Chapter 2

_Herr M._ (_aside_). The old fellow is not, after all, so thick-skulled as I thought him. (_Aloud_) I will not ask you to discuss this subject any more, but will proceed to lay before you the commands of HIS MAJESTY.

_Von H._ I shall be glad to hear them.

_Herr M._ Well, then, to cut the matter as short as possible, HIS MAJESTY insists that there shall be a victory on the Western Front.

_Von H._ A victory?

_Herr M._ Yes, a victory. A real one, mind, not a made-up affair like the capture of Langemarck, which, though it was certainly captured, was not captured by us, but by the accursed English. May Heaven destroy them!

_Von H._ But it was by HIS MAJESTY'S orders that we announced the capture of Langemarck.

_Herr M._ I know; but he is graciously pleased to forget that, and to desire a genuine victory now.

_Von H._ Tell him I cannot promise. We have done our best at Verdun, at Lens and at Ypres, but we have had to retreat everywhere. Our turn may come another time, but, as I say, I cannot promise.

_Herr M._ Please go on doing your best. It is so annoying and temper-spoiling for HIS MAJESTY to make so many speeches of a fiery kind, and never to have a victory--at least not a real one for which Berlin can hang out flags. Besides, if we don't get a victory how shall we ever get a good German peace? And peace we _must_ have, and that very soon.

_Von H._ Don't talk to me of peace. War is my business, not peace; and if I am to carry on war there must be no interference. If the ALL-HIGHEST does not like that, let him take the chief command himself.

_Herr M._ God forbid!

* * * * *

LINES TO A HUN AIRMAN,

WHO AROUSED THE DETACHMENT ON A CHILLY MORNING, AT 2.30 A.M.

Oh, come again, but at another time; Choose some more fitting moment to appear, For even in fair Gallia's sunny clime The dawns are chilly at this time of year.

I did not go to bed till one last night, I was on guard, and, pacing up and down, Gazed often on the sky where every light Flamed like a gem in Night's imperial crown;

And when the clamant rattle's hideous sound Roused me from sleep, in a far distant land My spirit moved and trod familiar ground, Where a Young Hopeful sat at my right hand.

There was a spotless cloth upon the board, Thin bread-and-butter was upon me pressed, And China tea in a frail cup was poured-- Then I rushed forth inadequately dressed.

Lo! the poor Sergeant in a shrunken shirt, His manly limbs exposed to morning's dew, His massive feet all paddling in the dirt-- Such sights should move the heart of even you.

The worthy Corporal, sage in looks and speeches, Holds up his trousers with a trembling hand; Lucky for him he slumbered in his breeches-- The most clothed man of all our shivering band.

The wretched gunners cluster on the gun, Clasping the clammy breech and slippery shells; If 'tis a joke they do not see the fun And damn you to the worst of DANTE'S hells.

And Sub-Lieutenant Blank, that martial man, Shows his pyjamas to a startled world, And shivers in the foremost of our van The while our H.E. shells are upwards hurled.

You vanish, not ten centimes worth the worse For all our noise, so far as we can tell; The blest "Stand easy" comes; with many a curse We hurry to the tents named after Bell.[1]

In two brief hours we must arise and shine! O willow-waly! Would I were at home Where leisurely I breakfasted at nine And warm and fed went officeward to roam!

So come again, but at another time, Say after breakfast or some hour like that, Or I will strafe you with a viler rhyme-- I will, by Jove! or eat my shell-proof hat.

[Footnote 1: On second thoughts I don't believe they are named after anyone, but "Bell" rhymes comfortably with "tell," so it may stand.]

* * * * *

"The Rev. T.F. ---- officiated in the church yesterday for the first time since his return from a four months' spell of work in connection with the Y.M.C.A. Huns in France."--_Provincial Paper_.

We congratulate him upon his discovery of this hitherto unknown tribe.

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE LITTLE MATCH-GIRL.

_(With apologies to the shade of HANS ANDERSEN.)_

It was late on a bitterly cold showery evening of Autumn. A poor little girl was wandering in the cold wet streets. She wore a hat on her head and on her feet she wore boots. ANDERSEN sent her out without a hat and in boots five sizes too large for her. But as a member of the Children's Welfare League I do not consider that right. She carried a quantity of matches (ten boxes to be exact) in her old apron. Nobody had bought any of her matches during the whole long day. And since the Summer-Time Act was still in force it was even longer than it would have been in ANDERSEN's time.

The streets through which she passed were deserted. No sounds, not even the reassuring shrieks of taxi-whistles, were to be heard, for it costs you forty shillings now (or is it five pounds?) to engage a taxi by whistle, and people simply can't afford it. Clearly she would do no business in the byways, so she struck into a main thoroughfare. At once she was besieged by buyers. They guessed she was the little match-girl because she struck a match from time to time just to show that they worked. Also, she liked to see the blaze. She would not have selected this branch of war-work had she not been naturally fond of matches.

They crowded round her, asking eagerly, "How much a box?" Now her mother had told her to sell them at a shilling a box. But the little girl had heard much talk of war-profits, and since nobody had given her any she thought she might as well earn some. So she asked five shillings a box. And since these were the last matches seen in England it was not long before she had sold all the ten boxes (including the ones containing the burnt ends of the matches she had struck to attract custom).

The little girl then went to the nearest post-office and purchased two pounds' worth of War Loan. The ten shillings which remained she took home to her mother, and since the good woman did not understand the principles of profiteering she was well pleased.

But alas for the little girl! one of her customers, doubting the honesty of her intentions, had informed the policeman. She was subsequently taken into custody, and the magistrate is now faced with the problem as to whether she is a good little girl in that she put money into War Loan, or a bad little girl in that she followed the example of the profiteers.

* * * * *

OUR HELPFUL PRESS.

From a recipe for jam:--

"Add the fruit and boil 40 minutes. Glucose and sugar in equal parts can be used if sugar is unobtainable."--_Daily Sketch_.

* * * * *

"To lease or rent a fine family residence, healthy locality, one mile from Mandeville fully furnished with good accommodation for a large family standing on ten acres of good grazing land with many fruit trees has two large tanks, recently occupied by judge Reece."--_Daily Gleaner (Jamaica)_.

Anything for coolness.

* * * * *

Extract from a speech by Mr. BROMLEY on the eight-hours' day:--

"They had endeavoured after long weary waiting to bring to fruition in due time what had been the first plank in their programme for thirteen years."--_Morning Paper_.

But the plank, as might be expected, has, as fruit-growers say, "run to wood."

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE PASSING OF THE COD'S HEAD.

(_A Romance of Chiswick Mall._)

It was because the dustman did not come; It was because our cat was overfed, And, gorged with some superior pabulum, Declined to touch the cod's disgusting head; It was because the weather was too warm To hide the horror in the refuse-bin, And too intense the perfume of its form, My wife commanded me to do the sin, To take and cast it in the twinkling Thames-- A practice which the neighbourhood condemns.

So on the midnight, with a strong cigar And scented handkerchief, I tiptoed near, But felt the exotic fragrance from afar; I thought of ARTHUR and Sir BEDIVERE: And it seemed best to leave it on the plate, So strode I back and told my curious spouse "I heard the high tide lap along the Eyot, And the wild water at the barge's bows." She said, "O treacherous! O heart of clay! Go back and throw the smelly thing away."

Thereat I seized it, and with guilty shoon Stole out indignant to the water's marge; Its eyes like emeralds caught the affronted moon; The stars conspired to make the thing look large; Surely all Chiswick would perceive my shame! I clutched the indecency and whirled it round And flung it from me like a torch in flame, And a great wailing swept across the sound, As though the deep were calling back its kith. I said, "It will go down to Hammersmith.

"It will go down beyond the Chelsea flats, And hang with barges under Battersea, Will press past Wapping with decaying cats, And the dead dog shall bear it company; Small bathing boys shall feel its clammy prod, And think some jellyfish has fled the surge; And so 'twill win to where the tribe of cod In its own ooze intones a fitting dirge, And after that some false and impious fish Will likely have it for a breakfast dish."

The morning dawned. The tide had stripped the shore; And that foul shape I fancied so remote Lay stark below, just opposite next-door! Who would have said a cod's head could not float? No more my neighbour in his garden sits; My callers now regard the view with groans; For tides may roll and rot the fleshly bits, But what shall mortify those ageless bones? How shall I bear to hear my grandsons say, "Look at the fish that grand-dad threw away"?

A.P.H.

* * * * *

From a South African produce-merchant's letter:--

"As so many of our clients were disappointed last year ... we are taking time by the fetlock and offering you this excellent quality seed now."

To be sure of stopping Father Time you must collar low.

* * * * *

* * * * *

WAR-TIME WALKS.

_(With apologies to a contemporary for cutting the ground from under its feet, and to our readers for omitting certain names--in deference to the Censor.)_

Owing to the War one must save money and spend as little as possible on fares when rambling for pleasure. The following itinerary will be found quite an inexpensive one, though offering plenty of interest. Take the train to ----. Leave the station by the exit on the south side, and turn to the right under the railway bridge, taking the path by the stream till you come to a bridge which crosses it.

Do not cross the stream, however, but turn sharply to the right (opposite a rather pretentious-looking house) for two hundred yards or so, when you will come to a park. A little before entering the park you will see, lying not far from the road on the left, a remarkable old monastery church, much restored. This contains some fine old painted glass, some tombs and monumental inscriptions which are worth a visit if time will allow.

There is a right of way through the park up to the house, which belongs to the Earl of C----, but is not of great architectural interest. Bear to the right in front of the house, along a path which skirts the wall of the private grounds. At the end of the wall a gateway leads into the high road, and a walk of under two miles will bring you to the, at one time, pretty village of K----, which has, however, grown rapidly into a thriving town. Before reaching the parish church there is a hostelry on the right-hand side of the road where an excellent tea may be obtained (so far as the food regulations will allow).

On leaving the inn, turn through a gateway at the side of it, which gives on to a straight and rather uninteresting road, which has been considerably built upon and is more or less private, though a right of way has been preserved through it. A glimpse of a large mansion, chiefly of the 17th century, and now in the possession of the W----s, may be obtained through the trees on the right of the road.

When you come to the main road (at the far end of this semi-private road) turn to the right, and just where the gibbet used to stand, so it is said, in the good old days, there is a sharp left-angled turn which leads to the village of E----. Keep straight on, however, for a mile or two (notice the fine old timbered houses on the right of the footpath opposite the old boundary-post), and then turn to the right by the church, rebuilt in the 17th century on the site of an older and finer one, whose spire was at one time a noted landmark.

A walk through the churchyard to the church porch brings you to the brow of a hill. Descend this to the cross-roads at the bottom, but, instead of turning to either hand, keep to the narrow road in front till you come to a gateway on the left. This leads to a house which formerly belonged to the Knights Templars, but which passed into the hands of the L----s and is still in their possession. There is an interesting chapel in the grounds, containing the tombs of some of the former owners, whose deeds were more warlike, though probably less numerous, than those of the present occupants.

From here an easy walk up the Strand will bring you to the starting point, Charing Cross Embankment Station, where you can take the train again; but if you are fit and between the ages of forty-one and fifty, you can continue the walk till you reach the nearest Recruiting Office.

* * * * *

"Happy Home offered slight Mental Youth or otherwise."--_Times_.

A chance for one of our slim conscientious objectors.

* * * * *

LINES ON RE-READING "BLEAK HOUSE."

There was a time when, posing as a purist, I thought it fine to criticise and crab CHARLES DICKENS as a crude caricaturist, Who laid his colours on too thick and slab, Who was a sort of sentimental tourist And made life lurid when it should be drab; In short I branded as a brilliant dauber The man who gave us _Pecksniff_ and _Micawber_.

True, there are blots--like spots upon the sun-- And genius, lavish of imagination, In sheer profusion always has outrun The bounds of strict artistic concentration; But when detraction's worst is said and done, How much remains for fervent admiration, How much that never palls or wounds or sickens (Unlike some moderns) in great generous DICKENS!

And in _Bleak House_, the culminating story That marks the zenith of his swift career, All the great qualities that won him glory, As writer and reformer too, appear: Righteous resentment of abuses hoary, Of pomp and cant, self-centred, insincere; And burning sympathy that glows unchecked For those who sit in darkness and neglect.

Who, if his heart be not of steel or stone, Can read unmoved of _Charley_ or of _Jo_; Of dear _Miss Flite_, who, though her wits be flown, Has kept a soul as pure as driven snow; Of the fierce "man from Shropshire" overthrown By Law's delays; of _Caddy's_ inky woe; Or of the alternating fits and fluster That harass the unhappy slavey, _Guster_?

And there are scores of characters so vivid They make us friends or enemies for life: _Hortense_, half-tamed she-wolf, with envy livid; The patient _Snagsby_ and his shrewish wife; The amorous _Guppy_, who poor _Esther_ chivvied; Tempestuous _Boythorn_, revelling in strife; _Skimpole_, the honey-tongued artistic cadger; And that tremendous woman, _Mrs. Badger_.

No wonder then that, when we seek awhile Relief and respite from War's strident chorus, Few books more swiftly charm us to a smile, Few books more truly hearten and restore us Than his, whose art was potent to beguile Thousands of weary souls who came before us-- No wonder, when the Huns, who ban our fiction, Were fain to free him from their malediction.

* * * * *

"WHAT PEOPLE SAY.

"One of the collectors for the ---- Hospital Sunday fund seems to have got more than either he or the committee desired.

"On approaching a house he was received by a dog which persisted in leaving its compliments on one of his legs.

"Happily the injury, though treated by a chemist, was not serious." --_Provincial Paper_.

People ought not to say these things about chemists.

* * * * *

"ESCAPED GERMAN FLYING MEN.

"One of the men is Lieut. Josef Flink. He has a gunshot wound in the palm of the left hand. The second is Orbum Alexander von Schutz, with side-whispers. Both speak very little English." --_Southern Echo_.

But VON SCHUTZ's sotto-voce rendering of the "Hymn of Hate" is immense.

* * * * *

AT THE PLAY.

"THE INVISIBLE FOE."

MR. H.B. IRVING has elected to play villain in a new mystery play by Mr. WALTER HACKETT. Essential elements of the business as follows: Obstinate old millstone of a shipbuilder, _Bransby_, who simply will not give up shipbuilding for aeroplane making (and no wonder in these days!); nephew _Stephen_, with an unwholesome hankering after power and a complete inability to see the obvious; nephew _Hugh_, lieutenant lately gazetted, with much more wholesome and intelligent hankering after _Helen Bransby_; Clerk, mouldy, faithful, one who discovers deficit in the West African ledger to the extent of ten thousand pounds.

The false entries are in the hand of _Hugh_, but _Stephen's_ sinister eye and shocking suit of solemn black promptly give him away to the audience, while with a gorgeous fatuity he gives himself away to his uncle by writing out his brother's resignation of the King's Commission (in itself an odd thing to do) in the very hand he had so adroitly practised in order to manipulate the ledger. Whereupon, at _Bransby's_ dictation, _Stephen_ writes a full confession, leaving the house in an acutely disgruntled frame of mind. The old man puts the confession quite naturally (the firm is like that) between the leaves of his _David Copperfield_, and dies of heart failure.

So _Stephen_ is again up on _Hugh_ at the turn. Indeed in the six months that have elapsed between Acts I. and II. many things have happened, and neglected to happen. _Stephen_ has become by common report a great man, pillar of the house of Bransby, which now makes aeroplanes like anything. He has been too busy getting power even to look into his uncle's papers (though executor), or to have the West African ledger taken back to the office, or, queerest of all, to discover and destroy that damning confession. However, having got his power, he now proceeds to consolidate it by trying to find the missing document.

On the same day _Helen_ arrives unexpectedly, urged thereto by a vague impression inspired by her dead father that _Hugh's_ innocence will be established by something found in the fateful room; also _Hugh_, who had enlisted and now comes back from France a sergeant, with the same idea in his head and from the same source. As we had all seen the paper's hiding-place I found it a little difficult to be impressed by the elaborate efforts, unconscionably long drawn out, of the departed spirit to disclose the matter to _Helen_ and _Hugh_; while the masterly inactivity of _Stephen_, who was trying to find his document by pure reason (mere looking for it would not occur to his Napoleonic brain), confirmed the opinion I had earlier formed of that solemn ass. However, his invisible foe does contrive to get his message through to the lovers and smash up _Stephen_ and his bubble of power.

I can't help being surprised that Mr. H.B. IRVING should have been satisfied with so impossible a character as _Stephen Pryde_, though I need not add that he made most effective play with the terror of an evil conscience haunted by the vengeful dead, throwing away his consonants rather recklessly in the process and receiving the plaudits of an enthusiastic audience.

I grant Mr. HACKETT freely his effects of eeriness and his sound judgment in manipulating his ghost without materialising him; and congratulate him particularly on the part of the vague American lady, most capably performed by Miss MARION LORNE.

Miss FAY COMPTON made a pretty lover and plausible clairvoyante. Mr. SYDNEY VALENTINE'S portrait was (yes!) masterly; and Mr. TOM REYNOLDS is excellent as the confidential clerk. Mr. HOLMAN CLARK struck me (without surprise) as slightly bored with his part of a Doctor who lost his patient in the first Act and remained as a convenient peg for the plot. His adroit method ensures smooth playing and pulls a cast together. T.

* * * * *

* * * * *

PLAYING THE GAME.

After we had finally arranged the cricket match--Convalescents _versus_ the Village--for the benefit of the Serbian Relief Fund, we remembered that early in the year the cricket-field had been selected for the site of the village potato-patch, and my favourite end of the pitch--the one without the cross-furrow--was now in full blossom.

As the cricket-field is the only level piece of ground in the district, the cricket committee began to lose its grip upon the situation, and were only saved from ignominious failure by the enterprise of the British Army, in this case represented by Sergeant-Major Kippy, D.C.M., who was recovering in the best of spirits from his third blighty one.

"'Ow about the Colonel's back gardin?" he suggested. "There's a lovely bit o' turf there."

We remembered the perfect and spacious lawn, scarcely less level than a billiard-table, and, even with the Colonel busy on the East Coast, the committee were unanimously adverse to the suggestion. But Kippy, born within hail of a Kentish cricket-field, was not to be denied, and, after all, one cannot haggle about a mere garden with someone who was with the first battalions over the Messines Ridge.

Thus the affair was taken out of our hands, and when the day arrived we pitched the stumps where Kippy, giving due consideration to the Colonel's foliage, thought the light was most advantageous.

The Village won the toss, and old Tom Pratt took guard and proceeded to dig himself in by making what he termed his "block-hole." I visualised the choleric blue eye of the Colonel and shuddered.

For a time matters proceeded uneventfully. Then, at the fall of the fourth wicket, the game suddenly developed, Jim Butcher, batting at the pergola end, giving us an exhibition of his famous scoop shot, which landed full pitch through the drawing-room window. It was a catastrophe of such dimensions that even the boldest spirit quailed before it, and the Colonel's butler, batting at the other end, immediately dissociated himself from the proceedings and bolted from the field.

Kippy, as befitted a warrior of parts, was the first to recover.

"'Ere," he exclaimed, "we carn't 'ave this; wot do you think the Colonel will say?"

I do not suppose there was anyone who had not thought of it.