Chapter 2

Not the keenest eye could discover The sign of the sloth on you, From the last mane-lock laid over To the last nail tight in the shoe; A blast, and your ranks stood ready; A shout, and your saddles filled; A wave, and your troop was ready To wheel where the leaders willed.

"Fine-drawn and fit to the buckle!" Was your confident Colonel's pride, And the faith of the lads--"Our luck'll Come back when the Spring winds ride;" And, dropping their quaint oaths drolly, They dragged their spurs in the mire, Till the Western Front woke slowly And they won to their hearts' desire.

They loose you now to the labours That the needs of the hour reveal, And you carry the proud old sabres To cross with a tarnished steel; So, steady--and keep position-- And stout be your hearts to-day, As you shoulder the old tradition And charge in the ancient way!

W.H.O.

* * * * *

MORE ZOO NOTES.

Raw sugar, Captain BATHURST states, cannot be sold on account of the presence of the sugar louse. It is thought that Mr. POCOCK, who has so successfully brought the Zoo's rations into conformity with war conditions, might probably persuade the animal to live on hemp seed.

* * * * *

"Changes in the Zoo's dietary," says Mr. POCOCK, "were effected without difficulty." The rumour that the hippopotamus demanded a pailful of jam with its mangel-wurzels, in the belief that they were some kind of homoeopathic pill, appears to have been baseless.

* * * * *

In order to assist the many fine specimens of moth in the Insect House, it is reported that several actor-managers owning fur coats have offered them a good home.

* * * * *

The birds of paradise are no longer fed on beetroot. Since the all-red root has been denied them they protest against being called birds of paradise, and wish to be known simply as "birds."

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

WHITEHALL WHISPERINGS.

(_With apologies to the seers of the Sunday papers_.)

A great port was swathed in bunting last week. I was there, but I must not say what caused this outburst of enthusiasm. But even the Censor can scarcely forbid my hinting that it was connected with a naval success of peculiar brilliance which must be suppressed because we wish to keep the Bosches guessing.

* * * * *

Who was in Switzerland when he was regularly reported as being in attendance at War Council meetings? Who was actually supposed to have addressed a public meeting in England when in reality he was hundreds of miles away? I make no statement; I merely write the word "Austria." To those who understand it will be enough.

* * * * *

Have you noticed that for some weeks we have had no news from the Port of Danzig? I draw no deduction, but do not be surprised to hear in a few weeks that the Port of Danzig has ceased to exist.

* * * * *

There is grave trouble at Scotland Yard. A Hun Colonel captured at Arras was found to have in his pocket a receipted bill from a London hotel of the previous week's date. It would surprise you very much if I told you at which hotel "Mr. Perkins" stayed and what guests he entertained there.

* * * * *

Why did the Liberian envoy call at the Foreign Office six times last week? His explanation, offered to an inquiring Pressman, that he had lost an umbrella, was naive, to say the least. I must not betray what I know, but I may hint that KING FERDINAND of Bulgaria is famous for the devious ways in which he carries on negotiations.

* * * * *

A neutral diplomatist of considerable importance has never taken a holiday since the War began, and has always told his friends that he will never leave his post till peace comes. On an afternoon this week he was seen with beaming face buying a travelling rug and two portable trunks at one of London's largest emporia. I wonder--yes, I wonder.

* * * * *

[_The Editor_. You are not very spicy this week.

_The Contributor_. Nor would you be if you had been confined to the house at Peckham Rye with influenza. Better work next week. I have an appointment to lunch with a member of the National Liberal Club and shall get right to the heart of things.]

* * * * *

Extract from Army Orders at the Front:--

"A C. of E. Chaplain will shortly join the Heavy Artillery. Please make arrangements for him to be accommodated in the ---- Heavy Battery Horse Lines."

The nearest thing that could be got, we suppose, to a Canon's stall.

* * * * *

"As approved up to date, the bread ticket will comprise four squares, each entitling the holder to purchase two ounces of bread; or, by presenting the whole ticket, two quartern loaves of 4 lb. each."--_Birmingham Daily Mail_.

Mr. Punch, though yielding in patriotism to no one, has already decided to present the whole ticket.

* * * * *

From a letter by "Retired Diplomat" on "Maize Bread":--

"To obtain this result the hard yellow husk must be separated from the soft white core, as does the parrot, and the latter alone retained for baking purposes."--_Evening Paper_.

As in these days no means of increasing the supply of food-stuffs should be neglected, we have much pleasure in passing on "Retired Diplomat's" suggestion to the authorities of the Zoo. Personally we prefer Cockatoo _en casserole_.

* * * * *

* * * * *

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

_Monday, April 30th._--After this week Newmarket will be "a blasted heath," for all horse-racing is to be stopped. Irish Members could hardly believe the dreadful news. What are the hundred thousand young men who refuse to for their country to do with their spare time?

Scotch Members, on the contrary, were rather pleased. Mr. DUNCAN MILLAR, whose desire to deprive his countrymen of their national beverage is only equalled by his zeal on behalf of their national food, rejoiced in the prospect that fewer oats for high-mettled racers would mean more "parritch" for humble constituents.

There never was a dockyard Member who more faithfully fulfilled the House of Commons' conception of the type than Sir CLEMENT KINLOCH-COOKE. In a comparatively short Parliamentary career he must have already cost the country a pretty penny in extra pay and pensions to the "mateys" and "matlows" of Devonport. Latterly he has given the Admiralty a rest and has devoted himself to strafing the Home Office for its alleged tenderness to the Conscientious Objectors lodged at Princetown--a race of sturdy beggars, according to his account, who live like fighting-cocks, do next to no work, get leave periodically to air their eloquence at pacifist meetings, and, worst of all, invade his constituency in their leisure hours. Mr. SHIRLEY BENN, who represents the neighbouring borough of Plymouth, supported this indictment, and added the amazing detail that one of the Princetown pacifists was an ex-pugilist.

Invited to select from the 670 members of the House the two men least likely to engage in personal violence I should have thought myself safe in choosing Sir GEORGE GREENWOOD and Mr. JOSEPH KING. The former is so devoted to animals that he would not turn upon a worm; the thought of bloodshed so shocks the latter that he welcomes any suggestion of peace however illusory. But, when Mr. KING described a proposal of Sir GEORGE'S as "infected with Prussianism," that gallant knight promptly invited him to repeat his language outside the House; and Mr. KING, nothing daunted, declared his readiness "to meet the hon. Member where he likes and with whatever weapons he likes." If the meeting had come off it is believed that Blue Books at forty yards would have been the choice; but, happily, peace was soon afterwards restored.

_Tuesday, May 1st._--Some of our super-patriots have no luck. Mr. JOYNSON-HICKS, having discovered that the British Vice-Consul at Riga was a gentleman with the suspicious name of WISKEMANN, thought that he had got hold of a sure thing--not the whole Hidden Hand, perhaps, but certainly one of the phalanges. And then down came Lord ROBERT CECIL with the information that the gentleman in question was not only British-born but was a product of Wellington and Cambridge, and a public servant in whom the Foreign Office had the utmost confidence. "Foiled again," muttered HICKS to JOYNSON, "but a time will come!"

Like the retired soap-boiler who always looked in on melting-days Lord HARCOURT could not resist the attraction of the Office of Works' Vote. He never displayed his ability more signally than in the rapidity and ease with which he used as First Commissioner to get his Estimates through the House. It was a treat to hear him poking fun at the bores, demolishing the captious and humouring the serious critics of his administration. His present successor goes about his business in a more stolid way. In his hands the rapier has become a ploughshare. At first the few Members who stayed to listen found him _Le Mond qui nous ennuie_, but he woke them up later with the startling announcement that he can, if he likes, with a stroke of the pen remove the ladies' grille, and admit the fair visitors to a full view of the House, and, what is more important, admit the House to a full view of the fair visitors. For the moment, I gather, he means to hold his hand, pending full consideration of all the changes that such a revolution may involve. Besides, the SPEAKER may have to be consulted, although up to the present he has exhibited no desire to rush in where angels--bless them!--love to tread.

_Wednesday, May 2nd._--Curiosity to hear Mr. BONAR LAW'S first Budget-speech caused a full House. The Peers attended in force, and among the distinguished strangers was "Dr. JIM," a man of action who, as a rule, takes little interest in the men of talk.

The CHANCELLOR OF THE EXCHEQUER'S Budget statement was praised by his predecessor for its ability and lucidity. Personally, I thought rapidity was its most notable characteristic. Unhampered by manuscript (save a couple of sheets of notepaper containing a few of the principal figures) and relying upon his exceptional memory, he rattled through his thousand-million totals at such a pace that my panting pencil toiled after him in vain. In seventy-five minutes by the clock he spoke four solid columns of The Times.

As we have failed to drink ourselves out of our difficulties, for the Excise returns show a steady falling off, we are to do our bit towards smoking ourselves out of them by paying 1s. 10d. a pound more on our tobacco. This last impost constitutes a real piece of self-denial on the CHANCELLOR'S part, for he is much addicted to cigars both long and strong, somewhat resembling those which enabled Mr. W.J. TRAVIS to carry off the Amateur Golf Championship to America.

_Thursday, May 3rd._--The secrets of the Budget were so well kept that Mr. LAW himself forgot the most important of them until to-day. In future it will be a case of "one man (or woman) one dog," unless the owner is prepared to pay on an ascending scale for his extra pets. In our fight with Germany we must neglect no precaution however small. To get the KAISER back to his kennel we will, if necessary, empty our own. Doggedness is essential to victory, but not over-doggedness. Then let us, in CALVERLEY'S phrase, "curtail the already cur-tailed cur."

* * * * *

* * * * *

A MINISTERIAL WAIL.

["The most trenchant critics of the Government since its formation have been Mr. PRINGLE and Mr. HOGGE."--_British Weekly_].

The gipsy camping in a dingle I reckon as a lucky dog; He doesn't hear the voice of PRINGLE, He doesn't hear the snorts of HOGGE.

The moujik crouching in his ingle Somewhere near Tomsk or Taganrog I envy; he is far from PRINGLE And equally remote from HOGGE.

I find them deadly when they're single, But deadlier in the duologue, When the insufferable PRINGLE Backs the intolerable HOGGE.

I'd rather walk for miles on shingle Or flounder knee-deep in a bog Than listen to a speech from PRINGLE Or hearken to the howls of HOGGE.

Their tyrannous exactions mingle The vices of Kings Stork and Log; One day I give the palm to PRINGLE, The next I offer it to HOGGE.

The style of _Mr. Alfred Jingle_ Was jumpy, but he did not clog His sense with woolly words, like PRINGLE, With priggish petulance, like HOGGE.

I'd love to see the _Bing Boys_ bingle, To go to music-halls _incog._, Instead of being posed by PRINGLE And heckled by the hateful HOGGE.

My appetite is gone; I "pingle" (As Norfolk puts it) with my prog; My meals are marred by thoughts of PRINGLE, My sleep is massacred by HOGGE.

O patriots, with your nerves a-tingle, With all your righteous souls agog, Will none of you demolish PRINGLE And utterly extinguish HOGGE?

* * * * *

OF MARGARINE: _C'est magnifique, mais ce n'est pas le beurre._

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE MUD LARKS.

IN the long long-ago, Frobisher and I, assisted by a handful of native troopers, kept the flag flying at M'Vini.

We hoisted it to the top of a tree at sun-up, where it remained, languidly flapping its tatters over leagues of Central African bush till sun-set, when we hauled it down again--an arduous life. After we had been at M'Vini about six months, had shot everything worth shooting, and knew one another's funny stories off by heart, Frobisher and I grew bored with each other, hated in fact the sight, sound and mere propinquity of each other, and, shutting ourselves up in our separate huts, communicated only on occasions of the direct necessity, and then by the curtest of official notes. Thus a further three months dragged on.

Then one red-hot afternoon came Frobisher's boy to my wattle-and-dab, bearing a note.

"Visitor approaching from S.W. got up like a May-Queen; think it must be the KAISER. Lend me a bottle of whisky and mount guard--must impress the blighter."

I attached my last bottle of Scotch to the messenger and sallied forth to mount a guard, none too easy a job, as the Army had gone to celebrate somebody's birthday in the neighbouring village. However, I discovered one remaining trooper lying in the shade of a loquat-tree. He was sick--dying, he assured me; but I persuaded him to postpone his demise for at least half-an-hour, requisitioned his physician (the local witch doctor) and two camp followers, and, leaving my cook-boy to valet them, dashed to my hut to make my own toilet. A glimpse through the cane mats five minutes later showed me that our visitors had arrived.

A fruity German officer in full gala rig (white gloves and all) was cruising about on mule-back before our camp, trying to discover whether it was inhabited or not. We let him cruise for a quarter of an hour without taking any steps to enlighten him. Then, at a given signal, Frobisher, caparisoned in every fal-lal he could collect, issued from his hut, and I turned out the improvised guard. A stirring spectacle; and it had the desired effect, for the German afterwards admitted to being deeply impressed, especially by the local wizard, who paraded in his professional regalia, and, coming to cross-purposes with his rifle, bayoneted himself and wept bitterly. The ceremonies over and the casualty removed we adjourned to Frobisher's _kya_, broached the whisky and sat about in solemn state, stiff with accoutrements, sodden with perspiration. Our visitor kept the Red, White and Black flying on a tree over the border, he explained; this was his annual ceremonial call. He sighed and brushed the sweat from his nose with the tips of a white glove--"the weather was warm, _nicht wahr?_" I admitted that we dabbled in flag-flying ourselves and that the weather was all he claimed for it (which effort cost me about four pounds in weight). Tongues lolling, flanks heaving, we discussed the hut-tax, the melon crop, the monkey-nut market, the nigger--and the weather again.

Suddenly Frobisher sprang up, cast loose the shackles of his Sam Browne, hurled it into a corner, and began tearing at his tunic hooks. I stared at him in amazement--such manners before visitors. But our immaculate guest leapt to his feet with a roar like a freed lion, and, stripping his white gloves, flung them after the Sam Browne, whereupon a fury of undressing came upon us. Helmets, belts, tunics, shirts were piled into the corner, until at length we stood in our underclothes, laughing and unashamed. After that we got on famously, that Teuton and we, and three days later, when he swarmed aboard his mule and left home (in pyjamas this time) it was with real regret we waved him farewell.

But not for long. Within a month we were surprised by a hail from the bush, and there was Otto, mule, pyjamas and all.

"Ullo, 'ullo, 'ullo!" he carolled. "'Ere gomes ze Sherman invasion! Durn out ze guard!" He roared with laughter, fell off his palfrey and bawled for his batman, who ambled up balancing a square box on his woolly pate.

His mother in Munich had sent him a case of Lion Brew, Otto explained, so he had brought it along.

We wassailed deep into that night and out the other side, and we liked our Otto more than ever. We had plenty in common, the same loneliness, fevers, climate, and niggers to wrestle with; moreover he had been in England, and liked it; he smoked a pipe; he washed. Also, as he privily confided to us in the young hours of one morning, he had his doubts as to the divinity of the KAISER, and was not quite convinced that RICHARD STRAUSS had composed the music of the spheres.

He was a bad Hun (which probably accounted for his presence at the uttermost, hottermost edge of the ALL-HIGHEST'S dominions), but a good fellow. Anyhow, we liked him, Frobisher and I; liked his bull-mouthed laughter, his drinking songs and full-blooded anecdotes, and, on the occasions of his frequent visits, put our boredom from us, pretended to be on the most affectionate terms, and even laughed uproariously at each other's funny stories. Up at M'Vini, in the long long-ago, the gleam of pyjamas amongst the loquats, and "'Ere gomes ze Sherman invasion!" booming through the bush, became a signal for general good-will.

In the fulness of time Otto went home on leave, and, shortly afterwards, the world blew up.

And now I have met him again, a sodden, muddy, bloody, shrunken, saddened Otto, limping through a snowstorm in the custody of a Canadian Corporal. He was the survivor of a rear-guard, the Canuck explained, and had "scrapped like a bag of wild-cats" until knocked out by a rifle butt. As for Otto himself, he hadn't much to say; he looked old, cold, sick and infinitely disgusted. He had always been a poor Hun.

Only once did he show a gleam of his ancient form of those old hot, happy, pyjama days on the Equator.

A rabble of prisoners--Jägers, Grenadiers, Uhlans, what-nots--came trudging down the road, an unshorn, dishevelled herd of cut-throats, propelled by a brace of diminutive kilties, who paused occasionally to treat them to snatches of flings and to hoot triumphantly.

Otto regarded his fallen compatriots with disgusted lack-lustre eyes, then turning to me with a ghost of his old smile, "'Ere gomes ze Sherman invasion," said he.

* * * * *

CAUTIONARY TALES FOR THE ARMY.

II.

(_Second-Lieutenant Humphrey Spence, who was slightly wounded through a lack of a proper sense of the rights of rank._)

Second-Lieutenant Humphrey Spence Had no idea of precedence; To him his Colonel was no more Than any other messroom bore; And he would try to make a pal Not merely of a General, But even a horrified non-com He'd greet with "Tiddly-om-pom-pom!" Although in other ways quite nice, He was perverted by this vice. For instance, once he had to tea A private in the A.S.C., And asked to meet him Cathcart-Crewe, A Major in the Horse Guards Blue. Too frequently did it occur That, when a senior officer Was with him, he would up and take Salutes from privates. Why, he'd shake Even Sir DOUGLAS by the hand And say, "Old chap, you're doing grand."

This sort of thing caused some distress Among the members of his mess. He often took the Colonel's chair; He often flourished in the air His water-glass (when wine was scanty), And shouted, "Cheero, Adjutanty!" You see, he simply had no sense Of military precedence.

His regiment went out to France To help a general advance. Now in a minute they must hop Like billy-o across the top. Amid the din the Colonel said, "It will be hellish overhead. Machine-guns will let loose a jet Of bullets on the parapet; We'll meet a burst of rifle fire, And, as for shells, I don't desire To see in so confined a space A thicker lot than we shall face. Now, gentlemen, attend, I pray-- When we attack, I lead the way!"

Now wouldn't anyone concur, Saying at once, "With pleasure, Sir!" Nor with undisciplined delight Baulk the good Colonel of his right? Not so young Spence. The moment came, And, heedless of the cries of "Shame!" He never offered _once_ to wait Until the Colonel, more sedate, Had scrambled o'er the parapet, But got there first--and promptly met A bullet.... _Folk who arrogate The privileges of the great Must take what ills thereto attach_ (The Colonel never got a scratch).

* * * * *

* * * * *

"KAMERAD!"

"Baby Girl, 18 months, will surrender entirely to good home."--_Daily Paper_.

* * * * *

"The Archdeacon of Stow thought it was a good maxim not to argue with the huntsmen while shooting the rabbits, and moved the previous question."--_Morning Post_.

If you want a real argument with a huntsman (of the ante-bellum type) you should try shooting a fox.

* * * * *

Consecutive paragraphs from _The Continental Daily Mail_:--

"Mr. Arthur J. Balfour, like President Wilson, is an ardent golfer. He has challenged Mr. Wilson to a match, and the President of the United States immediately took him up. The match will be played in a few days.

"'Every able-bodied man and woman found golfing at the present time should be taken by the scruff of the neck and made to do some work of national importance,' said Mr. Waldie at the Edinburgh Parish Council."

So that's that.

* * * * *

SCHOOL.