Chapter 2

"And I bet," she said, "you've repeated it. When you've met the tame Generals and Colonels at your club, and they've boasted to you about their potatoes, I know you've countered them with the story of how you've turned the whole of your lawn into a bed of sunflowers calculated to drive the most obstinate hen into laying two eggs a day, rain or shine."

"I admit," I said, "that I may have mentioned the matter casually, but I never thought the things were going to be like this. When I first knew them and talked about them they were tender little shoots of green just modestly showing above the ground, and now they're a forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlock aren't in it with this impenetrable jungle liberally blotched with yellow, this so-called sunflower patch."

"What would you call it," she said, "if you didn't call it sunflower?"

"I should call it a beast of prey," I said. "A sunflower seems to me to be more like a tiger than anything else."

"It was a steam-roller about a minute ago."

"Yes," I said, "it was--a tigerish steam-roller."

"How interesting," she said. "I have not met one quite like that."

"That," I said, "is because your eye isn't properly poetical. It's blocked with chicken-food and other utilitarian objects."

"I must," she said, "consult an oculist. Perhaps he will give me glasses which will unblock my eye and make me see tigers in the garden."

"No," I said, "you will have to do it for yourself. For such an eye as yours even the best oculists are unavailing."

"I might," she said, "improve if I read poetry at home. Has any poet written about sunflowers?"

"Yes," I said, "BLAKE did. He was quite mad, and he wrote a poem to a sunflower: 'Ah! Sunflower! Weary of time.' That's how it begins."

"Weary of time!" she said scornfully. "That's no good to me. I'm weary of having no time at all to myself."

"That shows," I said, "that you're not a sunflower."

"Thank heaven for that," she said. "It's enough to have four children to look after--five including yourself."

"My dear Francesca," I said, "how charming you are to count me as a child! I shall really begin to feel as if there were golden threads among the silver."

"Tut-tut," she said, "you're not so grey as all that."

"Yes, I am," I said, "quite as grey as all that and much greyer; only we don't talk about it."

"But we _do_ talk about sunflowers," she said, "don't we?"

"If you'll promise to have the beastly glaring things dug up--"

"Not," she said, "before we've extracted from them their last pip of chicken-food."

"Well, anyhow," I said, "as soon as possible. If you'll promise to do that I'll promise never to mention them again."

"But you'll lose your reputation with the Generals and Colonels."

"I don't mind that," I said, "if I can only rid the garden of their detested presence."

"My golden-threaded boy," said Francesca, "it shall be as you desire."

R.C.L.

* * * * *

CONSTABLE JINKS.

Our village policeman is tall and well-grown, He stands six feet two and he weighs sixteen stone; His gait is majestic, his visage serene, And his boots are the biggest that ever I've seen.

Fame sealed his renown with a definite stamp When two German waiters escaped from a camp. Unaided he captured those runaway Huns Who had lived for a week on three half-penny buns.

When a derelict porpoise was cast on the shore Our village policeman was much to the fore; He measured the beast from its tip to its tail, And blandly pronounced it "an undersized whale."

When a small boy was flying his kite on the links It was promptly impounded by Constable Jinks, Who astutely remarked that it might have been seen By the vigilant crew of a Hun submarine.

It is sometimes alleged that great valour he showed When he chased a mad cow for three miles on the road; But there's also another account of the hunt With a four-legged pursuer, a biped in front.

If your house has been robbed and his counsel you seek He's sure to look in--in the course of the week, When his massive appearance will comfort your cook, Though he fails in the bringing of culprits to book.

His _obiter dicta_ on life and the law Set our ribald young folk in a frequent guffaw; But the elders repose an implicit belief In so splendid a product of beer and of beef.

He's the strongest and solidest man in the place, Nothing--short of mad cattle--can quicken his pace; His moustache would do credit to any dragoon, And his voice is as deep as a double bassoon.

His complexion is perfect, his uniform neat, He rivets all eyes as he stalks down the street; And I doubt if his critics will ever complain Of his being a little deficient in brain.

For he's more than a man; he's a part of the map; His going would cause a deplorable gap; And the village would suffer as heavy a slump As it would from the loss of the old parish pump.

* * * * *

A HAPPY JUXTAPOSITION.

"CHEAPER MATCHES. | FRESH LIGHT ON THE KAISER'S PLOTS."

_Daily Mirror._

From the report of a Royal investiture:--

"The first officer to mount the dais was Major ----, who wore the broad-brimmed slouch hat of the Austrian Infantry."

_North China Daily News._

A souvenir, of course.

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE TRENCH CODE.

Ah! with what awe, what infantile impatience, We eyed the artifice when issued out, And racked our brains about the Regulations, And tried to think we had them free from doubt! As Rome's old Fathers, reverently leaning In secret cellars o'er the Sibyl's strain, Beyond the fact that several pars Had something vague to do with Mars, Failed, as a rule, to find the smallest meaning, But told the plebs the oracle was plain.

So did we study it, ourselves deceiving, In hope to say, "We have no rations here," Or, "Please, Brigade, this regiment wants relieving," And "Thank you for the bombs--but why no beer?" And wondered always, with a hint of presage, Since never word emerged as it was planned, If it was Hermes, Lord of Craft, Compiled the code, or someone daft, So that no mortal could compose a message Which anybody else could understand.

Too soon the Staff, to spoil our tiny slumbers, Or, as they said, to certify our skill, Sent us a screed, all signs and magic numbers, And what it signified is mystery still. We flung them back a message yet more mazy To say we weren't unravelling their own, And marked it _urgent_, and designed That it should reach them while they dined. All night they toiled, till half the crowd were crazy And bade us breathe its burthen o'er the 'phone. * * * * * But now they want it back--_and it is missing!_ And shall one patriot heart withhold a throb? For four high officers have been here, hissing, And plainly panicky about their job. I know they think some dark, deluded bandit Has gone and given it to KAISER BILL. But though I'm grieved the General's cross, I have no qualms about the loss-- If clever men like us can't understand it, I don't suppose the Wilhelmstrasse will!

A. P. H.

* * * * *

SPREAD OF THE TEMPERANCE MOVEMENT.

"I, J.A.H. De la Bere, of Woolsevy Rectory, Morchard Bishop, Devon, desire to Alter my Surname to De la Fontaine."--_Times._

* * * * *

"WANTED

"end August in Swiss family (2 persons) living in villa near Lausanne

"NURSERY'S MAID

"able to saw, iron attend at table and take entire care of healthy baby 19 months old Good English accent serious references." _La Tribune de Lausanne._

We are glad to hear that the baby has a good English accent; he will be able to employ it with effect when the Nursery's Maid begins to saw and iron him.

* * * * *

"In the cases in which the surgeon his obliged to vast empty a bone so that offers then itself difficulties therapeuticals not little because of pus and consequenty becauses of impossibility of transplantations, plastics, plombages ecc., the A. propose to go on the bone with specials inesions, not on the surface when the bone is most superficial, but from the surface in which are aboundings and easily cessible wet tissue, removing the margin of the bone's cavity and mathing in mode as, by cause of repaidis process, this tissue by hemselves adhere to a ground of cavity and full it."--_La Clinica Chirurgica._

That makes it perfectly clear.

* * * * *

* * * * *

A DAUGHTER OF THE BACK STEPPES.

_(Russia may not yet be quite sufficiently herself to be the martial ally that we could desire, but she still continues to send us the most delightful fiction. Mr. PUNCH is privileged in being able to offer his readers the opening of a new and fascinating story translated from the Russian of Ghastlilkoff.)_

I was born in the year 18--, and I have never ceased to regret it. I lived with my grandmother. She was called Natasha. I do not know why. She had a large mole on her left cheek. Often she would embrace me with tears and lament over me, crying, "My little sad one, my little lonely one!" Yet I was not sad; I had too many griefs. Nor was I lonely, for I had no playmates.

Often my grandmother told me I was ugly. I had no mirror, so I believed her. When I was sixteen a man I met in the street went mad for love of me and cut his throat. For the first time in my life I wondered if my grandmother always spoke the truth. I went home and wept, but when she asked me why I could not tell her.

Our house was quite dark. It had three rooms leading in and out of one another, and no windows. There was not much fresh air. Every morning my grandmother went out to buy otchkza and pickled onions. The man who sold them was very old. He had a cast in each eye. He inquired of my grandmother if she would allow him to be my husband, but she refused. His name I do not remember.

Our neighbours were very pleasant people, kindly and simple. There was a half-witted youth called Krop. He used to fill his mouth with large brass-headed nails. I did not dare to go near him, for he always tried to bite my arms. One day I learned that he had died. My grandmother bought me black silk mittens to wear at his funeral. I was very proud, and ran out into the road to show them to the other children. But in my haste I split them across from seam to seam, and my grandmother whipped me and put me to bed.

My grandmother's chief friend was a woman who sold toasted cheese. It was her custom to bring round the delicacy on a small hand-cart and sell to the children for a few kopecks. This woman was reputed to be very rich. She was not beautiful, for she had no teeth, and had hair on her face. The first time I saw her I ran into the house and hid behind the large barrel of butter-milk. My grandmother took me by the ear and led me to her friend.

"This is Ilonoka," she said. "She is a good girl."

I remember that I cried very loud.

Afterwards my grandmother told me that perhaps the woman would leave me all her money. Next time she came I wished to speak to her, but unfortunately I had a quinsy. When the woman eventually died it was discovered that she had been destitute for a long time. She left her hand-cart by will to my grandmother, and in her disappointment my grandmother beat me over the head with it. Soon afterwards my hair began to come out, and my grandmother said it was time I found a husband.

Accordingly she went next door, where lived a woman with five sons. They were all out except one, and he had a sore leg. She brought him to me, and I cried very bitterly. He also. His name was Ivan, and I wished it had been Peter.

The next day we were betrothed, and all our friends came to eat the feast that my grandmother provided. A school-fellow of mine, a very beautiful girl, was angry because I had a husband and not she. She scratched my face, and the blood ran on to my dress. Our friends congratulated us, and when they had gone my grandmother said it had been a great success. She and I finished what was left of the feast and went to bed. I remember that my feet were very cold, and when I fell asleep I dreamed that my betrothed's name was Peter. When I awoke I cried very loud, and my grandmother slapped my cheeks.

Shortly afterwards she died, and I went to live with my uncle, who was a pawnbroker in Moscow.

* * * * *

THE LONG-FACED CHUMS.

When Alexander won the world he knew not bombs nor guns, His simple forms of frightfulness were quite unlike the Huns'; 'Twas not by barking mortars that the pushful CAESAR scored; He trusted close formations and the silent stabbing sword.

When ROLAND'S rearguard turned at bay, and from the furious press The scuppered Paladin sent forth his famous S.O.S., Scared Roncesvalles rang loud with war, as misty legends tell, But echo's ear was spared the shriek and crash of bursting shell.

So could you meet the shades of those whose prowess made Romance, You'd find them only puzzled by your tales of stunts in France; You'd have to cut the business out, and be content to chat Of rations, grub, and officers--such odds and ends as that,

Unless you chanced to entertain some true rough-rider's ghost, Who galloped after HANNIBAL, or with the Parthian host, Some curled Assyrian prince who pranced, bareback, along a frieze-- Or one of RUPERT'S _beaux sabreurs_--a horseman--whom you please.

With chosen spirits such as those your talk need never end If you are worthy of your spurs and count a horse your friend. Just ask them "Did you clip trace-high?" or "Did you chaff your hay?" Or boast about the gee you ride, and they'll have lots to say.

Cut out the talk of battle's din, of whizz-bangs and of crumps, Of bombs and gas and hand-grenades, of mines and blazing dumps; If you would wake their sympathy and warm their hearts indeed Describe a Squadron watering, and then the fuss at "Feed!"

That lively bustle has a charm to wake a mummy's ear Who, ere the Pyramids were planned, was mustered charioteer; And many a horseman's spirit thrills by Lethe's drowsy brink When in a strange, familiar dream his Troop comes down to drink!

* * * * *

From "The Story of the Haldane Missions":--

"The Kaiser laughingly remarked that he had better have the high chair (in which the Kaiser usually sat at his council meetings). He also gave Lord Haldane an Imperial cigar.... While discussing the naval question, the Kaiser took a copy of the new Naval Bill out of his pocket and handed it to Lord Haldane, who transferred it to his pocket without looking at it."--_Daily Chronicle._

He probably thought it was another of the Imperial cigars.

* * * * *

* * * * *

A STRAIGHT TALK WITH L. G.

_(Everyone has views as to how to win the War, but not all are vocal, or--shall we say?--vociferous. If Mr. LLOYD GEORGE reads all the papers (as their Editors of course expect him to do) he cannot have missed quite a number of powerful articles in the following manner. And even if he should miss one or two it would not matter, because there is always another in preparation.)_

I've always said that the PREMIER shouldn't be bothered with Parliament. Of course I've said too that our old friend Demos, the new god, should have a say in affairs; but that's an inconsistency that doesn't count in the least, does it?

Now then, Mr. PREMIER, you've got the chance of your lifetime. I always said you were a lucky devil--in fact, I never met the Welshman that wasn't.

You see, Parliament's in recess, and all its trivial overpaid Members are playing golf and things. You've got absolutely a free hand if only you'll take it. It's quite easy and bound to succeed. You've only got to do as I tell you.

For instance, you want to buck up HAIG and the people at the Front. It's no use them telling you they know best, being on the spot. That's only bluff, old man. Don't take any notice of them, but just order a big general offensive; and before you can say Jack Robinson we'll have the Huns behind the Rhine.

And do tell the Navy to get a move on. I'm glad to see my articles have made you change the heads at the Admiralty; and of course that's all very well so far as it goes. But it doesn't go far enough. _Have a chat with BEATTY about it._ Get him to root the Huns out. He can bombard Ostend and Zeebrugge and all those funny little places in two-twos. Tell KING ALBERT not to mind. We'll easily slap up new towns for him after the War, built on the speedy American principle.

Then about that aerial offensive. There's really been quite enough talk about it. We want some action, Mr. PREMIER. Isn't it time it came off? Think what a bombardment of Cologne (taking care of the cathedral, _of course_), Frankfurt, Berlin, Essen and Hamburg would do, not to mention other places that I could if I had an atlas.

And about those pacifists. Just clap the whole lot in gaol. That's the best place for them. I won't object in the least, even though I am the apostle of freedom.

Then there are lots and lots of other things you might do. You might deliver a reasoned manifesto to the Russian people and buck them up a bit. That won't do anybody any harm, and _it'll be getting on with the War_, my little Welshman.

Well, there are a few points for you to go on with. You've got the brains to think of more, otherwise I wouldn't have helped to put you where you are to-day. But remember that if you _don't_ do these things Demos is waiting round the corner for you.

Demos is a good dog--a patient animal. But there's an end even to his patience. Growl, Demos, and show you're not afraid of Welshmen!

("Grrr----!" Good dog! Good dog!)

Now then, old boy, I've shown you the way. _It's up to you!_

* * * * *

Another powerful article on these lines will appear next week.

[But not in _Punch_.-ED.]

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE ONLY OTHER TOPIC.

"I shot a marrow into the--I mean I cut a marrow two feet seven inches long yesterday," said the man in the corner seat.

"What did it weigh?" we asked anxiously. After two months of them potatoes had somewhat palled. We were growing rather tired of marrows, but we waited eagerly for his answer,

"Twenty-six pounds nine and three-quarter ounces."

Disappointment again. Our hopes were dashed to the ground. Some obscure individual, according to the local press, had produced from his humble cottage garden a marrow weighing thirty-four pounds, and the thing rankled.

"Mine was a scraggy specimen, more like an Indian club than a marrow."

"Crossed in love, perhaps," said Dalton.

"What your marrow wanted was nourishment," said the Authority. "A piece of worsted round its neck, with one end dipped in a jar of water."

"Excuse me," said Jones, "the very latest is to insert a tube in the stalk, and the flavour is greatly improved if you add a little sugar to the water. Almost like a melon."

"Do you take a card out for each marrow, or one for each plant?" asked Dalton.

The quiet man opposite put his paper down. He was a new-comer in the district. We liked him, although he had no sense of humour and did not appreciate Dalton's jokes. He appeared to be interested only in the startling and the odd.

"That reminds me," he said, "of a most extraordinary experience I had a few days ago. Of course you all know Enderby?"

None of us knew Enderby, but we I did not like to say so. The quiet man's anxiety was painful. We felt he could not go on with his story unless someone knew Enderby.

"He has a little place round at the back of the Common--quite a nice little place." Freath--that was the quiet man's name--looked at us reproachfully.

"I think I know Enderby," said Dalton. "Isn't he a heavily-built man about fifty, with a grey moustache?"

"Yes, yes," said Freath eagerly. "And a curious wart on his left cheek. Well, I dined with him the other night. His boy was there, home for the holidays. Very clever boy; his special study is the biology of plants. They gave me a very good dinner; I didn't notice very much what I was eating, but I did when the maid helped me to marrow. It was a deep crimson colour. I tasted it somewhat nervously, for I felt they were all watching me. It had the taste of the most exquisite fruit, and the flavour--I am afraid you won't believe me--was that of the finest port that I ever drank. 'How did you manage this, Arthur?' said Enderby. 'Grape-juice,' said Arthur. 'Those foreign black grapes are very cheap just now, so I mixed some with the water that I was feeding the marrows on.' I can't explain it to you; all I know is that I had a second helping. I am afraid you don't believe it," said Freath uneasily.

We assured him that we did, but we did not say it with conviction.

"Enderby called round to see me a few days afterwards," continued Freath, "and I walked back with him. As we went along he told me that a relative was staying with them--an uncle. The first night, again they had marrow for dinner. This time its flavour was not port but whisky--Scotch whisky. The old gentleman was delighted with Arthur and his experiments. Although an abstainer he had three helpings. This was very pleasing to Enderby, as the uncle was a man of considerable wealth. But he was not at all satisfied with his son's explanations, and he thought he recognised the whisky. Although an abstainer while the War is on, Enderby keeps a very good cellar, and when he came to look into things he found that Arthur had been pumping his finest '60 port and old matured Scotch whisky into the vegetable marrows. Now what do you think of that?"

We thought it very strange and we said so.

"But the strangest part has yet to come. Of course they had to keep it quiet--bottle it up, so to speak, from the old gentleman, and let the marrows down gradually. But when the marrows were once more on a temperance _régime_ the most extraordinary thing happened." The train was running into Finsbury Park. Freath rose and collected his things.

We stared at him, fascinated.

"Enderby took me into the garden to see it. He said it had been going on for the last week. From all directions, rioting across the flower-beds, the lawn, down the paths, the marrows were growing towards the wine-cellar at the rate of twelve feet a day."

Freath hastily left the carriage and jumped into the Broad Street train.

While we were discussing the story the voice of authority spoke: "The whole thing's a tissue of falsehood. There's no such man as Enderby."

"But Dalton knows him," we said.

"I don't know Enderby," said Dalton. "But I wanted to hear the story."

* * * * *

AT THE PLAY.

"THE PACIFISTS."