Chapter 3

Still I felt myself unable, Though you helped to fry my fish, To endure you at my table Nestling in the butter-dish.

_Now_ that I have clearly tracked your Blameless progress from the nut, I proclaim your manufacture As a boon, without a "but."

Now I trudge to streets far distant, Humbly in your queue to stand, Till the grocer's tired assistant Dumps the packet in my hand.

Though you lack the special savour Of the product of the churn, Still the difference in flavour I'm beginning to unlearn.

Thoughts of Devonshire or Dorset From my mind have vanished quite, Since the stern demands of war set Limits to my appetite.

Butter is of course delicious; But when that is dear and scant Welcome, margarine, nutritious Palatable lubricant!

* * * * *

"The undersigned, who has just returned from the Front, begs to inform the Public that he has opened a Barber's Shop on the ground floor of Miss ----'s house in Great George Street, where he is prepared to give CUTS in any style required."--_Dominion Chronicle_.

Well, his customers can't complain that they weren't warned.

* * * * *

TO HELP OUR OTHER ARMY.

With all eyes so focussed on the great deeds of our men in France, in Palestine and on the sea, there is a possibility of losing sight now and then of the constant and devoted efforts of the women and girls at home, without whose co-operation the War could not be successfully waged at all. We are the debtors not only of the munition workers who, in their hundreds of thousands, are toiling for victory, but of women and girls in myriad other employments, which they have cheerfully attacked and mastered; and any little thing that we can do for them should, Mr. Punch holds, be done. A practical and very simple way of adding to their happiness and well-being is to contribute a mite to the funds of the Girls' Friendly Society, an organisation with the finest traditions, which is doing its best to build rest and recreation huts all over England, for the purpose of conserving the health and spirits of our great feminine army. A moment's thought will show how vitally and nationally important such help is. Contributions should be sent to the Secretary, War Emergency Committee, Girls' Friendly Society, 39, Victoria Street, S.W.1.

* * * * *

MY AUNT MATILDA.

"It's too bad," said Francesca, "it really is. It'll spoil Christmas."

"The question is," I said, "that this House do accept my Aunt Matilda's invitation of herself to stay in it for an uncertain period at or about Christmas. I think the Ayes have it."

"The Noes have it," shouted Francesca.

"Francesca," I said, "it's no use struggling, and you know it. We've got to have Aunt Matilda, and there's an end of it."

"There isn't an end of it at all. It's only just beginning, and it'll go on getting worse and worse."

"You do not seem to realise," I said, "what the possession of an aunt like Aunt Matilda means. She is like all the aunts you've ever read about in novels, only more so. She's so true to type that you can hardly believe in her existence. To be related to her is to have a Stake in the Country and to be part of the British Constitution, which she ardently believes in without knowing anything about it. She's been a widow for fifteen years, and--"

"Poor old thing," said Francesca, "so she has."

"--for fifteen solitary years she has battled against the world, and managed her business affairs extraordinarily well; and yet she believes that women are perfect fools, and pities them from the bottom of her heart for being women."

"As far as I'm concerned," said Francesca, "she may pity all the other women if she'll only not pity me. If I have a headache she not only pities me, but despises me as a weakling utterly unfitted to manage a household. No, my dear, I can't face it. Your Aunt Matilda's too much for me."

"I admit," I said, "that she's a good deal."

"And of course she'll bring her maid."

"And her pug."

"Whose name is 'MacLachlan,' and you mustn't call him 'Mac' because it's disrespectful."

"And the children won't be allowed to shout about the house when she takes her nap. And of course they _will_ shout about the house, and then there'll be trouble.".

"And the children will be compared with other children who are much better behaved."

"It's a queer thing, but the children don't seem to mind her."

"She bribes them with chocolates."

"Well, she won't do it any more, because there are no chocolates in the world. Chocolates are a luxury."

"So's your aunt," said Francesca. "She's the biggest luxury I ever heard of. She's rare--I might almost say unique. She's expensive, and she can be done without. Obviously she's forbidden by the Defence of the Realm Act. We shall be fined and imprisoned if we conceal her here."

"Well, you'd better sit down and tell her so, and get it off your chest."

"I suppose I must play the humbug."

"Yes, do. She'll see through you all right, though."

"Oh, I say," said Francesca, "there's a P.S. to her letter. She says she's saved two pounds out of her sugar ration, and she's sending it to us as a Christmas present. Isn't she an old topper?"

"Yes," I said, "I forgive her everything. Is two pounds a lot?"

"It's generally supposed to be just two pounds," said Francesca.

R.C.L.

* * * * *

THE VENGEANCE.

I never liked the man at Number Nine, But now my breast is bursting with its wrongs, For when we had a few old friends to dine And crowned our feasting with some gentle songs, Instead of simply drinking in the glamour, The charm of it, he had the cheek to hammer The party-wall with pokers and with tongs.

Ah, me! that Art should suffer such disdain! But what can one expect in time of war? Mayhap our minstre'sy had given pain To some tired patriot in bed next-door-- Some weary soul that all day fashions fuses, To whom his sleep is more than all the Muses-- And so, for England's sake we sang no more.

No longer now the hideous truth is hid: _The man is nothing but a Pacifist_; And, what is worse, he draws four hundred quid For representing views which don't exist, Although in Parliament, without his poker, I'm glad to see they would not hear the croaker, But when he talked they only howled and hissed.

And now all Hammersmith with zeal prepares To make a night of it when next we sing; We shall not waste our soft romantic airs, But the glad street with warlike strains shall ring Of blood and armaments and Fritz's whacking, And he shall hammer till the walls are cracking, And the whole suburb joins us in "The King."

A.P.H.

* * * * *

ONE OF THE CANNIBAL ISLANDS?

"The unfrequented coral harbour was an ideal spot for this operation. The 60 odd men and women on the Seeadler were landed, and the natives, avid for change of diet, welcomed them."--_The Times_.

* * * * *

"A distinctive uniform will be given the new Air Service when the old is worn out, Major Baird announces."--_Daily Mail_.

An officer in the R.F.C. writes to say that the old Air Service has no intention of wearing out.

* * * * *

"The coroner said people would be wise to carry electric torches or newspapers, and ladies should wear something white--a pocket handkerchief would be better than nothing."--_Sunday Observer_.

Certainly "better than nothing," but a newspaper would make a more showy costume.

* * * * *

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

At this date "The Junior Sub" fortunately needs no introduction to a public that has long gathered him and his to its appreciative heart. I should not like to guess how many people read and enjoyed _The First Hundred Thousand_; they all, and more, will delight in the appearance of _Carrying On_ (BLACKWOOD), in which the exploits of the famous regiment, of _Major Wagstaffe_ and _Captain Bobby Little_ and the rest of them are continued. What the precise war position of IAN HAY may be by now I am unaware, but I should emphatically suggest his appointment to the post of Official Cheerer-Up. Perhaps (how shall I put it?) the eye-pieces of the writer's mask are a trifle too rose-coloured for strict realism; great-hearted gentlemen as we know our heroes to be, are they always quite so merry and bright as here? One can but hope so. In any case, as special propaganda on the part of the O.C.U., the stories could hardly be bettered. One, called "The Push that Failed," I would order to be read aloud to the workers in every munition factory in the land; its heartening tale of how the British people had, to the paralysed astonishment of Brother Bosch, "delivered the goods" to such effect that his projected spectacular attack under the eyes of WILLIAM the Worst was smashed before it began, is of a kind to strengthen the most weary arm. While I was yet upon the final page the bells in a famous abbey tower close by broke into grateful clamour for the news of victory. But IAN HAY does not wait on victory; he has his joy-bells ringing always in our hearts.

* * * * *

_The Tree of Heaven_ (CASSELL) spread its friendly branches over a pleasant corner of a roomy Hampstead garden. Matter-of-fact _Anthony_, the timber merchant, always would insist that it was a mere common ash; but the others, _Frances_, and the children, _Dorothy, Michael, Nicky_ and adopted _Veronica_, knew better, as also, no doubt, did _Jane-Pussy_ and her little son, _Jerry_, who was _Nicky's_ most especial pal. Miss MAY SINCLAIR, without being a conscienceless sentimentalist, does us the fine service of reminding us that the world of men is not all drab ugliness, but that there are beautiful human relationships and unselfish characters, and wholesome training which justifies itself in the day of trial. She divides her charming chronicle into three parts--Peace, The Vortex, and Victory. The first deals with the childhood of the happy brood of _Anthony_ and _Frances_, delicate studies subtly differentiated. Even the little cats have their astonishing individuality, and I don't envy anyone who can read of _Jerry's_ death and _Nicky's_ grief without a gulp. The Vortex is--no, not the War; that comes later--but the trials of a world which tests adolescence, a world of suffrage rebellions, of Futuristic art and morals. Then the real vortex of the War, the Victory which means ready (or difficult, unready) sacrifice and death for the boys and their friends and as great a sacrifice and as cruel a thing as death for the others, the women and the elders.... A novel, which is much more than a novel, packed with beauty and sincerity, setting forth its tragedy without false glamour or shallow consolations.

* * * * *

Since it is natural to expect that a much-heralded book will fail, when it does eventually appear, to fulfil the promise of its publishers, it is the more pleasant to find oneself agreeing with Messrs. HODDER AND STOUGHTON that bashfulness on their part would have been out of place in regard to Mr. JAMES W. GERARD'S memoirs, _My Four Years in Germany_. As read in their completed and collected form these papers are not only, as one could foresee, of historic importance, but they are moreover capital reading. There is a world of unaffected geniality and humour about them that forms a most admirable complement to such serious matters as the protracted negotiations over the U-boat campaign, or the now famous incriminating telegram addressed by the ALL-HIGHEST to President WILSON in the days before the Huns had quite decided with what lies to defend the indefensible. This document is reproduced in facsimile as the egregious sender of telegrams wrote it for Mr. GERARD to transmit, and is one link more in the thrice-forged chain of evidence. But even stronger witness to German guilt is to be found in the series of minor corroborations appearing incidentally in the course of Mr. GERARD'S narrative, whether the author is pretending to be in awe of Prussian Court Etiquette, or openly laughing at the Orders of the Many Coloured Eagles, or simply detailing his work at Ruhleben and the other prison camps. His devotion there has earned a gratitude throughout this country that it would be mere presumption to try to put into words.

* * * * *

Those of us who have loitered with Mr. DE VERE STACPOOLE by blue lagoons and silent pools know that he is a master of atmosphere, and so he proves himself again in _The Starlit Garden_ (HUTCHINSON), though it takes him some time to get there. When a young American finds himself the guardian of an Irish flapper--a distant relation--and comes over to take her back with him to the States, it does not require much perspicacity to guess what will happen. _Phyl Berknowles_ strongly objects to the intrusion of _Richard Pinckney_ into the glorious muddle of her Irish ménage, and irritates him so successfully that he returns in a considerable tantrum to America, leaving her with some friends in Dublin. So far the tale is lively enough, but not until _Phyl_ feels the call of her blood and goes to stay with her relatives in Charleston does the author find scope for his peculiar charm. Then we get a most delightful picture of a starlit garden in the south of America, where _Phyl's_ experiences, without placing a tiresome strain upon our powers of belief, produce a sensation at once romantic and unusual. Memories of the past hang over this garden, and although Mr. STACPOOLE'S attempt to reconcile the period of which he writes with the years that are gone is not uniformly successful I am cordially glad that he made it.

* * * * *

The publishers of Mrs. ALICE PERRIN'S new volume, _Tales that are Told_ (SKEFFINGTON), appear to be anxious that the public should have no hesitations on the score of measure supplied, as they explain that the chief of the tales is "a short novel of over 20,000 words." I am content to take their word for the figure, but I agree that they were well advised to focus attention upon "Gift of God," which, whatever its length, is an admirable and distinguished piece of writing. The subject of it is the old question of mixed-marriage, but treated from a new aspect. _Kudah Bux_ (the Gift in question) is the son of an adoring Mohamedan father; he goes to England for education in the law, and there falls in love with and marries the brainless daughter of a London landlady. He is a very human and appealing figure. The debacle that follows his return to India with so impossible a bride is told in a way that convinces. Here Mrs. PERRIN is at her best. Some of the shorter tales also succeed very happily in conveying that peculiar Simla-by-South-Kensington atmosphere of retired Anglo-Indian society which she suggests with such intimate understanding. But, to be honest, the others (with the exception of one quaint little comedy of a canine ghost) are but indifferent stuff, too full of snakes and hidden treasure and general tawdriness--the kind of Orientalism, in fact, that one used to associate chiefly with the Earl's Court Exhibition. Mrs. PERRIN must not mingle her genuine native goods with such Brummagem ware.

* * * * *

My idea is that when Mr. H.C. BAILEY called his latest story _The Young Lovers_ (METHUEN) he was doing it something less than justice. For the width and variety of the plot make it far more than a mere love-tale. _Arma virique_ are quite as much Mr. BAILEY'S theme as Cupid, who indeed makes a rather belated appearance at the tag end. Before that we have a vast deal of agreeable adventuring. The scene is set in the period of the Peninsular War; all the characters, lovers, parents and hangers-on, are more or less involved in the fluctuating fortunes of my Lord WELLINGTON. There are spies of both sides, intrigues, abductions and what not. Mr. BAILEY has a pretty touch for such matters; his people move with an air; and, if at times their speech seems a trifle over-burnished, dulness is far from them. Moreover, the incidents of the campaign give scope for some vivid descriptions of war and battles, as such were in the old days before Mars put off his gold lace and sacrificed the picturesque. Sometimes, on the other hand, it is the similarity of conditions then and now that will strike you. For example, the passage telling how, despite apparent inactivity and home prognostications of stalemate, the confidence of the Army grew from day to day--impossible not to see the very obvious parallel there. In fine, Mr. BAILEY has given us another brisk and engaging romance, which, if it is not quite the kind you might expect from its title, is something a good deal better worth reading.

* * * * *

"Fort Worth, Texas.--Poolville, Parker county, near here, has raised $1,246.50 as a reward for the delivery of the German emperor into the hands of the American authorities."--_Buffalo Courier_.

On reading this item HINDENBURG is reported to have said that if Poolville would make it even money he would think about it.

* * * * *