Chapter 3

Now and again the Bosch birds come over disguised as clouds and spit mouthfuls of red-hot tracer-bullets at it, and then the observers hop out. One of them "hopped out" into my horse-lines last week. That is to say his parachute caught in a tree and he hung swinging, like a giant pendulum, over my horses' backs until we lifted him down. He came into "_Mon Repos_" to have bits of tree picked out of him. This was the sixth plunge overboard he had done in ten days, he told us. Sometimes he plunged into the most embarrassing situations. On one occasion he dropped clean through a bivouac roof into a hot bath containing a Lieutenant-Colonel, who punched him with a sponge and threw soap at him. On another he came fluttering down from the blue into the midst of a labour company of Chinese coolies, who immediately fell on their faces, worshipping him as some heavenly being, and later cut off all his buttons as holy relics. An eventful life.

PATLANDER.

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A PRECOCIOUS INFANT.

"Will any kind lady adopt nice healthy baby girl, 6 weeks old, good parentage; seen London."--_Times_.

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"The King has given £100 to the Victoria Station free buffet for sailors and soldiers."--_The Times_.

In the days of RICHARD I. it was a commoner who furnished the King in this respect. _Vide_ Sir WALTER SCOTT'S _Ivanhoe_, vol. ii., chap. 9: "Truly, friend," said the Friar, clenching his huge fist, "I will bestow a buffet on thee."

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* * * * *

RHYMES OF THE TIMES.

There was an old man with otitis Who was told it was chronic arthritis; On the sixth operation, Without hesitation They said that he died of phlebitis.

A school just assembled for Prep. Were warned of an imminent Zepp, But they said, "What a lark! Now we're all in the dark So we shan't have to learn any Rep."

Mr. BREX, with the forename of TWELLS, Against all the bishops rebels, And so fiercely upbraids Their remarks on air-raids That he rouses the envy of WELLS.

The American miracle, FORD, By pacificists once was adored; Now their fury he raises By winning the praises Of England's great super-war-lord.

* * * * *

"Wanted--a Pair of Lady's Riding Boots, black or brown, size of foot 4, diam. of calf 14 inches."--_Statesman_ (_Calcutta_).

Great Diana!

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"WANTED--Late Model, 5-passenger McLaughlin, Hudson, Paige, or Cadillac car, in exchange for 5-crypt family de luxe section, value $1,500, in Forest Lawn, Mausoleum."--_Toronto Daily Star_.

With some difficulty we refrain from reviving the old joke about the quick and the dead.

* * * * *

THE NEW MRS. MARKHAM.

III.

CONVERSATION ON CHAPTER LXX.

_Mary_. Do tell us something more, Mamma, about the Great Rebellion and how it began.

_Mrs. M_. Well, my dear, you must know that in the previous reign it had been the fashion for middle-aged and elderly people to behave and dress as if they were still juvenile. Mothers neglected their daughters and went to balls and theatres every night, where they were conspicuous for their extravagant attire and strange conversation. They would not allow their daughters to smoke, or, if they did, provided them with the cheapest cigarettes. Fathers of even advanced years wore knickerbocker suits on all occasions and spent most of their time playing a game called golf. This at last provoked a violent reaction, and the Great Rebellion was the consequence. Although there was no bloodshed many distressing scenes were enacted and something like a Reign of Terror prevailed for several years.

_Richard_. Oh, Mamma, please go on!

_Mrs. M_. Parents trembled at the sight of their children, and fathers, even when they were sixty years old, stood bareheaded before their sons and did not dare to speak without permission. Mothers never sat down in the presence of their grown-up daughters, but stood in respectful silence at the further end of the room, and were only allowed to smoke in the kitchen.

_George_. That cannot have been very good for the cooking.

_Mrs. M_. The daughters of the family were seldom educated at home, and when they returned to their father's roof their parents were only admitted into the presence of their children during short and stated periods.

_Mary_. And when did the English begin to grow kinder to their parents?

_Mrs. M_. I really cannot say. Perhaps a climax was reached in the Baby Suffrage Act; but after that matters began to improve, and the Married Persons Amusements Act showed a more tolerant spirit towards the elderly. But even so lately as when my mother was a child young people were often exceedingly harsh with their parents, and she has told me how on one occasion she locked up her mother for several hours in the coal-cellar for playing a mouth-organ in the bathroom without permission.

_Richard._ Pray, Mamma, did the English speak Irish then, as they do now?

_Mrs. M_. Compulsory Irish was introduced under ALFRED as a concession to Ireland for the services rendered by that kingdom to art and literature and the neutrality which it observed during England's wars. There was a certain amount of opposition, but it was soon overcome by ALFRED'S wisely insisting on the newspapers being printed in both languages. Since then the variations in dialect and pronunciation which prevailed in different districts of England have largely disappeared, and from Land's End to John o' Groat's the bilingual system is now securely established, though my mother told me that as a child she once met an old man in Northumberland who could only speak a few words of Irish, and had been deprived of his vote in consequence.

_Richard_. What were the Thirty-Nine Articles? I don't think I ever heard of them before.

_Mrs. M_. When you are of a proper age to understand them they shall be explained to you. They contained the doctrines of the Church of England, but were abolished by Archbishop WELLS, who substituted seventy-eight of his own. But as Mary is looking tired I will now conclude our conversation.

* * * * *

THE MOTH PERIL.

["Fruit growers are warned to be on their guard against the wingless moth, for lime-washing the trees is almost useless."--_Evening Paper_.]

If the brute ignores the notice, "Keep off the trees," order him away in a sharp voice.

Sulphuric acid is a most deadly antidote; but only the best should be used. If the moth be held over the bottle for ten minutes it will show signs of collapse and offer to go quietly.

This pest abhors heat. A good plan is to heat the garden-roller in the kitchen fire to a white heat and push it up the tree.

A gramophone in full song, is also useful. After a few minutes the moth will come out of its dug-out with an abstracted expression on its face, and commit suicide by jumping into the mouth of the trumpet.

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A COMFORTING THOUGHT FOR USE ON WAR-TIME RAILWAYS.

"To travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive."--R.L. STEVENSON.

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From a parish magazine:--

"I know 'the war' still continues but these do not explain everything. The large water tank at the schools is for sale--price £5 10s. The sermons and as far as possible the music and hymns on 21st (Trafalgar Day) will bear on the work of our incomparable Navy."

It is believed in the village that the parson is suffering from a rush of Jumble Sales to the head.

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HERBS OF GRACE.

SWEET WOODRUFF.

VII.

Not for the world that we know, But the lovelier world that we dream of Dost thou, Sweet Woodruff, grow; Not of this world is the theme of The scent diffused From thy bright leaves bruised; Not in this world hast thou part or lot, Save to tell of the dream one, forgot, forgot.

Sweet Woodruff, thine is the scent Of a world that was wise and lowly, Singing with sane content, Simple and clean and holy, Merry and kind As an April wind, Happier far for the dawn's good gold Than the chinking chaffer-stuff hard and cold.

Thine is the odour of praise In the loved little country churches; Thine are the ancient ways Which the new Gold Age besmirches; Cordials, wine And posies are thine, The adze-cut beams with thy bunches fraught, And the kist-laid linen by maidens wrought.

Clean bodies, kind hearts, sweet souls, Delight and delighted endeavour, A spirit that chants and trolls, A world that doth ne'er dissever The body's hire And the heart's desire; Ah, bright leaves bruised and brown leaves dry, Odours that bid this world go by.

W.B.

* * * * *

"Once or twice Mr. Dickens has taken the place of circuit judge when the King's Bench roll has been repleted."--_Evening Paper_.

This, of course, was before the War. Our judges never over-eat themselves nowadays.

* * * * *

From a list of current prices:--

"Brazil nuts 1s. 2d., Barcelona nuts 10d. per lb.; demons 1½d."--_Derbyshire Advertiser_.

No mention being made of the place of origin of the last-named, it looks very much as if there had been some trading with the enemy.

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What America says to-day--

"Feminist circles are greatly interested in the announcement made by Dr. Sargeant, of Harvard University, that women make as good soldiers as men."--_Sunday Pictorial_.

Canada does to-morrow--

"The Canadian Government has issued a proclamation calling up ... childless widows between the ages of 20 and 34 comprised in Class 1 of the Military Service Act."--_Yorkshire Evening Paper_

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* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

(_BY MR. PUNCH'S STAFF OF LEARNED CLERKS._)

The numerous members of the public who like to take their printer's ink with something more than a grain of sea-salt will welcome _Sea-Spray and Spindrift_ (PEARSON), by their tried and trusted friend, TAFFRAIL, the creator of _Pincher Martin, O.D._ TAFFRAIL, it must be admitted, has a dashing briny way with him. He doesn't wait to describe sunsets and storm-clouds, but plunges at once into the thick of things. Consequently his stories go with a swing and a rush, for which the reader is duly grateful--that is, if he is a discerning reader. Of the present collection most were written some time ago and have no reference to the War. Such, for instance, is "The Escape of the _Speedwell_," a capital story of the year 1805, which may serve to remind us that even in the glorious days of NELSON the English Channel was not always a healthy place for British shipping. "The Channel," says TAFFRAIL, "swarmed with the enemy's privateers.... Even the merchant-ships in the home-coming convoys, protected though they were by men-of-war, were not safe from capture, while the hostile luggers would often approach the English coast in broad daylight and harry the hapless fishing craft within a mile or two of the shore." Yet there does not appear to have been a panic, nor was anyone's blood demanded. _Autres temps autres moeurs_. In "The Gun-Runners" the author describes a shady enterprise undertaken successfully by a British crew; but nothing comes amiss to TAFFRAIL, and he does it with equal zest. "The Inner Patrol" and "The Luck of the Tavy" more than redress the balance to the side of virtue and sound warfare. Both stories are excellent.

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Among the minor results following the entry of America into the War has been the release from bondage of several diplomatic pens, whose owners would, under less happy circumstances, have been prevented from telling the world many stories of great interest. Here, for example, is the late Special Agent and Minister Plenipotentiary of the United States, Mr. LEWIS EINSTEIN, writing of his experiences _Inside Constantinople, April-September, 1915_ (MURRAY). This is a diary kept by the Minister during the period covered by the Dardanelles Expedition. As such you will hardly expect it to be agreeable reading, but its tragic interest is undeniable. Mr. EINSTEIN, as a sympathetic neutral, saw everything, and his comments are entirely outspoken. We know the Dardanelles story well enough by now from our own side; here for the first time one may see in full detail just how near it came to victory. It is a history of chances neglected, of adverse fate and heroism frustrated, such as no Englishman can read unmoved. But the book has also a further value in the light it throws upon the Armenian massacres and the complicity of Germany therein. "Though in later years German officialdom may seek to disclaim responsibility, the broad fact remains of German military direction at Constantinople ... during the brief period in which took place the virtual extermination of the Armenian race in Asia Minor." It is one more stain upon a dishonoured shield, not to be forgotten in the final reckoning.

* * * * *

I never met a story more aptly named than Mrs. BELLOC LOWNDES' _Love and Hatred_ (CHAPMAN AND HALL). _Oliver Tropenell_ worshipped _Laura Pavely_, who returned this attachment, despite the fact that she was already married to _Godfrey_. _Godfrey_, for his part, loved _Katty Winslow_, a young widow, who flirted equally with him, with _Oliver_, and with _Laura's_ undesirable brother, _Gilbert_. So much for the tender passion. As for the other emotion, _Oliver_ naturally hated _Godfrey_; so did _Gilbert_. _Laura_ also came to share their sentiment. By the time things had reached this climax the moment was obviously ripe for the disappearance of the much detested one, in order that the rest of the tale might keep you guessing which of the three had (so to speak) belled the cat. Followers of Mrs. LOWNDES will indeed have been anticipating poor _Godfrey's_ demise for some time, and may perhaps think that she takes a trifle too long over her arrangements for the event. They will almost certainly share my view that the explanation of the mystery is far too involved and unintelligible. I shall, of course, not anticipate this for you. It has been said that the works of HOMER were not written by HOMER himself, but by another man of the same name. This may, or may not, give you a clue to the murder of _Godfrey Pavely_. I wish the crime were more worthy of such an artist in creeps as Mrs. LOWNDES has proved herself to be.

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The test of the second water, as sellers of tea assure us, provides proof of a quality for which one must go to the right market. BARONESS ORCZY has not feared to put her most famous product, _The Scarlet Pimpernel_, to a similar trial. Whether the result of this renewed dilution is entirely satisfactory I leave you to judge, but certainly at least something of the well-known and popular aroma of romantic artificiality clings about the pages of her latest story, _Lord Tony's Wife_ (HODDER AND STOUGHTON), while at the bottom of the cup there is not a little dash of the old strong flavour. On the other hand, though it may be that one's appetite grows less lusty, it does seem that in all the earlier chapters there is some undue proportion of thin and rather tepid preparation for episodes quite clearly on the way, so that in the end even the masterly vigour of the much advertised _Pimpernel_, in full panoply of inane laughter and unguessed disguise, failed to astound and stagger me as much as I could have wished. _Lord Tony_ was a healthy young Englishman with no particular qualities calling for comment, and his wife an equally charming young French heroine. After having escaped to England from the writer's beloved Reign of Terror, the lady and her aristo father were comfortably decoyed back to France by a son of the people whose qualifications for the post of villain were none too convincing, and there all manner of unpleasant things were by way of happening to them, when enter the despairing husband with the dashing scarlet one at his side--_et voilà tout_. The last few chapters come nearly or even quite up to the mark, but as for most of the rest, I advise you to take them as read.

* * * * *

In _A Certain Star_ (HODDER AND STOUGHTON) Miss PHYLLIS BOTTOME achieves the difficult feat of treating a love conceived in a romantic vein without declining upon sentimentality, and seasons her descriptions, which are shrewdly, sometimes delicately, observed, with quite a pretty wit. I commend it as a sound, unpretentious, honestly-written book. _Sir Julian Verny_, a baronet with brains and a very difficult temper, falls a captive to _Marian's_ proud and compelling beauty. Then, just before the War flames up, secret service claims him, and he returns from a dangerous mission irretrievably crippled. _Marian_ fails him. True, she disdains to be released, but out of pride not out of love. It is little grey suppressed _Stella_ (her light has been hidden under the dull bushel of a Town Clerk's office) who comes into her kingdom and wins back an ultra-sensitive despairing man to the joy of living and working and the fine humility of being dependent instead of masterful. There are so many _Julians_ and there's need of so many _Stellas_ these sad days that it is well to have such wholesome doctrine stated with so courageous an optimism.

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There is a sentence on page 149 of _A Castle to Let_ (CASSELL) which, though not for its style, I feel constrained to quote: "It was a glorious day, the sunshine poured through the green boughs, and the moss made cradles in which most people went to sleep with their novels." Well, given a warm day and a comfortable resting-place, this book by Mrs. BAILLIE REYNOLDS would do excellently well either to sleep or keep awake with, according to your mood. The scene of it is laid in Transylvania, where a rich young Englishwoman took an old castle for the summer. Incidentally I have learned something about the inhabitants of Transylvania, but apart from that I know now exactly what a novel for the holidays should contain. Its ingredients are many and rather wonderful, but Mrs. REYNOLDS is a deft mixer, and her skill in managing no fewer than three love affairs without getting them and you into a tangle is little short of miraculous. Then we are given plenty of legends, mysteries and dreams, just intriguing enough to produce an eerie atmosphere, but not sufficiently exciting to cause palpitations of the heart. Need I add that the tenant of the castle married the owner of it? As she was both human and sporting, it worries me to think that she may now be interned.

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