mr. Punch's_ cartoons. There, brilliantly and magnificently accoutred, was seen Britannia setting out to war for friendship and honour. There again we beheld brave little Belgium defying the German bully, and Holland succouring the refugees, and Belgium consoled by Liberty, and a final picture of Liberty blessing the Allies. All these were admirably represented, the immobility of the performers being not less remarkable than the splendour of their equipment; and enthusiasm was still further stimulated by the singing of the anthems of the various allied nations.

The performance proceeded, and the _intermezzi_ had been briskly taken; the harp had spent its last liquid notes; "Caller Herrin'" had been delightfully sung, and four tiny girls (combined height some twelve feet) had charmed us with the pretty innocence of their flower carol. Also a dramatic version of "The Holly Tree Inn" had been played in a fashion that DICKENS would not have disapproved. Now there was a murmur of expectation among the audience; soon the crystal-clear strains of "He shall feed His flock" sounded through the room, and as they lingered and died away the curtain rose for the masque, "The Holy Night." At the back of the stage was a lowly shed, its closed door guarded by two angelic figures clothed in pure white draperies and with wings that sparkled with a silver sheen. High above, to the left of the shed, a third angel soared, and these three watched and waited, intent and motionless, their hands crossed over their breasts. In front of them lay three shepherds, and amongst them frisked a white and woolly little lamb (Douglas, the Vicar's son), and further to the left we recognised little Kit Price as a raven in sleek black satin, and our John only partially disguised as a highly-coloured and effective cock, strutting and flapping and pecking and scraping to his heart's content, and admitted to the cast in spite of the stage directions, which declare that "if any little boy have very fat legs he shall not play the part of the cock." He made such amends as were possible by the extreme vividness and energy of the beak with which he kept the raven in order. At the back of the scene there were vague indications of the presence of an ox and an ass. It had been intended to represent them in a lifelike fashion by two heads; but these, though ordered, had failed to arrive, being cut off on their way by floods.

Now the shepherds burst into song, and when that was over the cock flapped his wings and crew, and the raven cawed, and the lamb ba-a-ed, and the uncompleted ox and ass made noises after their kind, and there was a lively bustle everywhere, except where the angels watched and waited with their hands crossed and their shining wings at rest. The shepherds began to gossip as shepherds, I suppose, have gossiped ever since the care of sheep began. One told how his grandam said, on the authority of a wise woman, that on the night Messias is born all the beasts shall speak. Another doubted whether this would hap in our time. Nothing, he thought, would hap save these heavy taxings; but the other reminded him that it had been a good year for sheep. But suddenly, as the shepherds chatted, the three angels, invisible to the shepherds, raised each a warning hand and bent forward and whispered, "Hush-sh!" and an awe-struck silence fell upon the scene. Something great and wonderful had happened, but what was it, and how would it be revealed?

Thereupon the cock, flapping his wings, did not crow, but cried out, "_Christus natus est!_ Christ is born!" and the raven, instead of cawing, called "_Quando?_ When?" and the ass in a loud voice answered, "_Hac nocte!_ This night!" and the ox said "_Ubi?_ Where?" and the lamb stood up and bleated "Be-e-ethlehem." Oh, then was heard a swelling sound of great exultation, and above the shed the dark and starry skies were opened and drawn away to each side, and there were disclosed angels raised up and standing in a long row, their bright wings folded and pointing upward, while they declared the glory of the Lord. And next the two guarding angels folded back the door of the shed, and there were seen MARY and JOSEPH, "and betwixt them two"--I quote from the directions--"the Holy Child lieth on a tuft of straw in a little box which shall be called the Manger," while two diminutive angels knelt, one at each side of the open door. No more beautiful and gracious picture could be imagined. Thus might some old Italian master have painted it, but this had, not colour alone and simplicity, but life and song and jubilation and perfect harmony of movement so natural as to seem unstudied. Then the shepherds did obeisance and the Wise Men, MELCHIOR, CASPAR and BALTHASAR, came and offered their gifts, and, last, after preparations had been made for departure into Egypt, the whole company sang together the glorious and triumphant "_Adeste, Fideles_," and the curtain drew down and the beautiful masque was over. There was no applause--only a universal sigh of contentment and admiration.

* * * * *

"Rudyard Kipling's 'The Camelion's Hump' was very well recited by the whole school, every word being very clearly pronounced, and an encore was called for but not acceded to." _Times of Natal._

All the same there seems to have been one word which the reporter missed.

* * * * *

From a speech as reported in _The Morning Post_:--

"It took the Canadian continent 17 to 19 days to come 3,000 miles."

This shows what faith in the British cause will do.

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* * * * *

THE ERROR.

It was on Monday, January 11, 1915. He had been reading _The Daily Mail_ and suddenly he banged it down. "You can't believe what you see in the papers," he said.

"Since when?" I asked.

"I suppose always," he said, "but particularly to-day."

He was a nice young soldier on his way back to his camp after a holiday, and I guessed him, before he enlisted in KITCHENER'S army, to have been a provincial clerk or a salesman of some kind.

"Yes," he said; "and I know someone else who'll say the same when she sees it."

"Sees what?" I asked.

He found a paragraph in the paper--towards the foot of the Society column--and placed his thumb on it.

"This," he said.

"Mayn't I see?" I asked.

He kept his thumb there.

"Yes, and her mother will have something to say to it too," he went on, "and"--he chuckled richly--"my mother too. The idea!"

"Mayn't I see it?" I asked again.

"As if nobody in this world mattered but toffs," he said. "Perhaps they did once; but they're not going to for ever, I can tell you."

"You're a Socialist?" I suggested.

"No, I'm not," he said. "I don't hold with Socialism. But I'm sure after this war's over toffs aren't going to be quite everything that they were before it began.

"The cheek of it!" he continued, with another glance at the paper. "Lumme, I'd like to be there when she lets herself go!"

"Your mother?" I said.

"No, I didn't mean her just then; but she'd be all right to listen to, too. She can't half speak her mind! No, I meant my fiancy. I've just left her; been there for Sunday."

"Have you been engaged long?" I asked.

He laughed. "No," he said. "That's the point. We only got engaged this year. I'd courted her a long time, but it wasn't till New Year's day that we fixed it up."

"I congratulate you," I said, "and her too. I think she's lucky to have a soldier for her husband. I hope you're both very happy."

"Happy!" he said; "I should think we were. That's what makes me so disgusted with this paper. Look at it."

At last he removed his thumb and showed me a paragraph beginning with the words, "The first interesting engagement of the New Year is that between Captain Dudley Hornby and Lady Marjorie Feilding."

"The 'first'!" he said scornfully. "The 'first'! She and her mother on that," he chuckled, "and my mother to help them! (We live close by). My, I wish I could be there to hear it. Give it me back, please; I must mark it and post it. What a time they'll have!"

I would like to be there too.

* * * * *

"A few days ago a military concert was given [at Antwerp], but upon the band striking up the tune of 'Heil dir im Siegerterang' the people hooted. They were thereupon charged by the police, and since that occasion mitrailleuses have been posted in front of the German musicians." _Glasgow Evening Times._

In this matter our sympathies are with the audience, because (1) It was surely entitled to hoot a band which did not know the name of its own National Anthem; (2) The police should not have been allowed to make any charge at a free concert.

* * * * *

THE BALLYMURKY CONTINGENT.

"I towld you how the Docthor's War speech sent iv'ry man from Ballymurky to the war," said old Martin Cassidy to me. "But did I not tell you how the Widdy O'Grady persuaded Terence Connelly to join them?

"I did not? Well, well. It all came out the very day the boys were leaving Ballymurky. Seventeen of them there were no less, and the Docthor there reviewing them this way and that way till he had you bewildered with the inthricacies of them.

"''Tis an uneven number you are,' sez he, 'however I look at you,' sez he.

"'Maybe you'll join us, Mrs. Murphy?' sez he; ''twill not be the first time you've worn the trousies, good luck to you,' sez he. 'Och have done wid your banther, Docthor dear,' sez she; 'there's plenty of them that wears them regler,' sez she, 'in other parts,' sez she. 'You'll not be looking for men in petticoats in Ballymurky,' sez she.

"Sure 'tis a good thing wars come only once in a while," said old Martin; "and me there comfortin' Mrs. Doolan. 'He'll come back to you when the war is over, Mrs. Doolan,' sez I; 'niver fear,' sez I.

"'I know he will,' sez she, wipin' her eyes wid her apron. 'He's not aisy lost, trust him for that. 'Tis no luck I have at all, at all,' sez she.

"They went by the express thrain, so they did," continued old Martin, and went on to explain that very few express trains passed through Ballymurky without stopping. "Sure isn't it a terminus?" said he. "Och but 'twas the fine band they had to play them to the station. Be the way Doolan bate the big dhrum you'd think 'twas the KAISER'S head he was at.

"'Go aisy with her, Doolan,' said the Docthor; 'you're drowning Patsy's runs on the thrombone,' said he.

"'Twas the beautiful music Patsy was discoursin' on that same thrombone. He had the way of it--none betther. 'Twas a gift wid him.

"The band--Patsy and Doolan--headed the procession playing 'Erin-go-bragh'--at laste Patsy was. And didn't he shtop playing in the middle of the third verse?

"'What the divvle d'you think you're playing, Doolan?' sez he.

"'Arrah, gwan out o' that,' sez Doolan, bating the big dhrum. ''Tis all one to me what I play this day,' sez he. 'Gwan you wid your thrombone,' sez he, 'and lave me extemporise on the big dhrum. 'Tis a free counthry annyway,' sez he.

"'Twas at Micky's shebeen that they had the first encounther wid the inimy," said old Martin. "Sure the whole company began to trimble.

"''Tis dying with the thirst on me I am,' sez Shemus; 'you could shtrike a match on me tongue,' sez he.

"'Arrah, go aisy, Docthor dear,' sez Larry; ''tis the cowld has settled on me stomach,' sez he, 'like a shtone,' sez he.

"But the Docthor was inixorable; he wouldn't lave a man break the ranks.

"'Double!' sez he--just that. You should have heard the blasht Patsy let out of his thrombone. If iver the Docthor gets mintioned in the despatches you'll find Patsy at his elbow, so you will.

"'Twas ten o'clock the thrain was to shtart, and the Docthor had them at the station be half-past, punctual to the minyit. Isn't Terence the guard and hadn't he been blowing his whistle this half-hour wid the express there stamping her feet to be away? 'Is it tomorrow you're going, Docthor?' sez he; 'for if 'tis so you'll have to go be a later thrain,' sez he. ''Tis all I can do to hould her in,' sez he.

"'Sure 'tis a hurry you are in, Terence,' sez the Docthor; 'and you wid the nice bright day before you. Seventeen of the best I've brought you, Terence; I can't make an even number of them count them as I will. 'Tis hard to see Conlan there forming twos be himself, so it is.'

"'You're looking younger iv'ry day, Terence me boy,' sez the Docthor, aisy like. 'What age would you be now?'

"''Tis forty I am, Docthor darlin',' said Terence--'in me boots,' sez he.

"''Tis the thick boots you're wearin'; won't you take them off, Terence?' sez the Docthor. 'What's your chist measurement?' sez he.

"'Thirty-eight, no less,' sez Terence, expanding of himself to his full height like a pouther pigeon.

"'I once heard tell of a man that gave his chist measurement be mistake for his age, Terence. Did you never make a mistake in your life now, Terence?' sez the Docthor.

"'Did I not, Docthor, and only last night,' said Terence; 'mebbe you'll hear of it yet,' sez he. 'Gwan out o' that, Docthor, now.'"

"I thought you said that Terence joined them," I remarked.

"Wait now till I tell you," said Martin. "Was I not saying that the Widdy O'Grady was there? Next to the engine she was, looking out of the carriage window at the boys. 'Twas goin' part of the way wid them she was; and why not?

"'You'll be late startin',' said the station-master to Terence, ''tis near eleven o'clock,' sez he; 'or after,' sez he. ''Tis me flag I'm lookin' for,' sez Terence. 'Sure the signal's against us, anyway,' sez he.

"''Tis not this thrain the signal refers to,' said the station-master, ''tis the next thrain. Wave your flag and let her go, Terence,' sez he.

"But 'twas flusthered Terence was wid losin' his flag," said old Martin. 'The divvle take the flag,' sez he. 'Sure I'll shtart her wid me handkerchief,' sez he. A red handkerchief at that," said Martin Cassidy.

"You'd not expect an engine-dhriver to shtart the thrain be wavin' a red handkerchief at him--not an express thrain. Sure he'd know the by-laws betther than that. But 'twas Bridget O'Grady's eye caught the red handkerchief, so it did.

"''Tis wavin' his handkerchief at me, he is,' sez she to the engine-dhriver. 'Good luck to you, mam,' sez he. 'Och the darlint,' sez she, waving back at Terence, 'he worships the ground I thread on,' sez she. 'Sure his feelings have overcome him, mam,' sez the engine-dhriver. 'Och me little Bo-peep,' sez she, blowing kisses to Terence be the dozen at a time.

"'Is it wantin' me to come to you, so it is,' said Bridget, opening the carriage door, 'me little love-burrd?' sez she. 'I'm coming to you, Terence dear,' sez she.

"'She's got you this time, Terence me boy,' said the Docthor, laughing. ''Tis here your flag is,' sez he. 'Well, wave it you,' said Terence. ''Tis no flag of mine now,' sez he. 'Boys,' sez he, ''tis Bridget has let the cat out of the bag this time before 'twas quite hatched,' sez he. ''Tis this is me flag,' sez he, takin' hould of a Union Jack from the dicorations, 'and 'tis the flag of ivery thrue Irishman,' sez he. 'Come along here wid you now, Bridget me jewel,' sez Terence, 'and see me take the King's shilling from the Docthor,' sez he.

"'Wasn't it you that was wantin' me to join last night? And didn't I promise you I'd join at Dublin just as a pleasant surprise for the Docthor? Sure 'tis you that has the laugh on the lot of them, so it is, and you breakin' your heart. Will you wave your flag now you have your eighteen, Docthor asthore? You and your mistakes,' sez he. 'The mistake I made was in thinkin' that a dacent woman would marry an Irishman who didn't know his flag,' sez he. 'For the love of Hivin let her go now, Docthor darlint,' sez he, 'or we'll be late for the IMPEROR,' sez he."

And that's how Ballymurky made an even number of it.

* * * * *

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

I seem to remember that, in the old days of peace, when a friend was run down or in want of thorough rest, it was a commonplace of advice to suggest a long voyage in a sailing ship. Somehow I do not think that, even when mines and traffic raiders are no more, I shall be quite so ready with this counsel after reading _The Mutiny of the Elsinore_ (MILLS AND BOON). Of course I know that a voyage in nautical fiction can never be wholly uneventful, also that one is justified in looking to Mr. JACK LONDON for something rather strenuous. But really the _Elsinore_ appears to touch the limit in this kind. I wish I could tell you properly about her crew. (Mr. LONDON takes chapters and chapters in which to do it). I suppose that every possible variety of undesirable was represented among them, from dangerous maniacs downwards. And their behaviour was what you might expect. The disquieting thing about the book is that the author gives to its most horrific episodes a cold and calculated air of truth. "_Experto crede_," he seems to say; "thus and thus is the real life of ships." So I had to believe him. There was only one passenger on board the _Elsinore_, and he finished the voyage in command of her. This was after the Captain had gone wrong in the head, and the First Officer had discovered the Second to be the murderer of one whom he had sworn to avenge. By this time also the voyage (which might be called one of attrition) had considerably reduced the _Elsinore's_ company; while the survivors were mostly engaged in hurling bombs and vitriol at each other. What one might call an active, open-air book. But, though I am far from denying its grim strength, it will not be my favourite among its author's always interesting romances.

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