Chapter 2

It is at a moment like this that my wife shines.

"I should like to see it in a better light," she said. "But how interesting! Everyone paints now-a-days--even Royalty. My cousin, Sir Ethelwyn Drewitt, has done some charming water-colours of the family estates. Perhaps you know him?"

Our host shook his head.

"A very old family, like your own," said Matilda. "Our ancestors probably knew each other in the days of Stonehenge. I, of course, recognised the coat-of-arms on your plate."

"I am afraid you are in error," said the artist. "My name is Pitts. And I don't go back beyond my grandfather, who, honest man, kept a grocer's shop in Dulwich. The jug you've been admiring I bought in the Caledonian Cattle Market for fifteen shillings."

Matilda swooned. The air was certainly very close down there.

* * * * *

THE WAR-DREAM.

I Wish I did not dream of France And spend my nights in mortal dread On miry flats where whizz-bangs dance And star-shells hover o'er my head, And sometimes wake my anxious spouse By making shrill excited rows Because it seems a hundred "hows" Are barraging the bed.

I never fight with tigers now Or know the old nocturnal mares; The house on fire, the frantic cow, The cut-throat coming up the stairs Would be a treat; I almost miss That feeling of paralysis With which one climbed a precipice Or ran away from bears.

Nor do I dream the pleasant days That sometimes soothe the worst of wars, Of omelettes and estaminets And smiling maids at cottage-doors; But in a vague unbounded waste For ever hide with futile haste From 5.9's precisely placed, And all the time it pours.

Yet, if I showed colossal phlegm Or kept enormous crowds at bay, And sometimes won the D.C.M., It might inspire me for the fray; But, looking back, I do not seem To recollect a single dream In which I did not simply scream And try to run away.

And when I wake with flesh that creeps The only solace I can see Is thinking, if the Prussian sleeps, What hideous visions _his_ must be! Can all my dreams of gas and guns Be half as rotten as the Hun's? I like to think his blackest ones Are when he dreams of me.

A.P.H.

* * * * *

"Street lamp-posts in Chiswick are all being painted white by female labour."--_Times_.

The authorities were afraid, we understand, that if males were employed they would paint the town red.

* * * * *

"Four groups of raiders tried to attack London on Saturday night. If there were eight in each group, this meant thirty-two Gothas."--_Evening Standard_.

In view of the many loose and inaccurate assertions regarding the air-raids, it is agreeable to meet with a statement that may be unreservedly accepted.

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE DOOR.

Once upon a time there was a sitting-room, in which, when everyone had gone to bed, the furniture, after its habit, used to talk. All furniture talks, although the only pieces with voices that we human beings can hear are clocks and wicker-chairs. Everyone has heard a little of the conversation of wicker-chairs, which usually turn upon the last person to be seated in them; but other furniture is more self-centered.

On the night with which we are now concerned the first remark was made by the clock, who stated with a clarity only equalled by his brevity that it was one. An hour later he would probably be twice as voluble.

It was normally the signal for an outburst of comment and confidence; but let me first say that the house in which this sitting-room was situated belonged to an elderly gentleman and his wife, each conspicuous for peaceable kindliness. Neither would hurt a fly, but since they had grandsons fighting for England, honour and the world, it chanced that they were the incongruous possessors of quite a number of war relics, which included an inkstand made of a steel shell-top, copper shell-binding and cartridge-cases; a Turkish dud from Gallipoli to serve as a door-stop; a pencil-case made of an Austrian cartridge from the Carso; a cigarette-lighter made of English cartridge-cases; and several shell-cases transformed into vases for flowers. One of these at this moment contained some very beautiful late sweet peas, and the old gentleman had made a pleasant little joke, after dinner, about sweet peace blossoming in such a strange environment, and would probably make it again the next time they had guests.

You may be sure that, with the arrival of these souvenirs from such exciting parts, the conversation of the room became more interesting, although it may be that some of the stay-at-homes began after a while to feel a little out in the cold. What was an ordinary table to say when in competition with a .75 shell-case from the Battle of the Marne, or a mere Jubilee wedding-present against an inkstand composed of articles of destruction from Vimy Ridge, which had an irritating way of making the most of both its existences--reaping in two fields--by remarking, after a thrilling story of bloodshed, "But that's all behind me now. My new destiny is to prove the pen mightier than the sword"? Even though the Jubilee wedding-present came from Bond Street, and had once been picked up and set down again by QUEEN ALEXANDRA, what availed that? The souvenir held the floor.

Gradually the other occupants of the room had come to let the souvenirs uninterruptedly exchange war impressions and speculate as to how long it would last--a problem as to which they were not more exactly informed than many a human wiseacre. Under cover of this kind of talk, which is apt to become noisy, the humdrum of the others, the chairs and the table and the mantelpiece, and the pacific ornaments, and the mirror, could chat in their own mild way; the wicker-chair, for example, could wonder for the thousandth time how long it would be before the young Captain sat in it once more; and the mirror could remark that that would be a happy moment indeed when once again it held the reflections of the Lieutenant and his _fiancée_, who was one of the prettiest girls in the world.

"Do you think so?" the knob of the brass fender would inquire. "To me she seemed too fat and her mouth was very wide."

"But that's a fault," the tongs would reply, "that you find with every one."

To return to the night of which I want particularly to speak, no sooner had the clock made his monosyllabic utterance than "I am probably unique," the Vimy Ridge inkstand said.

"How?" the cigarette-lighter sharply inquired, uniqueness being one of his own chief claims to distinction.

"Strange," said the inkstand, "the blacksmith who made me was not blown to pieces. The usual thing is for the shell to be a live one, and no sooner does the blacksmith handle it than he and the soldiers who brought it and several onlookers go to glory. The papers are full of such incidents. But in my case--no. I remember," the inkstand was continuing--

"Oh, give us a rest," said the shell door-stop. "If you knew how tired I was of hearing about the War, when there's nothing to do for ever but stop in this stuffy room. And to me it's particularly galling, because I never exploded at all. I failed. For all the good we are any more, we--we warriors--we might as well be mouldy old fossils like the home-grown things in this room, who know of war or excitement absolutely nothing."

"That's where you're wrong," said a quiet voice.

"Who's speaking?" the shell asked.

"I am," said the door. "You're quite right about yourselves--you War souvenirs. You've done. You can still brag a bit, but that's all. You're out of it. Whereas I--I'm in it still. I can make people run for their lives."

"How?" asked the inkstand.

"Because whenever I bang," said the door, "they think I'm an air-raid."

* * * * *

* * * * *

CUSS-CONTROL.

I found myself, some time ago, Growing too fond of cuss-words, so I made a vow to curb my passions And put my angry tongue on rations.

As no Controller yet exists To frame these necessary lists, I had myself to pick and choose The words that I could safely use.

Four verbs found favour in my sight, _Viz._, "drat" and "dash" and "blow" and "blight"; While "blithering" and "blinkin'" were My only adjectival pair.

I freely own that "dash" and "drat" At times sound lamentably flat; And "blight" and "blow" don't somehow seem Quite adequate to every theme.

When you are wishful to be withering 'Tis hard to be confined to "blithering," And to express explosive thinkin' One longs for some relief from "blinkin'."

Still Mr. BALFOUR, so I hear, Seldom goes further than "O dear!" While moments of annoyance draw "Bother" at worst from BONAR LAW.

Hence, if our leaders in their style Are able to suppress their bile, And practise noble moderation In comment and in objurgation,

Why should not I, a doggerel bard, All futile expletives discard, And discipline my restive soul With salutary cuss-control?

* * * * *

ERRARE EST DIABOLICUM.

From the Indian author of an Anglo-vernacular text-book:--

"As the book had to go through the press in haste I am sorry to write to you that there are some printers' devils, especially in English spelling."

* * * * *

"Nelson himself being a Suckling on his mother's side."--_Observer_.

We cannot know too much about the early history of our heroes.

* * * * *

"Captain William Redmond, son of Mr. John Redmond, has been awarded the D.S.O. He was commanding in a fierce fight and was blown out of a shell hole, sustaining a sprained knee and ankle. He rallied his men, and by promptly forming a defensive flank saved his part of the line."--_Daily Express_.

This must have been in Sir WALTER SCOTT'S proleptic mind when he wrote (in _Rokeby_):--

"Young Redmond, soil'd with smoke and blood, Cheering his mates with heart and hand Still to make good their desperate stand."

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

OSWALD AND CO.

We live in a fortress on the crest of a hill overlooking a little Irish town, a centre of the pig and potheen industries. The fortress was, according to tradition, built by BRIAN BORU, renovated by Sir WALTER RALEIGH (the tobacconist, not the professor) and brought up to date by OLIVER CROMWELL. It has dungeons (for keeping the butter cool), loop-holes (through which to pour hot porridge on invaders), an oubliette (for bores) and a portcullis.

In spite of these conveniences our fortress is past its prime and a modern burglar would treat it as a joke. It is so weak in its joints that when the wind blows it shakes like a jelly, and we have to shave with safety-razors.

In a small villa opposite lives Freddy, our married subaltern, and Mrs. Freddy.

On a patch of turf up a neighbouring lane Oswald and Co. took up their residence this summer.

The troopers called him Oswald for some unknown reason, but I doubt if that was his baptismal name, and I doubt if he was ever baptized.

Oswald was a tall bony grizzled child of the Open.

Years ago he would have been dismissed briefly as a tramp, but we know better now; we have read our Georgian poets and we know that such folk do not perambulate the country stealing fowls and firing ricks from any dislike of settled labour, but because they have heard the call of far horizons, _belles étoiles_ and great spaces.

The Co. consisted of a woolly donkey which carried Oswald's portmanteau when he trekked, and a hairy dog which provided him with company and conversation.

The donkey browsed, unfettered, about the roadside, taking the weather as it came; but Oswald and the dog, degenerates, sheltered under a wigwam of saplings and old sacks.

The wigwam being four feet long and Oswald six, he had to telescope like a tortoise to get fully under cover; sometimes he forgot his feet and left them outside all night in the dew, but, as he had no boots to spoil, this didn't matter much.

Not having any business to attend to he lay abed very late. Our troopers, riding at ease _en route_ to the drill grounds, would toss their lighted cigarette-ends at the protruding bare feet. A grizzled head telescoping out of the other end of the wigwam and a husky voice calling down celestial fury upon them, would signalise a hit.

The Adjutant was for having Oswald moved on; we should be missing things presently, he warned--saddle-blankets, rifles, horses, perhaps the portcullis. However, the O.C. would have none of it; he maintained that this constant menace at our gates kept the sentries on the _qui vive_ and accustomed them to practically Active Service conditions.

So all the summer the wigwam remained on the turf-patch and the sentries on the _qui vive_.

How Oswald existed is a mystery--probably on manna, for he toiled not neither span, and if he stole for a living it was not from us.

He spent his mornings in bed, his afternoons reclining on the bank behind his residence, puffing at his dudheen and watching our recruits going through the hoops with the amused contempt that a gentleman of leisure naturally feels for the working classes.

At the end of September, Freddy, the Benedick, finding himself in the orderly-room and forgetting what had brought him there, applied for leave as a matter of habit, and, walking out again, promptly forgot all about it. Freddy is given that way. Apparently the Orderly Room was finding time heavy on their hands that morning, for machinery was set in motion, and in due course the astonished Freddy discovered himself with permission to go to blazes for seven days and a warrant to London in his pocket.

He capered whooping home to his villa, told Mrs. Freddy to pack her toothbrush and come along, and the mail bore them hence. Next day the weather broke, the sky turned upside down and emptied itself upon us, the parade ground squelched if you trod on it, the gutters failed to cope with the rush of business, and the roads ran in spate.

The post-orderly, splashing back to barracks, reported the disappearance of Oswald and Co.

We determined that they must have been washed out to sea and pictured them astride the wigwam in a beam-roll off Kinsale, keeping a watchful eye for U-boats.

We had seven days of unrelieved downpour. On the morning of the eighth, Freddy and wife returned from leave, and, opening the front door of the villa--which they discovered they had forgotten to lock in the delirium of their departure--stepped within. At the same moment, Oswald, the hairy dog and the woolly donkey heard the call of the great spaces, and, opening the back door of the villa, stepped without and departed for haunts unknown.

Freddy in a high state of excitement came over to the Mess and told us all about it.

He himself had been all for slaying Oswald on the spot, he said, but Mrs. Freddy wouldn't hear of it.

"She says he hasn't stolen anything," Freddy explained. "She says he was only _staying_ with us, in a manner of speaking, and was quite right to take his poor old dog and donkey under cover during that rotten weather, she says--so that's the end of it."

But it wasn't the end of it; Freddy had reckoned without his other O.C. Here was a heaven-sent opportunity of training the men under practically Active Service conditions, scouring the country after real game--Ho! toot the clarion, belt the drum! Boot and saddle! Hark away!

So now we are out scouring the country for Oswald and Co., one hundred men and horses, caparisoned like Christmas-trees, soaked to the skin, fed to the teeth. And Oswald and Co.--where are they? We cannot guess, and we are very very tired of practically Active Service conditions.

Oyez, Oyez, Oyez! Anyone finding three children of the Open answering to the description of our friends the enemy, and returning them, dead or alive, to our little fortress, will he handsomely and gratefully rewarded.

PATLANDER.

* * * * *

* * * * *

"Boy, to heat at hearth and to strike occasionally."--_Sheffield Daily Telegraph_.

A case for the N.S.P.C.C.

* * * * *

Appended to a quotation from _The Globe_ on German intrigues with the Vatican:--

"[NOTE: The above is obviously from the pen of Mr. L.J. Maxse, the editor of the _National Review_, who, as recently announced, has become associated with the editorial direction of the Pope.]"--_Manchester Evening Chronicle_.

In pursuance of this arrangement His Holiness will in future take the style of _Pontifex Maxsemus_.

* * * * *

JOURNALISTIC CANDOUR.

"M. Kerensky has announced that all leaders of the revolt will be tried by court-martial, and has indicated that a determined end will be put to the present state of affairs by the most drastic means. Add Russian Fudge matter. utikwtStdheto"--_Adelaide Register_.

We have lately read a good deal of "Russian Fudge matter."

* * * * *

"PROMENADE CONCERTS, QUEEN'S HALL. Sir Henry J. Wood, Conductor.

Mondays--Wagner. ----?----?--?---- Tuesdays--Russian. cymfwypo---- Wednesdays--Symphony. cmfwypemfwvfg Thursdays--Popular. cmfwypemfwycppwf Fridays--Beethoven. cmfwypemfwyy Saturdays--Popular. cmfwypemf----" _The Star_.

A sporting effort to reproduce the effect of the barrage _obbligato_.

* * * * *

* * * * *

TO AN INFANT GNU.

Thomas (that may not be thine actual name But it will serve as well as any other), There be coarse souls to whom all flesh is game, Who do not hail thee as a new-born brother But merely as a thing at which to aim Their fratricidal guns; they simply smother The sense, which I for one cannot eschew, Of soul relationship 'twixt man and gnu.

'Tis not, O surely not, for such as these Those baby limbs are flung in lightsome capers; Those puny bleatings were not meant to please Facetious writers for the daily papers; Let baser beasts inspire the obvious wheeze, Wombats and wart-hogs, tortoises and tapirs; These lack the subtle spell thy presence flings About the spirit tuned to higher things.

Well could I picture thee, a dusky sprite, With Dryad hoofs on Thracian ledges drumming, When day is slipping from the arms of night And all the hushed leaves whisper, "Pan is coming!" And thou before him, leaping with delight, Stirring all birds to song, all bees to humming And buds to blossoming--but lo! at hand A tablet reads, "_C. Gnu. Nyassaland_."

Thus they've described thy formidable sire, A whiskered person with a chronic liver. I feed him biscuits to appease his ire; He eats the gift but fain would bite the giver. His eye is red with reminiscent fire, His thoughts are by the great Zambesi River Where hides the hippopotam, huge as sin, And slinking leopards with the dappled skin.

No couches of the nymph and Bassarid, Or thymy meadows such as Simois glasses, Lured his exulting feet, my jocund kid, But veldt and kloof and waving jungle grasses, Where lurk the python with unwinking lid, And the lean lion, growling, as he passes, His futile wrath against the hoarse baboons That drape the rocks in chattering platoons.

Free of the waste he snuffed the breeze at morn, The fleet-foot peer of sassaby and kudu; The hunting leopard feared his bristling horn, The foul hyæna voted him a hoodoo; Browsing on tender grass and camel-thorn He roamed the plains, as all right-minded gnu do; But now he eats the bun of discontent That once was lord of half a continent.

And thou, my child, to whom harsh fate has dealt A captive's birthright--thou wilt never scamper With wingéd feet across the windy veldt, Where are no crowds to stare nor bars to hamper; Thou wilt not ring upon the rhino's pelt In wanton sport. But there--why put a damper On thy young spirits by recounting what Africa is but Regent's Park is not.

It would but grieve thee, and, moreover, I Note that thy young attention's growing looser. A piece of cake? O fie! my Thomas, fie! The keeper said, "Please not to feed the gnu, Sir." And yet it seems a shame to pass thee by Without some slight confectionery douceur; So here's a bun; and let this thought obtrude: What matter freedom while there's lots of food!

ALGOL.

* * * * *

PRO-GERMANISM IN KENSINGTON.

"At St. Mary Abbot's, in Kensington, the organist played hymns for two hours during the Sunday raid, in which the congregation joined."--_Daily Mirror_.

* * * * *

The rumour that in consequence of the recent invasion of a popular sea-coast resort by denizens of the East End the local authorities have decided to change its name to "Brightchapel" is at present without foundation.

* * * * *

* * * * *

_L'AGENT PROVOCATEUR._

A short while ago the following advertisement appeared in the "Personal" column of _The Times_:--

"Artist (33), literary, travelled, mentally isolated, would appreciate brilliant, interesting correspondents; writers' anonymity observed."

Now thereby hang many tales (none of them necessarily true). Here is one of them.

The Colonel of the Blank-blank Blankshires exclaimed (as all proper Colonels are expected to do), "Ha!" Carefully marking with a blue pencil a small paragraph on the front page of _The Times_, he threw it on the table among the attentive Mess and snorted.

"Ha! A Cuthbert--a genuine shirker! I think some of you might oblige the gentleman."

Then he stepped outside and went into the seventh edition of his impressionist sketch, "Farmyard of a French Farm," with lots of BBB pencil for the manure heap. He was a young C.O. and new to the regiment.

The Mess "carried on" the conversation.

"_I'll_ write to the blighter," shouted the Junior Sub. "I'll be an awf'lly 'interesting correspondent.'"

"And a brilliant one?" queried the Major.