Chapter 1

Produced by Lesley Halamek, Jonathan Ingram and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 159.

DECEMBER 29, 1920

CHARIVARIA.

No newspapers were published on Saturday, Sunday or Monday. We did not begrudge them their holiday, but we do think _The Daily Mail_ might have issued occasional bulletins respecting the weather at Thanet, as we consider three days is too long to keep their readers in suspense.

* * *

The most popular indoor game this winter seems to be Battledore-and-Juttlecock.

* * *

A woman informed a London magistrate last Tuesday that her husband thrashed her at Easter, Whitsuntide and on August Bank Holiday. Our thoughts were constantly with her during the recent Yuletide festivities.

* * *

Readers should not be alarmed if a curious rustling noise is heard next Saturday morning. It will be simply the sound of new leaves being turned over.

* * *

In view of the possible increase of their salaries it is not the intention of Members of Parliament to solicit Christmas-boxes. Householders, therefore, should be on their guard against men passing themselves off as M.P.s.

* * *

Our attention is drawn to the fact that the latest photograph of Mr. LLOYD GEORGE shows him to be smoking a cigar with the band on. We can only say that CROMWELL wouldn't have done it.

* * *

Our magistrates appear to be made of poor stuff these days. A man named SNAIL was last week summoned before the Feltham magistrates for exceeding the speed limit, yet no official joke was made. Incidentally, why is it that Mr. Justice DARLING never gets a real chance like this?

* * *

A New York policeman has been arrested in the act of removing a safe from a large drapery store. It is said that upon being seen by another policeman he offered to run and fetch a burglar.

* * *

Mme. DELYSIA has been bitten by a dog in New York. The owner's defence, that the animal had never tasted famous dancer before, is not likely to be accepted.

* * *

Like a soothing balm just before the old year dies comes the intimation from Mr. LOVAT FRASER that there is a bright side to things.

* * *

With reference to the opening of the pantomime season it is reported that a couple of new jokes have been found nesting in a Glasgow theatre.

* * *

Psychologists are inclined to attribute the recent night stampede of sheep in the Midlands, when thousands of them jumped their hurdles, to the influence of a large number of people concentrating on a well-known remedy for sleeplessness.

* * *

It is stated that rabies does not exist in Ireland. Our opinion is that it wouldn't be noticed if it did.

* * *

Very few English Christmas customs, we hear, are prevalent out in Russia. We have always felt that the custom of clients giving Christmas-boxes to their executioners will never become very popular.

* * *

It is rumoured that the repeated assassinations of General VILLA have made it necessary for him to resign his position as Permanent Chief Insurgent to the State of Mexico.

* * *

_The Morning Post_ has remarked that nowadays the Eton boy is often reduced to travelling third-class. It is hoped to persuade Sir ERIC GEDDES to disguise himself as an Eton boy during the holidays to see how it feels.

* * *

It is now admitted that the plum-pudding which was badly mauled by a small boy in the Hoxton district on Christmas Day began it by inviting his assailant to "come on."

* * *

D'ANNUNZIO is reported to be coming to a more reasonable frame of mind. Apparently he is disposed to allow Italy a certain measure of independence.

* * *

People step out into the road and never look to right or left, says a London coroner. This makes things far too easy for motorists.

* * *

Dr. A. GRAHAM BELL recently told a Derby audience how he invented the telephone. We note that he still refuses to say why.

* * *

We are informed that, on and after the 1st of January, Mr. CHURCHILL cannot undertake to refute the opinions of any writer who has not been officially recognised as a best seller.

* * *

A scientist has succeeded in putting a pea to sleep with electro-magnetism. The clumsy old method of drowning it in a plate of soup should now be a thing of the past.

* * *

General TOWNSHEND says that with seventy thousand men he could have conquered half Asia. But then he might have lost Mr. HORATIO BOTTOMLEY.

* * *

What we want now is something to make the world safe for those who made the world safe for democracy.

* * *

There is now on the market a new patent contrivance which gives warning when the contents of an oven are on the point of burning. We have secured a sample, but unfortunately our cook still relies on her sense of smell.

* * *

"Leather is now much cheaper," we read. Yet we have noticed no drop in the price of restaurant steak.

* * *

On January 1st the Ministry of Munitions will enter upon its second year of winding up.

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE HAPPY HOOTS.

Yes, it is nearly twelve now. In ten minutes we shall hear the bells--I mean the hooters. I wonder if there were hooters when TENNYSON wrote those popular lines about ringing in the New Year. Very likely he didn't hear them if there were, as there's nothing to show that he ever really stayed up late enough to see the New Year in. It's a pity, because the hooters would have fitted in to that poem most beautifully. The hooting idea is just what is wanted to give a dramatic contrast to the sugary ringing business.

"Ring out the false, ring in the true"

doesn't _convince_ somehow; it's too impartial. One doesn't say to the footman, "Show the Rector up, please, and show this blackmailer out," even at the Lyceum. One says, "_Kick_ this black-hearted hound out," and the footman realises then that you have something against the fellow. Just so one doesn't gather from the above line that the poet has any strong preference as between the false and the true, except that there is no good rhyme to "the false," unless you can count "waltz"; but what about--

_Hoot_ out the old, ring in the new; _Hoot_ out the false, ring in the true?

Magnificent! There's some sting in that; it "gets over," and it brings the whole poem into harmony with modern practice.

Come on, we'd better have another dance before the great moment. I wonder if TENNYSON ever saw the New Year in at two guineas a head. I don't expect so. For that matter it's the first time we've done it at an expensive public "Revel" ourselves; but then this is the first year we've been absolutely bankrupt. Up till now we've been rather well off, and have celebrated cheaply at home. Do you realise that this is our wedding-day? I believe you'd forgotten; women never remember these things. Yes, it's six years.... Six years. And this is the first year we've been bankrupt. All the same, as I say, it's the first year we've come out and had a jolly good supper. Reckless? Yes, I'm afraid we are. But we've caught it from the Government.... However, to-morrow we'll start a new cheque-book.

Have you made your resolutions yet? I have. Do you remember this time last year? You said you'd keep accounts, and I said I wouldn't smoke so much. And all the year through our resolution has never wavered. I've got evidence of that. Look at my diary. Here we are:--

_January 1st._--G. started keeping accounts. Gave up smoking.

And here we are again:--

_March 20th._--G. started accounts.

_March 29th._--Knocked off smoking.

That shows it was no mere flash-in-the-pan, doesn't it?

And we _went on_ like that. Look at this:--

_June 6th._--Gave up smoking.

_June 7th._--Only one pipe since yesterday.

_June 30th._--Cut myself down to four pipes a day.

_July 1st-9th._--G. keeping accounts; knocked off smoking.

But I wonder why I kept writing it down. Even in September, you see, I wasn't taking it for granted:--

_September 29th._--Quarter-Day. Not smoking this quarter. G. began new system of accounts.

It looks like bragging, doesn't it? But I don't think I can have meant it that way. Still, it is rather marvellous, when you come to think of it--here we are, after all these months, twelve of them, and we still stick doggedly to the same unswerving resolution. Nothing can alter it. That's what I call tenacity of purpose.

You don't think I'm serious? But I am. I'm just as serious as I was last year. This year I _shall_ give up smoking. Only I think you ought to give up your hot-water bottle in sympathy. You won't? No, I know you won't. You're a slave of the bottle, you see. It doesn't do you any harm? Oh, yes it does. It makes your backbone flabby, and it makes you susceptible to colds, and it gives you chilblains, and, anyhow, it's morally pernicious, because it's an _indulgence_.... If I'd known you were a hot-water-bottle woman before we were married.... However, we needn't go into that. But if you won't give up your bottle I shan't give up smoking after all.

Look, they're opening the windows. We shall all catch cold. Can you hear anything? I can hear those people eating. What a draught! Can you hear anything? I can hear the eaters quite plainly now. Here comes Father Christmas. I believe he is going to give us all gifts.

Can you hear anything yet? I have been given a diary. What have you got? Another diary? Is yours for 1921? So is mine. How dull! Christmas will be on a Sunday next year, I see. So will our wedding-day. I hope you'll remember it this time. And they have arranged for the Spring to begin on March 21st. Think of it! Spring--in less than three months!

There they go.

Hoot out, wild hooters, to the wild sky!

What a jolly noise! Much better than bells, really much more accurate as an expression of one's feelings. There's a sort of "faint but pursuing" note about it. And that's how I feel, rather. It was a dreadful year, really, wasn't it?--that last one, I mean. No money, no clothes--nothing but rates and dentists and small accounts respectfully submitted for our esteemed favour. One long crisis.... But we kept the flag flying. This year----

Hallo! somebody's going to recite. What do you think it will be? You'll never guess. Yes, you're quite right.

Ring out a slowly-dying cause And ancient forms of party strife.

That sounds like a bit of Government propaganda. Disgraceful, I call it. If I was a Wee Free----

Ring in the nobler modes of life, With sweeter manners----

That's a hit at somebody, too, I shouldn't wonder. Somebody must have written a topical verse for the occasion. Those people are still eating. I expect they are doing Hog-money, or whatever it is....

Are you still as obstinate as ever about that hot-water bottle? Very well, then, I shall now have the first smoke of the New Year. Oh, no; we 've got to do _Auld Lang Syne_ first. I never _can_ smoke while I'm singing.

"Should auld acquaintance...." Do you know any of the people here? No? Do you ever want to see any of them again? No? Never mind, they've all paid a lot of money to hold our hands; let them have their money's worth.... "A right gude willie-waucht...." Waiter! One large willie-waucht, please, and a small pint stoup.... Do you realise that this is the only night in the year when you can get a willie-waucht at this hour? What a world!

Six years. Do you see that nice couple over there? I bet they haven't been married as long as we have. And I bet they're not so bankrupt. This is going to be a dreadful year. I can see that at once. But we'll keep the flag flying.

Ah, here come the willie-wauchts. Thank you, waiter.

Well, my dear--a cup of kindness with you. Here's luck!

A. P. H.

* * * * *

NATURAL HISTORY ON THE FOOTBALL FIELD.

"St. Columb's Court and North-End met at The Farm, when St. Columb's Court were the victors by three goats to one."--_Irish Paper._

* * * * *

"Harry ---- (19), described as a comedian, was bound over in £5 for six months under the rug, the property of Hilda ----."

_Provincial Paper._

It seems that HARRY was not the only comedian in court.

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

ELIZABETH'S CHRISTMAS.

"I've always thort 'ow I'd love to 'ave a reel nice Christmas," remarked Elizabeth--"a jolly proper kind o' one, you know, 'm."

"Don't you find Christmas a pleasant time, then?" I inquired.

"Well, you see, 'm, I bin in service ever since I was turned fifteen, an' you know wot Christmas in service is. An extry tip, I will say, but a lot of extry work to go along with it--and wot washin' up! Some'ow it orl seems so different in books an' on the pictures."

She sighed as she spoke and a look that was almost human crept into the arid region of her countenance. A feeling of compunction swept over me. Was it possible that this poor simple girl concealed depths of conviviality in her nature and a genial disposition which I, in common with all her former employers, had carelessly overlooked? I will admit that this unexpected phase in Elizabeth's character touched and interested me.

"Elizabeth," I cried in a sudden glow of enthusiasm, "you shall have your jolly Christmas--I will provide it. You shall have your turkey, plum-pudding, mince-pies, crackers, mistletoe and all the rest of it." _Cheeryble_ in his most beneficent mood could not have felt more expansive than I did just then. "You can invite your friends; we shall not be at home, so you will have the place to yourself."

"Lor!" she ejaculated. "D'ye reerly mean it, 'm?"

"I do, Elizabeth. Let me know the sort of Christmas you've always longed for and I'll see that you get it."

She drew up her lank form and her face shone. "Well, 'm, I don't know where you get 'em, but for one thing I've often thort as 'ow I'd like to 'ave a festlebord."

"What's that?" I asked, puzzled. "Is it in the Stores' list?"

"I don't know, 'm, but there's always a lot about it in the books. When the Squire's son comes 'ome repentant at Christmas-tide they always gathers round a festlebord and rejoices."

I began to see light. "You mean a 'festal board'?"

"That's wot I sed, 'm."

"Well, you shall have one, Elizabeth, I'll see to that. I'd let you have a Squire's son as well, but unfortunately the only ones I know are not repentant--as yet. And now tell me which of your friends you would like to invite."

"There's my sister-in-lor 'ud like to come--'er that I 'aven't been on speakin' terms with for five years--but she shan't. An' my friend isn't comin'; I'll see to that arter the things she sed about me to my young man's cousin--sorcy baggage! As for my two aunts they don't set foot under the same roof as me arter the way----"

"Never mind about the people you're not inviting," I broke in; "we don't need a list of them. Who do you want to come?"

"Well, there's Mrs. Spurge, the char--a real nice lady, as you know, 'm. Then I'd like to arsk Polly, the sister of the cook wot lives in the 'ouse at the corner with red 'air; an' there's Mary Baxter. An' isn't it lucky my sailor-brother will be 'ome for the first time in ten years? Can 'e come too, 'm? 'E's been round the world twice."

"In that case, Elizabeth, he certainly ought to be invited. He may even have returned home repentant, so you will be able to rejoice at the festal board in proper style."

"Oh, 'm, isn't it luverly? I won't 'arf have a beano this Christmas. Wot a time we'll 'ave, _wot_ a time!"

* * * * *

For my part I did not pass a very blithesome Christmas. Henry's aunt, who invited us, is rich, but she is also dull, and several times I found myself rather envying Elizabeth. While Aunt Jane nodded in her chair, Henry and I pictured those boisterous revels of Elizabeth and her friends, their boundless mirth, their unrestrained gaiety. We imagined them too gathered round the sailor-brother, listening with rapt delight as he told them stories of the far-off wonder-lands he had known. Henry sighed then and said there were times when he envied the so-called lower classes their capacity for enjoyment.

When we returned home Elizabeth greeted us with beaming countenance. "I 'ope you 'ad a good time," she said; "I know _I_ 'ad."

"Then it really was as nice as you thought it would be, Elizabeth?"

"It was first-rate, 'm. Leastways orl went well until arter dinner, when we begins chippin' each other and ends in 'avin' a few words. My sailor-brother started it by chaffin' Polly about 'er red 'air an' arskin' why she didn't cut it orf, an' she told 'im then that if 'e'd such an objection to red she wondered 'e didn't cut 'is own nose orf. Arter that one thing led to another; we took sides an'----"

"Oh, Elizabeth, you don't mean to say you quarrelled?" I interrupted sorrowfully.

"Oh, no, it wasn't quarrellin', 'm--just bargin', you know. Any'ow it ended in Polly an' Mary an' my brother goin' off early. I was chilly to Mrs. Spurge owin' to 'er 'avin' said that she didn't believe my sailor-brother 'd ever been further than Wapping in a coal-barge. I shouldn't 'ave spoke to 'er again that evenin' if the book 'adn't brought us together again friendly, like."

"What book?" I asked, bewildered.

"One of yours that I got out of the study, 'm. Oh, _wot_ a book! Sorter ghost story in a manner o' speakin'. I laughed an' I cried over it, turn about. So did Mrs. Spurge. You see we read bits out to each other--kep it up till three o'clock in the mornin', we did. It was luverly!"

"And what was the book called?" I inquired.

"It's called _A Christmas Car'l_, 'm, by Mr. DICKINGS. Why didn't nobody tell me about it afore? It's far better 'n the pictures. 'Just like 'eaven,' Mrs. Spurge said."

"I'm glad you enjoyed yourself, Elizabeth."

"It's the 'appiest Christmas I ever 'ad, 'm. That there Mr. Dickings is a one! 'E do know wot's wot in festlebords."

* * * * *

* * * * *

HOW, WHY AND WHAT.

_(Being the Tragedy of the Conscientious Inquirer who fell among Philistines.)_

There was an old man who said, "How Can I link the To-Be with the Now?" But they said, "Poor old thing! You've been reading Dean INGE, And you're _not_ high enough in the brow."

But in spite of this check he said, "Why Is my Ego the same as my I?" So they put him to bed And placed ice on his head till the cerebral storm had passed by.

Now I'm told he is asking them, "What Use has psycho-analysis got?" And they answer, "N.E. If you're not an M.D., Or a novelist minus a plot."

* * * * *

"A cargo of 800 German pianos arrived at the Tyne from Hamburg on Saturday."

_Daily Paper._

Another key industry in danger.

* * * * *

* * * * *

MAYBIRDS.

I can see some justification for keeping peacocks, especially if you have shaven lawns and terraces and sundials, though sundials, I imagine, are rather a nuisance now-a-days, because of the trouble of having them reset for summer and winter time. Peacocks at any rate are beautiful, and, if their voices are apt in England to become a little hoarse, that is only because they screech when the weather is going to be bad.

The pheasant is also a useful and beautiful fowl. One may put down bread-crumbs to attract the pheasant to one's garden when he is alive, or to one's plate when he is dead.

But I can see no justification whatever for keeping maybirds, for they are neither useful nor beautiful. Perhaps you do not know what a maybird is. I have five maybirds. I have them because people here would keep saying to me, "Look at the price of fresh eggs, and how much nicer it is to have your own." It is a curious thing about the country that people are always giving one disinterested advice in the matter of domestic economy. In London it is different. In London people let you take a twopenny bus ticket to Westminster instead of walking across the Park, and go to ruin in your own sweet way. They rather admire your dash. But in the country they tell you about these things.

So I went to a man and confessed to him my trouble about fresh eggs.

"I see," he said; "you want maybirds."

"No, I don't," I said; "I want hens."

"It's the same thing," he told me. "How many would you like?"

"Five," I said. I thought five would be an unostentatious number and make it clear that I was not trying to compete with the wholesale egg-dealers.

He segregated five maybirds and explained their points to me.

It appeared that one of them was a Buff Orpington and three were white Wyandottes and one had no particular politics. I should say now that it was an Independent. It has speckles and is the one that keeps getting into the garden.

I asked him when the creatures would begin to enter upon their new duties, and he said they would do so at once.

"What is their maximum egg-laying velocity?" I inquired.

"They'll lay about three eggs a day between them," he said, "these five birds."

"Why between them?" I enquired. But I consented to buy his birds, and he said if I liked he would run round to my garden at once and run up a hen-house and a hen-run for me. "Run" seemed rather a word with him.

I said, "Yes, by all means."

He came round that evening and hewed down an apple-tree under the light of the moon to make room for the maybird-run, and in the morning he brought a large roll of wire-netting, and the next day he built a wooden house, and the day after that he brought his five maybirds, and the day after that he came round and asked for some cinders. He sprinkled these all over the enclosure, and I watched him while he worked.

"What is that for?" I asked.

"They want something to scratch in when they run about," he explained. "Exercise is what they need."

"They seem to be scratching already, but they don't seem to be running," I said. "Wouldn't it have been better to put a cinder-track all round the edge and train them to run races round it?"

He said that he hadn't thought of that, but I could try it if I liked. Then he gave me a bag of food, which he said was particularly efficacious for maybirds, and produced his bill.

All this happened about a month ago, and for the last four weeks the principal preoccupation of my household has been the feeding of these five birds. I have had to lay a gravel-path from the aviary to the back premises in order to sustain the weight of the traffic. Huge bowls of hot food are constantly being mixed and carried to them, without any apparent consciousness on their part of their reciprocal responsibilities. What I mean to say is that there are no eggs. The food which they eat resembles Christmas-pudding at the time when it is stirred, and I have suggested that a sixpence should be concealed in it every now and then--sixpence being apparently the current price of an egg--in order to indicate the nature of our hopes.