Chapter 3

["Contributors are particularly requested not to send verses. They are not wanted in any circumstances and cannot be printed, acknowledged or returned."--_British Weekly, July 19th_.]

I once believed the "Man of Kent" To be the Muses' firm supporter And only less benevolent To bards than Mr. C.K. SHORTER.

But this untimely cruel blow Has quite irrevocably shattered The hopes which till a week ago My fondest aspirations flattered.

Wounds that are dealt us by our friends Are faithful, but the name endearing Of friend is hardly his who lends And then denies the bard a hearing.

How then, O brother songsters, can You take it lying down, and meekly Submit to this tyrannic ban Laid on you by _The British Weekly_?

No, no, you'll rather emulate The Minstrel Boy, and we shall find you Storming its barred and bolted gate With reams of lyrics slung behind you.

* * * * *

"The time is ripe for the authorities to stop all street traffic and to order all unauthorised persons to take cover under penalty at the approach of the air raiders."--_Daily Paper_.

Personally, as a means of shelter we prefer the coal-cellar to any penalty.

* * * * *

"Will Mr. Russell deny that 660 million gallons of milk were produced in Ireland last year, of which half went to the creameries and more to the margarine factories and to England?"--_Letter in Irish Paper_.

The Irish gallon would appear to be as elastic as the Irish mile.

* * * * *

"DIVISIONAL SIGNS."

The purpose of a Divisional Sign is to deceive the enemy. Let us suppose that you belong to the 580th Division, B.E.F. You do not put "580" on your waggons and your limbers and on the tin-hats of your Staff. Certainly not. The enemy would know about you if you did that. You have a secret sign, such as tramps chalk on your wall at home, to let other tramps know that you are a stingy devil with a dog. There are many theories as to how these signs are chosen. One is that a committee of officers sits _in camerâ_ for forty-eight hours without food or drink till it has decided on an arrow or a cat, or a dandelion, rampant.

Let us take it that a cat is chosen--a quiet thing in cats--crimson on a green-and-white chess-board background. Forthwith (as adjutants say) a crimson cat on a green-and-white chess-board background is painted and embroidered on everything that can be painted and embroidered on--limbers and waggons and hand-carts and arm-bands and the tin-hats of the Staff. And the Division goes forth as it were masked, disguised, just like one of Mr. LE QUEUX'S diplomatist heroes at a fancy-dress ball, wearing a domino. You perceive the mystery of it? None of your naked numbers for us B.E.F. men. The Division marches through a village, and the dear old Man Who Knows, cropping up again in the army, says, "Ha! A red cat on a green-and-white chess-board back-ground? That's the Seventeenth Division."

You see it now? The enemy agent overhears. The false news is sent crackling through the ether to Berlin (wireless, my dear, in the cellar, of course). The German General Staff looks up the village on a map, and sticks into it a flag marked 17. Not 580, mark you. And the General Staff frowns, and Majesty pushes the ends of its moustache into its eyes at the knowledge that the Seventeenth Division is in ----.

And all the time it is in ----! And the agent pockets his cheque. So wars are won and lost.

Just conceive the romance of it. It is heraldry gone mad.

Myself, however, I incline to another theory as to the origin of these symbols.

A Higher Command enters his office. Higher Commands always enter. The office is hung, like a studio in one of Mr. GEORGE MORROW'S pictures, with diagrams of circles and triangles and crosses and straight lines. The Higher Command, being a man of like passions with ourselves, has just finished tinned Oxford marmalade and a cigarette. He heads for the "IN" basket on his desk and takes from it the "Arrivals and Departures" paper. "Ha!" says he to the lady secretary, "I see six new divisions landed yesterday." He pauses. Outside there is no sound to be heard save the loud and continuous crash of the sentry's hand against his rifle as he salutes the passing A.D.C.'s. "What about signs?" says the Higher Command. The lady secretary says nothing. She floods the carburettor of the typewriter preparatory to thumping out "Ref. attached correspondence" on it.

The Higher Command stares at the diagrams on the wall. He is feeling strangely light-hearted this morning. He has won five francs at bridge the night before from the D.A.D.M.O. A.D.G.S. And mere circles and squares have somehow lost their savour for him. He plunges. "What about a lion?" he says.

The lady secretary opens the throttle and plays a few bars on the "cap." key.

"A red lion?" says the Higher Command seductively.

"It has already been done," says the lady secretary coldly.

"Who by--I mean by whom?" inquires the H.C. indignantly.

"By the Deputy Assistant Director of Higher Commands, when you were on leave last week," she tells him.

He mutters a military oath against the D.A.D.H.C. Then his face clears.

"Tigers?" he suggests hopefully.

"We might do a green tiger," she says reluctantly.

"With yellow stripes!" shouts the H.C.

"On a mauve background," says she, warming to it.

And so one division is disposed of. But it is not always so, of course.

After a Hun counter-attack, for instance, the H.C. may gaze morosely on his geometrical figures and throw off a little thing in triangles and St. Andrew's crosses. Or when the moon is at the full you may have a violet allotted to you as your symbol. One never knows. My own divisional sign, for instance, is an iddy-umpty plain on a field plainer. We vary the heraldry by ringing changes on the colours. On our brigade arm-band it becomes an iddy-umpty gules on a field azure. If I could be quite sure of the heraldic slang for puce I would tell you what it is on our Army Corps arm-band. On a waggon it used to be an iddy-umpty blank on a field muddy. But administrative genius has changed all that. A routine order, the other day, ordered a pink border to be painted round it, and this first simple essay of the departed Morse goes now through the villages of France in a bed of roses.

We wish sometimes that our conditions were changed as easily as our signs.

* * * * *

* * * * *

ANOTHER IMPENDING APOLOGY.

"The Lord Provost will preside over the meeting at which Mr. Churchill will speak in Dundee this afternoon.

Many thousands of people are leaving Dundee for their annual holiday."--_Manchester Daily Dispatch_.

* * * * *

"Mr. Alderman Domoney, in remanding at the Guildhall to-day two boys charged with theft, said he always liked to deal leniently with boys so young and to give the ma fresh start in life."--_Evening Paper_.

Not a word about the pa, you observe; yet we daresay he was equally responsible.

* * * * *

From the Orders of a Battalion in France:--

"The undermentioned N.C.O.'s and men will parade at 10.30 a.m., bringing with them their gas-helmets and the unexpired portion of their rations."

It is surmised that this refers to the cheese-issue.

* * * * *

* * * * *

BULLINGTON.

It was in the high midsummer and the sun was shining strong, And the lane was rather flinty and the lane was rather long, When, up and down the gentle hills beside the stripling Test, I chanced to come to Bullington and stayed a while to rest.

It was drowned in peace and quiet, as the river reeds were drowned In the water clear as crystal, flowing by with scarce a sound; And the air was like a posy with the sweet haymaking smells, And the Roses and Sweet-Williams and Canterbury Bells.

Far away as some strange planet seemed the old world's dust and din, And the trout in sun-warmed shallows hardly seemed to stir a fin, And there's never a clock to tell you how the hurrying world goes on In the little ivied steeple down in drowsy Bullington.

Small and sleepy there it nestled, seeming far from hastening Time, As a teeny-tiny village in some quaint old nursery rhyme, And a teeny-tiny river by a teeny-tiny weir Sang a teeny-tiny ditty that I stayed a while to hear:--

"Oh the stream runs to the river and the river to the sea; But the reedy banks of Bullington are good enough for me; Oh the road runs to the highway and the highway o'er the down, But it's just as good in Bullington as mighty London town."

Then high above an aeroplane in humming flight went by, With the droning of its engines filling all the cloudless sky; And like the booming of a knell across that perfect day There came the guns' dull thunder from the ranges far away.

And, while I lay and listened, oh the river's sleepy tune Seemed to change its rippling music, like the cuckoo's stave in June, And the cannon's distant thunder and the engines' warlike drone Seemed to mingle with its burthen in a solemn undertone:--

"Oh the stream runs to the river, and the river to the sea, And there's war on land and water, and there's work for you and me; And on many a field of glory there are gallant lives laid down As well for sleepy Bullington as mighty London Town."

So I roused me from my daydream, for I knew the song spoke true, That it isn't time for dreaming while there's duty still to do; And I turned into the highroad where it meets the flinty lane, And the world of wars and sorrows was about me once again.

C.F.S.

* * * * *

REMEMBRANCE.

"Stop, Francesca," I cried. "Don't talk; don't budge; don't blink. Give me time. I've all but--"

"What _are_ you up to?" she said.

"There," I said, "you've done it. I had it on the tip of my tongue, and now it has gone back for ever into the limbo of forgotten things, and all because you couldn't keep silent for the least little fraction of a second."

"My poor dear," she said, "I _am_ sorry. But why didn't you tell me you were trying to remember something?"

"That," I said, "would have been just as fatal to it. These things are only remembered in an atmosphere of perfect silence. The mental effort must have room to develop."

"Don't tell me," she said tragically, "that I have checked the development of a mental effort. That would be too awful."

"Well," I said, "that's exactly what you _have_ done, that and nothing less. I feel just as if I'd tried to go upstairs where there wasn't a step."

"Or downstairs."

"Yes," I said, "it's equally painful and dislocating."

"But you're not the only one," she said, "who's forgotten things. I've done quite a lot in that line myself. I've forgotten the measles and sugar and Lord RHONDDA and the Irish trouble and your Aunt Matilda, and where I left my _pince-nez_ and what's become of the letters I received this morning, and whom I promised to meet where and when to talk over what. You needn't think you're the only forgetter in the world. I can meet you on that and any other ground."

"But," I said, "the thing you made me forget--"

"I didn't."

"You did."

"No, for you hadn't remembered it."

"Well, anyhow I shall put it on to you, and I want you to realise that it's not like one of your trivialities--"

"This man," said Francesca, "refers to his Aunt Matilda and Lord RHONDDA as trivialities."

"It is not," I continued inexorably, "like one of your trivialities. It's a most important thing, and it begins with a 'B.'"

"Are you sure of that?"

"Yes, I'm sure it begins with a 'B'--or perhaps a 'W.' Yes, I'm sure it's a 'W' now."

"I'm going," said Francesca with enthusiasm, "to coax that word or thing, or whatever it is, back to the tip of your tongue and beyond it. So let's have all you know about it. Firstly, then, it begins with a 'W.'"

"Yes, it begins with a 'W,' and I feel it's got something to do with Lord RHONDDA."

"That doesn't help much. So far as I can see, everything now is more or less nearly connected with Lord RHONDDA."

"But my forgotten thing isn't bread or meat. It's something remoter."

"Is it Mr. KENNEDY-JONES?" said Francesca. "He's just resigned, you know."

"No, it's not Mr. KENNEDY-JONES. How could it be? Mr. KENNEDY-JONES doesn't begin with a 'W.'"

"If I were you, I shouldn't insist too much on that 'W.' I should keep it in the background, for it's about ten to one you'll find in the end that it doesn't begin with a 'W.' At any rate we've made two short advances; we know it isn't Mr. KENNEDY-JONES, because he doesn't begin with a 'W,' and we are not very sure that it begins with a 'W.'"

"Keep quiet," I said, flushing with anticipation. "I'm getting it ... your last remark has put me on the track.... Silence.... Ah ... it's _DEVONSHIRE CREAM!_ There--I've got it at last. I feel an overwhelming desire for Devonshire cream."

"The sort that begins with a 'W.'"

"Well, it's got a 'V' in it, anyhow."

"And it isn't Devonshire cream at all. It's really Cornish cream--at least Mary Penruddock says it is."

"Cornish or Devonshire, that's what I must have, if Lord RHONDDA'S rules allow it."

"All right, I'll get you a pot or two if I can. But are you sure you won't forget it again?"

"If I do," I said, "I can always remember it by the W.'"

R.C.L.

* * * * *

THE CHANGE CURE.

["The only way to make domestic service popular is for a duchess to become a tweeny-maid."--_Evening Paper_.]

It may be that a modern _Mene, Mene_ Will force the Duchess to become a tweeny; But, ere this democratic transformation Secures the "old nobility's" salvation, Some other changes are not less but more Needful to aid our progress in the War.

For instance, with what rapture were we blest If Some-one gave his nimble tongue a rest And, turning Trappist, stanched the fearsome gush Of egotistic and thrasonic slush; Or if Lord X. eschewed his daily speeches And took to canning Californian peaches; Or if egregious LYNCH could but abstain From "ruining along the illimitable inane" At Question-time, and try to render PLATO'S _Republic_ into Erse, or grow potatoes; Or if our novelists wrote cheerful books, Instead of joining those superfluous cooks Who spoil our daily journalistic broth By lashing it into a fiery froth.

Counsels of sheer perfection, you will say, In times when ev'ry mad dog has his day, Yet none the less inviting as the theme Of a millennial visionary's dream.

And as for Duchesses turned tweeny-maids Or following other unobtrusive trades There's nothing very wonderful or new Or difficult to credit in the view; For DICKENS--whom I never fail to bless For solace in these days of storm and stress-- Found his best slavey in _The Marchioness_.

* * * * *

WHO INVENTED THE NAME "SAMMIES"?

"They are 'Sammies' now, and the name probably will stick along with 'Tommy,' 'poilu' and 'Fritz.' ... The christening was one of those spontaneous affairs, coming nobody knows how."--_Kansas City Star_.

Mr. Punch, ever reluctant to take credit to himself, feels nevertheless bound to say that the suggestion of the name "Sammies" for our American Allies appeared in his columns as long ago as June 13th. On page 384 of that issue (after quoting _The Daily News_ as having said, "We shall want a name for the American 'Tommies' when they come; but do not call them 'Yankees'; they none of them like it") he wrote: "As a term of distinction and endearment, Mr. Punch suggests 'Sammies'--after their uncle."

* * * * *

"London.-- ---- House. Bed, breakfast 4s., per week 24s. 6d. No other meals at present."

This should encourage the FOOD-CONTROLLER.

* * * * *

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

(_BY MR. PUNCH'S STAFF OF LEARNED CLERKS_.)

HANSI, the Alsatian caricaturist and patriot, who escaped a few months before the War, after being condemned by the German courts to fifteen months' imprisonment for playing off an innocent little joke on four German officers, and did his share of fighting with the French in the early part of the War, is the darling of the Boulevards. They adore his supreme skill in thrusting the irritating lancet of his humour into bulging excrescences on the flank of that monstrous pachyderm of Europe, the German. _Professor Knatschke_ (HODDER AND STOUGHTON), aptly translated by Professor R.L. CREWE, is a joyous rag. It purports to be the correspondence of a Hun Professor, full of an egregious self-sufficiency and humourlessness and greatly solicitous for the unhappy Alsatian who is ignorant and misguided enough to prefer the Welsch (i.e. foreign) "culture-swindle" to the glorious paternal Kultur of the German occupation. And HANSI illustrates his witty text with as witty and competent a pencil. HANSI has, in effect, the full status of an Ally all by himself. He adds out of the abundance of his heart a diary and novel by _Knatschke's_ daughter, _Elsa_, full of the artless sentimentality of the German virgin. It is even better fun than the Professor's part of the business. Naturally the full flavour of both jokes must be missed by the outsider. HANSI is the more effective in that he chuckles quietly, never guffaws and never rails. Fun of the best.

* * * * *

There is not much left for me to say in praise of Mr. JACK LONDON'S dog-stories; and anyhow, if his name on the cover of _Jerry of the Islands_ (MILLS AND BOON) is not enough, no persuasion of mine will induce you to read it. Those of us to whom dogs are merely animals--just that--will find this history of an Irish terrier dull enough; but others who have in their time given their "heart to a dog to tear" will recognise and joyously welcome Mr. LONDON'S sympathetic understanding of his hero. _Jerry's_ adventurous life as here told was spent in the Solomon Islands, which is not, I gather, the most civilized part of the globe. He had been brought up to dislike niggers, and when he disliked anyone he did not hesitate to show his feelings and his teeth. So it is possible that for some tastes he left his marks a little too frequently; but in the end he thoroughly justified his inclination to indulge in what looked like unprovoked attacks upon bare legs. For unless he had kept his teeth in by constant practice he might never have contrived to save his beloved master and mistress from a very cowardly and crafty attack. Good dog, _Jerry_!

* * * * *

I admit that the fact of its publishers having branded _The Road to Understanding_ (CONSTABLE) as "A Pure Love Story" did not increase the hopes with which I opened it. Let me however hasten also to admit that half of it certainly bettered expectation. That was the first half, in which _Burke Denby_, the heir to (dollar) millions, romantically defied his father and married his aunt's nursery governess, and immediately started to live the reverse of happy-ever after. All this, the contrast between ideals in a mansion and love in a jerry-built villa, and the thousand ways in which _Mrs. Denby_ got upon her husband's nerves and generally blighted his existence, are told with an excellently human and sympathetic understanding, upon which I make my cordial congratulations to Miss ELEANOR H. PORTER. But because the book, however human, belongs, after all, to the category of "Best Sellers" it appears to have been found needful to furbish up this excellent matter with an incredible ending. That _Mrs. Denby_ should retire with her infant to Europe, in order to educate herself to her husband's level, I did not mind. This thing has been done before now even in real life. But that, on returning after the lapse of years, she should introduce the now grown-up daughter, unrecognised, as secretary to her father! "Somehow ... you remind me strangely.... Tell me of your parents." "My daddy ... I never knew him." Or words to that effect. It is all there, spoiling a tale that deserved better.

* * * * *

The voracious novel-reader is apt to hold detective stories in the same regard that the Scotchman is supposed to entertain towards whisky--some are better than others, but there are no really bad ones. _The Pointing Man_ (HUTCHINSON) is better than most, in the first place because it takes us "east of Suez"--a pleasant change from the four-mile radius to which the popular sleuths of fiction mostly confine their activities; and, secondly, because it combines a maximum of sinister mystery with a minimum of actual bloodshed; and, lastly, because our credulity is not strained unduly either by the superhuman ingenuity of the hunter or an excess of diabolical cunning on the part of the quarry. Otherwise the story possesses the usual features. There is the clever young detective, in whose company we expectantly scour the bazaars and alleys of Mangadone in search of a missing boy. There are Chinamen and Burmese, opium dens and curio shops, temples and go-downs. Miss MARJORIE DOUIE has more than a superficial knowledge of her stage setting, and gets plenty of movement and colour into it. And if she has elaborated the characters and inter-play of her Anglo-Burmese colony to an extent that is not justified either by their connection with the plot or the necessity of mystifying the reader we must forgive her because she does it very well--so well indeed that we may hope to see _The Pointing Man_, excellent as it is in its way, succeeded by a contribution to Anglo-Oriental literature that will do ampler justice to Miss DOUIE'S unquestionable gifts.

* * * * *

Our writers appear willing converts to my own favourite theory that the public is, like a child, best pleased to hear the tales that it already knows by heart. The latest exponent of this is the lady who prefers to be called only "The Author of _An Odd Farmhouse_." Her new little book, _Your Unprofitable Servant_ (WESTALL), is a record of domestic happenings and impressions during the early phases of the War. The thing is skilfully done, and in the result carries you with interest from page to page; though (as I hint) the history of those August days, when Barbarism came forth to battle and Civilisation regretfully unpacked its holiday suit-cases, can hardly appeal now with the freshness of revelation. Still, the writer brings undeniable gifts to her more than twice-told tale. She has, for example, perception and a turn of phrase very pleasant, as when she speaks of the shops in darkened London conducting the last hour of business under lowered awnings, "as if it were a liaison." There are many such rewarding passages, some perhaps a little facile, but, taken together, quite enough to make this unpretentious little volume a very agreeable companion for the few moments of leisure which are all that most of us can get in these strenuous days.

* * * * *