Chapter 2

1. One man will make so tricks on trapees that audience will fraid himself very much.

2. Some dogs will play and role himself in the mud.

3. This is the grand display of tricks.

4. The lady will make himself so bend that everyone he will think that he is rubber lady.

5. The man will walk on wire tight. He is doing so nicely because he is professor of that.

6. Then will come grand dramatic.

NOTICE.

No stick will be allowed in the spectators and he shall not smoke also."

* * * * *

EXCELSIOR.

"Our ascent to the sun makes our enemy envious."--_Koelnische Zeitung._

The night fell fast, but faster still A youth came down the darkening hill, A super-youth, whose super-flag Flaunted the strange but hackneyed brag, "Excelsior!"

His eyes betrayed through gold-rimmed prism Myopia and astigmatism; But, head in air, he proudly strode, Declaiming down the fatal road, "Excelsior!"

The sign-posts clustered left and right And waved their arms towards the height; He heeded not, but through the mist Plunged steeply down and fiercely hissed, "Excelsior!"

"Put on the brake!" Experience said; "The stars, my boy, are overhead; The pit of Tophet's deep and wide." A sudden snarl of hate replied, "Excelsior!"

"O stay," cried Sanity, "and cool Thy fevered head in yonder pool!" The balefire smouldered in his eye, And still he muttered, hurtling by, "Excelsior!"

"Beware the awful precipice! Beware the bottomless abyss!" This was Discretion's last Good-night. He gurgled, as he dropped from sight, "Excelsior!"

At day-break, when the punctual sun Explored the hill-tops one by one, And scoured the solitary steep, An echo rose from out the deep, "Excelsior!"

And, from the deeper depths that lay Beyond the farthest reach of day, A thin voice wailed, and, mocking it, Crackled the laughter of the pit, "Excelsior!"

* * * * *

SOME JUMBO.

"Jumbo, the giant elephant of the Stosch-Parasani Circus in Berlin, has been killed for food, telegraphs the Amsterdam correspondent of The Daily Express. He yielded fifty-five tons of flesh."--_Evening Paper (Glasgow)._

If this statement had not come from Amsterdam we should have found some difficulty in believing it.

* * * * *

"At a meeting of the King George High School, Kasauli: 'Resolved, that the school be closed for to-day to commemorate the recapture of Kut, for which permission has been so kindly accorded by Pundit Hari Das Sahib, M.A.'"-- _Indian Paper._

We are all, General MAUDE included, very much obliged to the Pundit.

* * * * *

A MISNOMER.

Once upon a time, in the midst of the most detestable Spring ever known--a Spring consisting entirely of hopes of better weather, raised for no other purpose than to be so thwarted and dashed that the spirits of that brave and much harassed creature, man, might sink still lower--once upon a time, even in this Spring, there was a fine evening. It was more than fine, it was tender, and, owing to a North wind, wonderfully luminous, and I walked slowly along the hedges--which were still bare, although April was far advanced--and listened to the blackbirds, and marvelled at the light that made everything so beautiful, and was filled with gratitude to the late WILLIAM WILLETT for re-arranging our foolish hours.

I soon reached a favourite meadow, with a view of the hills and clumps of gorse in it, and, since there were clumps of gorse, many, many of those alluring little creatures which live in the ground and provide man with numbers of benefits--such as sweet flesh to put into pies; and cheap, soft, warm fur to wrap Baby Buntings in; and stubby tails, or scuts, to be used in hot-houses for transferring pollen that peach-blossoms may be fertilised, and (latterly) symbols for Government clerks who prefer civilian clothes and comfort to khaki and warfare; and (in Wales) toasted cheese. I refer to rabbits.

As I stood motionless in this meadow watching the yellowing sky, I was aware of an Homeric contest quite close to me. Two rabbits wore engaged in a terrific battle. They kicked and they scratched and made the most furious attacks on each other. The fur flew and the ground resounded to their thuds. First one seemed to be winning and then the other, but there was no flinching.

I had heard of rabbits fighting, but I had never seen it before. "Very unfair to have called them Cuthberts," I said to myself.

* * * * *

"The ---- Company have several second-hand cars for sale, starter and non-starter models; petrol consumption low."--_The Autocar._

Particularly that of the non-starters.

* * * * *

"Good General: sold cheap if taken over this week; good reasons for leaving."--_Liverpool Paper._

Can this be HINDENBURG?

* * * * *

"The Rev. Stuart Holden, on behalf of the Strength of Britain Movement, spoke of the enthusiasm for prohibition of audiences throughout the country."--_The Times._

We understand, however, that this enthusiasm for the prohibition of audiences has not yet extended to the theatrical profession.

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE FOOD QUESTION.

RATIONING AT THE ZOO.

"In the Northern area," says a despatch from Mr. POCOCK, "a, period of inactivity has set in which is partly due to the fact that the dromedary has been placed on a vegetarian diet. There has been a cold snap in the crocodile house. Three of our keepers have disappeared."

An attempt to substitute salsify for bloaters in the dietary of the sea-lion was not successful.

Complaints have been received from the elephant-house to the effect that buns sold for the benefit of the occupants have not reached their destination. Should this abuse continue it will be necessary to make arrangements to have every child under the age of twelve submitted to an X-ray examination before leaving the Gardens.

The use of human food for the nourishment of animals is, however, being discouraged; and for the future guinea-pigs and broken glass will be the staple diet of boa-constrictors and ostriches respectively. Peppermint- balls for grizzly bears are to be discontinued; also egg-nogg for anthropoid apes.

* * * * *

* * * * *

HINTS TO YOUNG FOOD-PRODUCERS.

_Jugged Hare._--A well-known firm of hare-raisers in Carmelite Street informs us that young rabbits fed on sponge-cake soaked in port wine have a flavour which renders them indistinguishable from hare.

_Celeriac._---This appetising vegetable has been little cultivated owing to a general but erroneous belief that it was the name of a new kind of motor-car. "Celeriac" is of course a compound of the word "celery" and the Arabic suffix "ac," which means "bearing a resemblance to" or "a small imitation of." Thus it would be correct for the writer to speak of the salariac he earns by writing this sort of thing.

[_Note._--"Earns" would _not_ be correct.--ED.]

* * * * *

NAVIGATION EXTRAORDINARY.

"Although the stern and screws of the vessel were well out of the water she was able to make the port under her own steam."--_Daily Mail._

* * * * *

"Portatoes in the usual forms have disappeared this week.--LORNA."-- _British Weekly._

These must be the Devonportatoes of which we have heard so much.

* * * * *

AT BEST.

[Baron MORITZ FERDINAND VON BISSING, the German Military Governor- General of Belgium, the murderer of Nurse CAVELL and instigator of the infamous Belgian deportations, after being granted a rest from his labours, is reported to have died "of overwork."]

Tired of pillaging and sacking, Tired of bludgeoning and whacking, Tired of torturing and racking, BISSING takes his "rest."

For the sport of shooting nurses, Gloating o'er his victims' hearses, Answering appeals with curses, He had lost his zest.

All his diabolic striving To intensify slave-driving Could not slay the soul surviving In a Nation's breast.

Still the flame burns ever brighter Underneath the blouse or mitre; Still the smitten greets the smiter With undaunted crest;

While the arch-tormentor, flying From the hell about him lying, Mid the fire and worm undying Takes his endless rest.

* * * * *

* * * * *

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

_Tuesday, April 17th._--The re-opening of the House of Commons found Lord FISHER in his accustomed place over the clock. What is the lure that brings him so often to the Peers' Gallery? I think it must be his strong sense of duty. As Chairman of the Inventions Board he feels he ought to lose no opportunity of adding to his stock.

Quite the most striking feature of the afternoon was the pink shirt worn by a well-known Scottish Member, whose name I refrain from mentioning to spare him any additional blushes. It was of such an inflammatory hue that his brother-legislators at first took it for a well-developed case of measles (probably German) and sheered off accordingly. Nobody knows what caused him to indulge in the rash act, but it is hoped in the interests of coherent debate that he will not do it again.

Mr. DILLON was so much disturbed by the apparition that, having started out to demand an immediate General Election unless the Government at once granted Home Rule to the whole of Ireland, he finished by declaring that he would be satisfied if they would promise to reform the franchise on the lines proposed by the SPEAKER'S Conference. Incidentally he drew a fancy picture of himself and his colleagues striving consistently for thirty-five years to convert their brother-Irishmen to constitutional methods; from which I infer that Mr. DILLON, very wisely, does not make a study of his own old speeches.

As the engineer of two successive extensions of the life of Parliament Mr. ASQUITH offered whole-souled support to the proposal to give a third renewal to its lease. Apart from anything else, how could a General Election be satisfactorily conducted when there was a shortage of paper and posters were prohibited? "What's the matter with slates?" whispered a Member from Wales. If every Candidate paraded his constituency sandwiched between a couple of slates showing the details of his political programme, it would certainly add to the gaiety of the nation, besides providing an easy method of expunging such items as in the course of the contest might prove unpopular.

A good many silly things have been said in the last month or two about HINDENBURG and his imaginary "line," but the silliest of all perhaps was the remark of _The Nation_ that the German retreat on the Somme "has found our soldiers wanting." This article naturally gave great comfort to the enemy, who possibly overestimates the importance of Mr. MASSINGHAM and the significance of the title of his paper. It also found its way to the British trenches, and caused so great an increase in the habit traditionally ascribed to the British Army when in Flanders that Sir DOUGLAS HAIG is understood to have suggested that an embargo should be placed upon the further export of such literature.

What most strikes the imagination is that amid the most stirring events of the greatest war in history British Legislators should devote three of their precious hours to so trumpery an affair. Was this what the old jurist had in mind when he called the House of Commons "The Great Inquest of the Nation"?

_Wednesday, April 18th._--On the motion introduced in both Houses to express the welcome of Parliament to our new Ally, Mr. BONAR LAW, paraphrasing CANNING, declared that the New World had stepped in to redress the balance of the Old; Mr. ASQUITH, with a fellow-feeling no doubt, lauded the patience which had enabled President WILSON to carry with him a united nation; and Lord CURZON quoted BRET HARTE.

A fresh injustice to Ireland was revealed at Question-time. England and Scotland are to enjoy an educational campaign, in which hundreds of speakers all over the country will dilate upon the necessity of reducing the consumption and preventing the waste of foodstuffs. But like most other patriotic schemes it is not to apply to John Bull's other island, though I gather that it is at least as much wanted there as here.

On the third reading of the Parliament Bill the debate was confined to Irish Members. Mr. FIELD, who is in the live-stock trade, led one particularly fine bull into the Parliamentary arena. After complaining that Members had no longer any power in the House, he went on to say, "We are simply ciphers behind the leading figures on the Front Bench." Surely that, arithmetically speaking, is the position in which ciphers are most powerful.

_Thursday, April 19th._--The mental processes of Sir WILLIAM BYLES are normally so mysterious that his suggestion that, with the Americans coming in and the Germans making off, this was the psychological moment for the British Government to initiate proposals for peace, did not strike the House at large as specially absurd. It was, however, both surprised and delighted when Mr. SWIFT MACNEILL interposed with an inquiry whether it would not be time enough to talk about peace when the Germans ceased to blow up hospital ships. When Mr. BONAR LAW tactfully observed that the Supplementary Question was better than the answer he had prepared, one felt that the prospects of an Anglo-Irish _entente_ had appreciably improved.

When the new MINISTER FOR EDUCATION deposited upon the Table a vast packet of manuscript, and craved the indulgence of the House if he exceeded the usual limits of a maiden speech, I thought of the days when the headline, "The Duke of Devonshire on Technical Education," used to strike on my fevered spirit with a touch of infinite prose. Mr. FISHER began in rather professorial style, but he soon revealed a glowing enthusiasm for his subject which thawed the House. His ambition is to transform the teachers in our elementary schools from ill-paid drudges into members of a liberal and liberally remunerated profession. Our record in the War has shown that, as a Naval Officer wrote to him, "there is something in your d----d Board School education after all."

* * * * *

"The bride, who was given away by her father, was attended by Miss ---- as demonsoille d'honneur."--_Hawkes Bay Herald_ (_New Zealand_).

We fear this marriage was not made in heaven.

* * * * *

* * * * *

A PAPER PROBLEM.

Copy of a letter from the Reverend Laurence Longwind to the Archbishop of CANTERBURY:--

_The Rectory_, _Little Pottering_, _April 1st, 1917_.

My LORD ARCHBISHOP,--I am writing to ask whether Your Grace would be so kind as to assist me in resolving a case of conscience which, I feel sure, must be exercising the minds and hearts of many of my brother clergy at the present time.

The matter to which I refer is closely connected with the sad shortage of paper. It is no doubt known to Your Grace that many ministers of the Gospel, though capable of eloquence of a high order, _write_ their sermons. Old sermons tend to increase and multiply at an alarming rate. I myself have a chest of drawers literally stuffed with them. What, in Your Grace's opinion, should be done with these?

Would it be right, in view of the purpose for which they were written, to tear them up and send them away to be pulped? Long and earnestly as I have considered the problem in all its bearings I am still utterly unable to arrive at a solution.

No doubt I could sell them and devote the proceeds to charitable purposes. There is, I am informed, a large and steady demand for old sermons amongst the younger clergy who have not that ripe experience of life which sixty years in a rural parish cannot fail to provide. But I am informed that the dealers do not always offer appropriate prices. And I should hesitate to make a traffic in holy things unless I could make quite certain that no breath of scandal could result from inadequate remuneration.

I have sounded my churchwardens on the subject, but without reaping any benefit from the advice given. "Do you see any harm in selling them simply as paper?" I asked one of them, a Mr. Bloggs. "Not a rap! Not a rap! Get rid of 'em!" was his reply. Naturally I felt hurt. It was not so much what he said as the way he said it. The mere mention of my sermons always seems to make him irritable. Why I cannot imagine.

My dear wife advises me to send them down to the schoolhouse. The children, she thinks, might use the backs (I write on one side of the paper only) for their sums. But I fear such an expedient might give rise to a spirit of irreverence.

Would Your Grace hold me greatly to blame were I to raffle them at our next rummage sale? I feel sure they would fetch a good price. Only yesterday Miss Tabitha Gingham remarked to her sister, Miss Mary, "We had a good long sermon from the Rector this morning." I was passing behind their laurel hedge at the moment, and could not fail to overhear this meed of praise. Miss Tabitha is, I should explain, very hard to please, and if _she_ thinks them good there must be others in the parish of the same opinion. I might be able to raise quite a nice sum for our local Seed Potato Committee by a Spring raffle of my longer and more elaborate compositions. And since everybody is beginning to take a modern view of Bonus Bonds I do not think that a raffle for such a purpose need arouse serious opposition.

Trusting that Your Grace will be able to give me your considered opinion in this matter, which is arousing so much attention at the present time,

I am, Your Grace's humble and obedient Servant, LAURENCE LONGWIND.

* * * * *

* * * * *

FORE AND AFT.

The A.S.C.'s a nobleman; 'e rides a motor-car, 'E is not forced to 'ump a pack, as we footsloggers are; 'E drives 'is lorry through the towns and 'alts for fags and beer; We infantry, we does without, there ain't no shops up 'ere; And then for splashin' us with mud 'e draws six bob a day, For the further away from the line you go the 'igher your rate of pay.

My shirt is rather chatty and my socks 'ud make you larf; It's just a week o' Sundays since they sent us for a barf; But them that 'as the cushy jobs they lives in style and state, With a basin in their bedrooms and their dinners on a plate; For 'tis a law o' nachur with the bloomin' infantry-- The nearer up to the line you go the dirtier will you be.

Blokes at the base, they gets their leave when they've bin out three munse; I 'aven't seen my wife and kids for more 'n a year, not once; The missus writes, "About that pass, you'd better ask again; I think you must 'ave been forgot." Old girl, the reason's plain: We are the bloomin' infantry, and you must just believe That the nearer up to the line you go the less is your chance of leave.

* * * * *

"We cussed at Grosvenor House and some steps in this direction may be expected if the demands of retailers become more rapacious."--_Daily Mail._

It is no good abusing the FOOD CONTROLLER, however, or prices would long ago have been down to zero.

* * * * *

MAB DREAMS OF MAY.

The day-dim torches of chestnut trees stand dreamily, dreamily; In myriad jewels of glad young green, smooth black are the broad beech boles; The fragrant foam of the cherry trees hangs creamily, creamily, And the purpling lilacs and the blackthorn brakes are singing with all their souls!

The pinky petals of lady's-smocks peer maidenly, maidenly; Meadow-sweet, donning her fragrant lace, is daintiest friend of the breeze; Hyacinths wild, blue-misting the woods, hang ladenly, ladenly, And tiniest bird's-eye burns deep blue in thickets of tall grass trees!

Daylong I lie, daylong I dream, swung swooningly, swooningly, In an old-time tulip of flaming gold, red-flaunted and streaked with green, While song of the birds, of water and bees comes crooningly, crooningly, And Summer brings me her swift mad months with scent and colour and sheen. Winter is gone, I ween, As it had never been!

_Dance! dance! Delicately dance!_ _Revel with the delicatest stamp and go!_ _Dance! dance! Circle and advance,_ _Curtsey, twirl about,_ _Shatter the dew and whirl about,_ _Stamp upon the moonbeams--heel and toe!_

* * * * *

MORE NEWS FROM THE AIR.

THE ALLIES.

The other day I was in a country house whose owners are so lost to shame as still to keep pets. There is a dog there which is actually allowed to eat, in defiance of all those _Times'_ correspondents whose sole idea of this stimulating and unfailingly devoted animal is that it is personified greed on four legs. There are two or three horses of unusual intelligence, which no doubt our friend the Hun would long since have devoured, but which, even though hunting is over, are by some odd freak of sentiment or even of loyalty still kept alive. There are rabbits. And there is a bird in a cage against the wall of a small yard. This bird is a chaffinch, which a friend had brought over from France.

After I had fraternised shamefully with all these deplorable drones, my hostess drew my attention to the French chaffinch, a line big fellow, very tame and cheerful. "We will feed him," she said, "and then you will see something that happens every day. Something very interesting."

So saying she poured into a receptacle for the purpose enough seed, no doubt, to make, mixed with other things, several admirable thimble-loaves of bread substitute, and told me to watch.

I watched, and very soon the French chaffinch, having eaten a certain amount of the seed, dashed his beak amid the rest with such violence that it was spilt over the pan, out of the bars and down to the ground below.

"That's very wasteful," I said. "Lord DEVONPORT wouldn't like that--Lord DEVONPORT wouldn't;" this being the kind of facetious thing we are all saying just now, and something facetious being in this particular house always, for some reason or other, expected of me.

"Wait a minute," my hostess replied. "There's more reason in it than you think."

And there was.

The whole point of this mediocre narrative consists in the fact that within a few seconds some dozen sparrows had descended to the yard and were feeding busily while the chaffinch watched from above. And this happens at every mealtime.

To what extent we are contributing to the French Commissariat I cannot say; but with my own eyes I have seen a French citizen being systematically generous to his English cousins.

* * * * *

"The sale [of potatoes] started at 6 a.m., and the first omnibus from London brought over 200 buyers down."--_Weekly Dispatch._

A gross case of overcrowding.

* * * * *

* * * * *

DOUBLE ENTENTE.

["In view of the fact that M.C. is also the abbreviation for 'Military Cross' ... it has been recommended that the abbreviations for the degrees of Bachelor of Surgery and Master of Surgery be altered from B.C. and M.C. to B.Ch. and M.Ch."]

In view of the fact that P.M. is also the abbreviation for Prime Minister and Post-Mortem, the London and North-Western Railway recommend that in future the abbreviation for afternoon be A.L. (After Luncheon).

In view of the fact that (as every schoolboy knows) D.D. is also the abbreviation for Double Donkey, the Upper House of Convocation recommend that in future the abbreviation for Doctor of Divinity be Doc. Div.

In view of the fact that Q.S. is also the abbreviation for Quarter Sessions, the Committee of the Pharmaceutical Society recommend that in future the abbreviation for Quantum Suff. be S.W. (Say When).

* * * * *

"Herbert Spencer made a rough outline of his 'Sympathetic Philosophy' when forty years old."--_Weekly Paper._

Alas! he never lived to fill in the details.

* * * * *

A PERSONAL TRIUMPH.

Always at the same point of my railway journey North I drop my paper and wait till a certain trim red-roofed ivy-clad cottage comes into view across the fields to the right. Till yesterday there were two reasons why I should hail this cottage with delight. First of all, it stands where trim cottages are rarer than pit-heads and slag heaps; and, secondly, GEORGE STEPHENSON once lived there. From now onwards, however, I have a third and more compelling reason for respecting the old building. You shall hear.

Know, then, that I have a friend called Smithson. The Athenians would have had a short way with him; and I admit that there have been times in the course of our relationship when hemlock would really have been the only thing to meet the case. Our conversations (it is no fault of mine) are always dialectical. They take the following form. Light-heartedly I enunciate a proposition. Smithson is interested and asks for a clearer statement. I modify my original position. Smithson purrs. Seeing trouble imminent, I modify my modification, and from that point onwards I make a foredoomed but not (as I flatter myself) an unplucky fight against relentless logic. The elenchus comes soon or late, but it always comes. Only in dreams am I ever one up on Smithson. The old trick of cramming up hard parts of the Encyclopaedia overnight is no good. I tried it once with "Hegesippus" and "The Hegira." You don't know what either of these words mean? Smithson did--and he knew the articles. No doubt he and Mr. GLADSTONE had written them in collaboration.

Well, yesterday, Smithson and I were in the neighbourhood of the cottage which I have told you of. Having an hour to spare from work of national importance, we took our sandwiches and were eating them in view of the jolly old house.

"What's that thing over the door?" I said.

"That I take to be a sun-dial," said Smithson with his accustomed reserve of strength.

"What a delightful stile," I said. (You always have stiles on sun-dials. I knew that).

"_Qua_ stile it is perfect. What do you make of the inscription?"

I went at it bald-headed. "_Percunt et imputantur_," I said.

"You may be right, of course," replied Smithson, "though it certainly begins with an A."

"True," I corrected. "_Anno Domini_."

"Conceivably--but the second letter is a U."

I left Smithson painfully to reconstruct A-U-G-U-S-T from among the ivy. He had got to the M of a long date when a burst of sun cast a crisp shadow across the dial.

"I don't think much of GEORGE STEPHENSON after all," I said. "His beastly clock doesn't know the right time."

Smithson snorted. Here was a challenge to the omniscient.

"That's all right," he said, recovering himself in a moment "All properly constructed dials have a compensating table; we shall find one no doubt behind the ivy; there! I see it, to the left--a compensating table by which you have to correct the actual record of the shadow. For example, we are now in Lat. 55 N. The month is April. At Greenwich--"

But I wasn't listening. A bright truth had flashed into my mind, and I couldn't hold myself back any longer. "It's just about an hour slow," I said. "You don't think that Daylight Saving has anything to do with it, do you?"

* * * * *

* * * * *

"About twenty-four hours later one of the ship's officers saw something bobbing on the water a few hundred years dead ahead."--_New York Evening Post._

America evidently foresees a long war.

* * * * *

THE STRIFE OF TONGUES.

(_Lines suggested by the recent demise of the inventor of Esperanto._)

As a patriotic Briton I am naturally smitten With disgust When some universal lingo By a zealous anti-Jingo Is discussed.

Some there are who hold that Spanish In the end is bound to banish Other tongues; Some again regard Slavonic As a stimulating tonic For the lungs.

I would sooner bank on Tuscan, Ay, or even on Etruscan, Than on Erse; But fanatical campaigners, Gaelic Leaguers and Sinn Feiners Find it terse.

Some are moved to have a shy at Persian, thanks to the _Rubaiyat_, And its ease; But it's quite another matter If you're anxious for to chatter In Chinese.

To instruct a brainy brat in Canine or colloquial Latin _May_ be wise; But it's not an education As a fruitful speculation I'd advise.

French? All elegance equips it, But how oft on foreign lips it Runs awry; German, tainted, execrated, Is for ages relegated To the sty.

As for brand-new tongues invented By professors discontented With the old, Well, the prospect of a "panto" Played and sung in Esperanto Leaves me cold.

* * * * *

"One of the most striking--and satisfactory--features of the new restaurant regime is the disappearance of the bread-basket."--_Daily Telegraph._

Or, at any rate, a considerable shrinkage in its contour.

* * * * *

"If there must be duplication of electric light installations, the apparati might, at least, be made uniform. And it would not be expecting too much if they were made in some way to harmonise with the telephone service."--_Australian Paper._

Or even with the Latin Grammar?

* * * * *

"5-Seater Car for Sale; must sell; chauffeur at the Front; own body cost over L73. What offers?--RECTOR."--_Times._

These personal details seem to us a little out of place in a commercial transaction.

* * * * *

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

In these days, when everybody has his reminiscences, there should still be a welcome for so genial a volume as _A Soldier's Memories_ (JENKINS), into which Major-General Sir GEORGE YOUNGHUSBAND has gathered his "Recollections of People, Places and Things." The title truly indicates the character of the contents, which are exactly what you would expect from a plain blunt man, who loves his friends, and equally loves a good story about them, at his own or their expense, impartially. The anecdotes in the book are legion, and the actors in them range from troopers to generals, and beyond. KING EDWARD, their present Majesties, Sir DOUGLAS HAIG ("a nice-looking clean little boy in an Eton jacket and collar") all figure in the author's pictures of the past, which include also a highly characteristic study of WILLIAM THE FRIGHTFUL, congratulating the "citizens of Salisbury," represented by a handful of curious urchins, upon their "beautiful and ancient cathedral." (One can fancy the unspoken addition in the Imperial mind, "And what a target for Bertha!") Many of Sir GEORGE'S pages are devoted to stories of the Boer campaign, that old unhappy far-off thing that seems somehow, as one looks back to-day, further off than Waterloo. In fine, a book that all Service folk, and many besides them, will find a treasure-house of good stories, of exactly the kind that should be certain of their appeal now, when we are all, or like to think ourselves, soldiers in the greatest of England's wars, and inheritors of the traditions here shown in the making.

* * * * *

A short hour's reading and you will have laid down, with a sigh for its brevity, a little book that is a very model of artistry. It is by Mr. E.V. LUCAS, and _Outposts of Mercy_ is its happy name. But I am not to seek reflected glory by the praising of a colleague; simply for the sake of the cause that he pleads I wish to commend this fascinating account of the author's visit, in the company of Lord MONSON, Chief Commissioner, to the stations of the British Red Cross on the Carso, at Gorizia and among the Carnic and Julian Alps. Resisting sternly the temptation to embroider his theme with the distractions of scene and circumstance (of course he had to tell us of that dinner at the mess of an Alpine regiment where he met the man who had discovered the "Venus of Cyrene"), he keeps as closely as may be to his main subject, but cannot escape from infusing it with his own sense of colour and romance and the unconscious appeal of his personality. One may envy him his rare experience, yet fully share his pride in the fearless devotion of the men and women of our race (one can imagine it of no other) in these perilous and lonely outposts of mercy. A little paper book, illustrated with little photographs, and costing just a shilling. The author and his publishers (METHUEN) are devoting the profits to the British Red Cross; so you who buy and read it--and I don't see how anybody can refuse--may extract a claim to virtue from an hour of pure delight.

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A quiet style, keen powers of observation, and a delightful assumption of his own unimportance combine to make Mr. FREDERICK PALMER'S _With the New Army on the Somme_ (MURRAY) a book that will be read long after the Hun has returned to the place from which he came. "Those whose business it was to observe, the six correspondents ... went and came always with a sense of incapacity and sometimes with a feeling that writing was a worthless business when others were fighting." There we have his apology for doing what obviously seemed to him a second-best thing; but much as I like his modesty I can assure him that no finer tribute has yet been paid to our new army. Mr. PALMER was the accredited American correspondent at the British Front, and though the days are happily passed when he was a neutral in name his position as an impartial spectator gives him an advantage denied to the most veracious of our own correspondents. Our French Allies too may be congratulated, by themselves as well as by us, on being observed by eyes so shrewd and friendly. "No two French soldiers seem quite alike on the march or when moving about a village on leave. Each seems three beings--one a Frenchman, one a soldier, a third himself." Anyone who has been in the war-zone and seen a French regiment resting cannot fail to be struck by the acuteness of this remark; indeed it provides the key to what, for an ordinary British mind, is a puzzle. It is one of Mr. PALMER'S many virtues that, although his main business was to watch the soldiers and the fighting, he never forgets the man inside the uniform. This gives to his historical record the added interest of a study in psychology.

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_The Unspeakable Perk_ (HODDER AND STOUGHTON) and his attendant puppets are, to put it kindly, selected from the stock characters of Lesser American Fiction. There is the "radiant" heroine from Squeedunkville, Wis. (or Mass.); the tame Poppa with the simoleons, the hero heavily disguised as a worm, and a worm or so to do the real heavy worming when the hero's turn comes to pull off the grand-stand play (this doesn't sound like English but it is really the standard "line of talk" in Lesser American Fiction). And last but not least there is the "fiery" Southerner. In real life Southerners are melancholy men with a tendency to _embonpoint_ and clawhammer coats of ante-bellum design. But in Lesser American Fiction they are for some undiscovered reason always "fiery." To the fiery one the heroine "unconsciously turns" when the apparent earmarks of the hero's wormhood are dramatically revealed, and of course she hands him what she would probably describe as the "sister" stuff when the gentleman emerges in his natural colours. That is what makes the story-book Southerner so fiery. Place these complex characters in an imaginary Carribean Republic, a sort of transpontine Ruritania; add a revolution fostered by the serpentine diplomats of a European power; let the American eagle issue a few screams, and there you have the environment in which _The Unspeakable Perk_ lives and moves and has his unreal being. The keynote of SAMUEL HOPKINS ADAMS' story is what the _Perk_ person would describe as a want of "pep." Even the villains turn out to be comparative gentlemen in the end, the dirty work being conveniently fastened upon some "person or persons unknown." The yarn is well enough to wile away an hour; but in these days of burning realities fiction has lost its bite unless it too is informed with the spirit of reality.

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I have to warn you that the early chapters of _The_ _Moulding Loft_ (METHUEN) are liable to plunge you into some mental agitation, due to the author's deliberately baffling method of starting her plot. The hero, for example, is introduced to us abed, and semi-delirious, waited upon by a pale and sinister young female whom he detests. He appears to be in a house strange to him, which contains also an unpleasant old woman and a queer little boy whose behaviour is wrop in mystery. Slowly, perhaps somewhat too slowly, it is revealed that the hero has been knocked silly by a large stone dropped upon his unoffending head by the small boy. But why? And why does the child protest his innocence with such apparent good faith? These problems I must leave MARGARET WESTRUP (Mrs. W. STACEY) to resolve in her own unhurried way. Of course before long the "little aversion" between hero and heroine gives place to an emotion more appropriate. But there remains an obstacle to their union, one concerned (also, of course) with the detestable grandmother and the mysterious small boy. Shall I give you one clue? Somebody is mad; nor is it (as you may at one time have been tempted to suppose) either the author or reader. More than this wild horses should not extort from me. But I confess to a rewarding thrill and a very grateful relief when the mystery was finally cleared up. A good and interesting book, both for its plot and for some very agreeable Cornish scenes, which would have been even more welcome had the delectable Duchy not already engaged the pens of our novelists more than enough.

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Mrs. "J.E. BUCKROSE" is one of those writers whose work can always be depended upon. A pinch of pathos, a _soupcon_ of sentiment, a spice of humour--there you have the recipe, and a very palatable mixture it makes. The common element that pervades the dozen stories which compose _War-Time in Our Street_ (HODDER AND STOUGHTON), all in the author's best manner, is the staunch devotion to duty displayed by her heroines under stress of war. Pangs of hunger are endured nobly, hard-hearted folk are softened, lonely women fight and win the battle against depression. If these pictures of life behind the windows of our village streets are too _couleur de BUCKROSE_ to be quite true, there is nevertheless a real quality in them. They are not for the cynic, but for readers who can appreciate simple tales of simple people, told without affectation.

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"To shoot well at fixed targets, after the range has been exactly registered, as in trench warfare, is one thing, but front and pick up distances smarly, is quite to trot into action, unlimber and form action another, and this is where many phophets anticipated our new Army would be found wanting, but prophecy is becoming a profitless business in this war."--_Bath Herald._

Well, why not try proof-reading as a change?

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"The Rector nominated Mr. C. Yells as his warden. Captain Noyes was appointed sidesman."--_Provincial Paper._

Otherwise the proceedings seem to have gone off quietly.