Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 152, June 20, 1917 by Mr. Various (fiction novels to read .TXT) 📕

having on a toque almost entirely made of young turnips and carrots.

He said it was "an infraction of rule 150, cap. 4,500 of the Safety of

the Empire Act, forbidding the use of the people's food for personal

adornment."

The Allotment expression, which is the correct one now, is a look of

interest and expectation, because what one's planted is coming up.

_Some_ people rather spoil their Allotment expression by a _puzzled_

look. _Et pourquoi_? dear, they've _quite_ forgotten what they

planted, and, though they _pretend_ they know _exactly_ what it is

that's coming up, they really haven't the slightest!

My last photo is considered to show the Allotment expression in utter

perfection. (It's been in _People of Position, Mayfair Murmurs_, and

several other weeklies.) I'm standing in my potato-patch (my Allotment

toilette is finished off by a pair of _enthralling_ little hob-nailed

boots!) and I'm holding a rake and a hoe and a digging-fork in one

hand and a garden-hose in the other; there's a wheel-barrow beside me,

and I'm looking at the potato-plants with the _true_ Allotment smile,

my dearest. I sent a copy of this picky to Norty, and under it I wrote

those famous last words of some celebrated Frenchman (I forget whether

it was MOLIÈRE or MIRABEAU or NAPOLEON): "_Je vais chercher un grand

peut-être!_"

Wee-Wee is frightfully worried about Bo-Bo being so overworked. He

used to be at the head of the Department for Telling People What to

Do, and he and his five hundred assistants were worked half dead;

and _now_ he's at the head of a still newer department, the one for

Telling People What They're _Not_ to Do, and, though he's eight

hundred clerks to help him, Wee-Wee says the strain is too great for

words. He goes to Whitehall at ten every day and comes back at three!

And then he has the Long-Ago treatment that's being used so much now

for war-frayed nerves. The idea is to get people as far away from the

present as poss. So when Bo-Bo comes in from Whitehall he lies down on

a fearful old worm-eaten oak settle in a dim room hung with moth-eaten

tapestry, and Wee-Wee reads CHAUCER to him, and sings ghastly little

folk-songs, accompanying herself on a thing called a _crwth_--(it's a

tremendously primitive sort of harp, but I can't believe that even a

_crwth_ meant to make such a horrible noise as Wee-Wee makes on it!).

Myself, I don't consider Bo-Bo a bit the better for the Long-Ago

treatment, and there's certainly a wild look in his eyes that wasn't

there before!

_M'amie_, would you like to hear the simply _odious_ storyette of

Somebody's Cousin? Well, so you shall. Somebody is by way of being an

intimate foe of mine, and Somebody's Cousin has long been a thorn in

the flesh and a shaking of the head to his people. Before the War

he belonged to the League for Taking Everything Lying Down, the

Fellowship for Preventing People from Standing up against Foreign

Aggression, and the Brotherhood for Giving up All Our Advantages to

Aliens. He was of military age, and when war came, after giving vent

to some completely detestable sentiments, he crossed to the U.S. and

naturalised himself there, constantly attacking the country that was

unlucky enough to produce him.

 When the U.S. came in, he shed his citizenship in a hurry, fled to

South America, and naturalised himself in a republic that had sworn

by all its gods to keep out of the War _à tout prix_. This republic,

however, changed its mind later and followed its big northern brother

into the War, _et voilà_! Somebody's Cousin was at a loose end again.

He afterwards naturalised himself in half-a-dozen small far-away

nations that all finally came in, and _then, chérie_, he drifted down

to the islands of the South Pacific (the favourite ocean of _his_

sort!) and had himself made an Ollyoola. (The Ollyoolas are a tribe

that has _never in all its past history_ been known to go to war). He

was made an Ollyoola with all the native rites, dancing and shrieking

and so on, and he wore the correct Ollyoola dress (a few shells and

his hair trained on sticks to stand straight up).

And _now_ comes the point of this storyette: Only a few weeks after

Somebody's Cousin had become a full-blooded Ollyoola (I think

that's the proper phrase), the Ollyoolas suddenly fell out with the

Patti-Tattis (on the next island) and went to war, for _absolutely the

first time_, with a _ferocity_, my Daphne, that seems to have been

saving up through all their centuries of peacefulness!

Nothing's been heard since of Somebody's Cousin!

Ever thine,

BLANCHE.

       *       *       *       *       *

   "AIRMEN'S ORDEAL IN THE NORTH SEA.

   FIVE DAYS ON A PIECE OF CHOCOLATE."

   _Continental Daily Mail_.

Rather a precarious perch.

       *       *       *       *       *

   "'GIB.' SHELLS FALL IN MOROCCO.

   MADRID.--Near Algeciras 20 shells fell from the batteries of

   Gibraltar. There were no victims, and no damage was caused.

   The authorities at Gibraltar have given satisfactory

   explanations."--_Evening Paper_.

Still, we should like to know the nature of the explosive that blew

Algeciras across the Straits.

       *      *       *       *       *

KINSMEN AND NAMESAKES.

An official circular, commenting on the presentation at the Scala, in

film form, of _The Crisis_, by Mr. WINSTON CHURCHILL, the American

novelist, adds the interesting statement, "the author is of course a

distant cousin of the Right Hon. Winston Churchill, M.P."; This sounds

a little ungracious. Why "of course _distant_?" But perhaps the gifted

novelist shares the opinion held by Lord BERESFORD of the politician

who did not write _The Crisis_, but is always trying to make one.

       *       *       *       *       *

From the account of a military wedding in _The West London Press_:--

   "The bridegroom was wearing a simple draped gown of lavender-blue

   crepe georgette, with a mushroom-shaped hat in the same shade,

   wreathed with small coloured flowers and draped with a blue lace

   veil."

Some mufti!

       *       *       *       *       *

   "When the Lord Provost ruled that the mater was not urgent, the

   Labourists created something of a scene."--_Glasgow Citizen_.

Quite justifiably, in view of the imminence of "Baby Week."

       *       *       *       *       *

=THE DISSUADERS.=

For many years--ever since the first piece of chalk was applied to

the first wall and advertising began its bombastic career--the

advertiser's tendency has been to commend his wares, if not to excess,

at any rate with no want of generosity. Everyone must have noticed it.

But war changes many things besides Cabinets, and if the paper

famine is to continue there will shortly be a totally novel kind of

advertising to be seen, where dissuasion holds the highest place. For

unless something happens those journals which have already done

much to reduce circulation will have to do more and actually decry

themselves. Such counsels as those which follow may before long meet

the eyes, and, it is possible, influence the minds, of the great

B.P.:--

       * * *

   THE PROPRIETORS OF

   _THE TIMES_

   Urge you to spend your money

   elsewhere.

   _THE TIMES_

   may have the best foreign correspondence,

   the latest news, the greatest

   variety of letters (in types of all sizes),

   the funniest dramatic criticisms, the

   sternest leading articles, and the only

   newspaper proprietor now acting as a

   plenipotentiary in America;

   BUT

   you are implored not to buy it.

   Remember its virtues for future use,

   when skies are brighter, but disregard

   them to-day.

     * * *

   We appeal to the great-hearted Public

   to make a real effort and refrain from

   buying

   _THE OBSERVER._

   Sunday may be only half a Sunday

   without it;

   But indulge in a little self-sacrifice.

   Not only eat less bread

   But

   Read less GARVIN.

       * * *

   DOWN SPECTATORS!

   Give

   _THE SPECTATOR_

   A WIDE BERTH.

   There are reasons why it must be published

   regularly

   But there are no reasons why you

   should buy it.

   There is no better, saner, or soberer

   Critic of Life; but what of it?

   We print all the latest Canine and

   Feline news; but never mind.

   If you won't, as seems probable, down

   your glass, down your _Spectator_.

       * * *

   HELP TO WIN THE WAR

   BY NOT BUYING

   _THE DAILY CHRONICLE_.

       * * *

   Whatever Sixpenny weekly you buy

   don't let it be

   _THE NATION_.

   Owing to its persecution by the present

   incapable Government _The Nation_ is

   achieving an embarrassing popularity.

   Please forget it.

   Let your only

   NATION

   Be your determi-

   Nation

   NOT TO BUY IT.

       * * *

   THE PROPRIETORS OF

   _THE STAR_

   urge you not to buy it any more until

   the War is over and paper is cheap again.

   Buy _The Evening News_ instead.

       * * *

   DON'T BUY

   _THE SPHERE_.

   IT IS ONLY SEVENPENCE A WEEK,

   BUT DON'T BUY IT.

   It is full of Pictures of the War, but

   you can do without them. It has

   punctual literary judgments of astounding

   finality by "C.K.S.," but they

   can wait.

   Do anything in reason, but don't buy

   _The Sphere_.

The depreciation, you observe, is not always quite whole-heartedly

done. But it must be remembered that the habit of self-praise cannot

be broken down in a minute, and this is only a beginning.

       *       *       *       *       *

PAN PIPES.

In the green spaces of the listening trees

           Pan sits at ease,

   Watching with lazy eyes

   Little blue butterflies

That flicker sidelong in the fitful breeze;

   While on his pipe he plays

   Quaint trills, and roundelays

   With dropping cadences;

And shy red squirrels rub against his knees.

And, thro' the city's tumult and the beat

           Of hurrying feet,

   Those whom the god loves hear

   Pan's pipe, insistent, clear;

Echoes of elfin laughter, high and sweet;

   Catch in the sparrows' cries

   Those tinkling melodies

   That sing where brooklets meet,

And the wood's glamour colours the grey street.

=A LOCAL FOOD-CONTROLLER.=

"No partner for you this evening, Sir," said the Inspector. "Mr.

Tibbits has just telephoned through that he has rheumatism badly

again."

I know Tibbits' rheumatism. I also know he plays off his heat in the

club billiard handicap to-night. I can imagine him writhing round

the table. Still I remember the first rule of the force--under no

circumstances give another policeman away.

"You'll have to take Dartmouth Street by yourself, Sir," continues the

Inspector.

"What's it like?"

"Bit of a street market. All right--just tact and keep them moving."

I reach Dartmouth Street. It is a thronged smelly thoroughfare. I pass

along modestly, hoping that every one will ignore me.

But a gentleman who is selling fish detects me and calls "'Ere, Boss,

move this ole geezer on."

"What's the trouble?" I inquire.

The old geezer turns rapidly on me. "'Ere 'e's gone and sold me two

'errings for tuppence 'alfpenny which was that salt my 'usband went

near mad, what with the pubs bein' shut all afternoon, an' now 'e's

popped the fender jus' to get rid of 'is thirst."

"I told you to soak 'em in three waters," says the fishmonger.

"'Ow much beer is my 'usband to soak 'imself in--tell me that?"

It is time for tact. I whisper in the lady's ear, "Come along--don't

argue with a man like that. He's beneath you."

She comes away. I am triumphant. But she turns round and cries, "This

gentleman as _is_ a gentleman says I ain't to lower meself by talkin'

to a 'ound like you."

I move on. I doubt if the fishmonger will be pleased by the lady's

representation of my few words, and I make a mental note to keep away

from his stall. All at once another lady, who for some obscure reason

is carrying a bucket, grips me by the arm.

"I'm goin' to 'ave the law on my side, I am," she declares

emphatically, "an' then I'll smash 'is bloomin' fice in."

I am swayed towards a fruit-stall.

"Look at them," says the irate lady, holding out three potatoes.

"Rotten--at thrippence a pound. My 'usband 'e'd 'ave set abaht me if

I'd give 'im them for 'is dinner."

The fruiterer takes a lofty moral standard. "I sold yer them fer seed

pertaters, I did. If yer 'usband eats them 'e's worse than a Un."

"Seed pertaters, was they? Where was I to grow 'em? In a mug on the

mantelpiece?"

"'Ow was I ter know yer 'adn't a 'lotment?"

"You'll need no 'lotment. It's a cemet'ry you'll want when my 'usband

knows you've called 'im a Un."

"Now, now," I interpose tactfully. "Perhaps you can exchange them,

then you'll have the lady for a regular customer."

"I don't want the blighter fer a reglar customer," says the fruiterer.

Three potatoes whirl past me at the fruiterer. The lady with the

bucket departs rapidly.

"Lemme get at 'er," cries the irate fruiterer.

"You wouldn't hit a woman," I protest.

"Wouldn't I?" says the infuriated fruiterer.

I interpose--verbally. "You'll get everything