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

   that their little ones were not lost in the cavities and chasms of

   Knocknatubber Mountain, though straying thereon for upwards of 25

   years."--_Nenagh Guardian_.

The young "Rips"!

="IN PRIZE."=

A ship was built in Glasgow, and oh, she looked a daisy

   (Just the way that some ships do!)

An' the only thing against 'er was she allus steered so crazy

   (An' it's true, my Johnny Bowline, true!)

They sent 'er out in ballast to Oregon for lumber,

An' before she dropped 'er pilot she all but lost 'er number.

They sold 'er into Norway because she steered so funny,

An' she nearly went to glory before they drawed the money.

They sold 'er out o' Norway--they sold 'er into Chile,

An' Chile got a bargain because she steered so silly.

They chartered 'er to Germans with a bunch o' greasers forrard;

Old shellbacks wouldn't touch 'er because she steered so 'orrid.

She set a course for Bremen with contraband inside 'er,

An' she might 'ave got there some time if a cruiser 'adn't spied 'er.

She nearly drowned the boarders because she cut such capers,

But they found she was a German through inspectin' of 'er papers.

So they put a crew aboard 'er, which was both right an' lawful,

An' the prize crew 'ad a picnic, because she steered so awful.

But they brought 'er into Kirkwall, an' then they said, "Lord lumme,

If I ever see an 'ooker as steered so kind o' rummy!"

But she'll fetch 'er price at auction, for oh, she looks a daisy

   (Just the way that some ships do!)

An' the chap as tops the biddin' won't know she steers so crazy

   (But it's true, my Johnny Bowline, true!)

C.F.S.

=TO MR. BALFOUR ON HIS RETURN.=

Our hearts go out with all our ships that plough the deadly sea,

But the ship that brought us safely back the only ARTHUR B.

Was freighted with good wishes in a very high degree.

There are heaps of politicians who can hustle and can shriek,

And some, though very strong in lung, in brains are very weak,

But A.J.B.'s equipment is admittedly unique.

His manners are delightful, and the workings of his mind

Have never shown the slightest trace of self-esteem behind;

Nor has he had at any time a private axe to grind.

For forty years and upwards he has graced the public scene

Without becoming sterilized or stiffened by routine;

He still retains his freshness and his brain is just as keen.

His credit was not shipwrecked on the fatal Irish reef;

He has always been a loyal and a sympathetic chief;

And he has also written _The Foundations of Belief_.

As leader of the Mission to our cousins and Allies,

We learn with satisfaction, but without the least surprise,

That he proved the very cynosure of Transatlantic eyes.

For the special brand of statesman _plus_ aristocratic sage,

Like the model king-philosopher described in PLATO'S page,

Is uncommonly attractive in a democratic age.

"BALFOUR Must Go!" was once the cry of those who deemed him slack,

But now there's not a single scribe of that unruly pack

Who is not glad in every sense that BALFOUR has come back.

And as for his "successor"--the Napoleonic peer

Whose functions are restricted to a purely business sphere--

We must try to bear his absence in a spirit of good cheer.

       *       *       *       *       *

=THE INFANTICIDE.=

From an economic point of view it was inexcusable. I can only hope

that the affair will never reach the ear of the new FOOD-CONTROLLER.

The chief culprit was undoubtedly Joan minor--I only became an

accomplice after the fact--and I can scarcely believe that even a

Food-Controller could be very angry with Joan minor. For one thing she

really is so very minor. And then there's her manner; in face of it

severity, as I have found, is out of the question. Even Joan major,

who has been known to rout our charlady in single combat, finds it

irresistible. Indeed when I taxed her with having a hand in the crime

she secured an acquittal on the plea of duress.

Ever since Joan minor arrived at years of understanding the weeks

preceding the great day have been fraught with a mystery in which I

have no share. Earnest conversations which break off guiltily the

moment I enter the room; strained whisperings and now and again little

uncontrollable giggles of ecstatic anticipation from Joan minor--these

are the signs that I have learned to look for, and, being well versed

in my part, to ignore with a sublime unconsciousness which should make

my fortune in a melodrama of stage asides. And then, on the morning of

my birthday, the solemn ceremonial of revelation, I would come in to

breakfast, to find a parcel lying by my plate. At first I would not

see it. In a tense and unnatural silence Joan minor would follow me

with her eyes while I opened the window a few inches, closed it again,

stroked the cat and generally behaved as though sitting down at table

was the last thing I intended. Then, when I did take my place, "The

post is early to-day," I would say, pushing the parcel carelessly on

one side as I took up the paper, while Joan minor hid her face in Joan

major's blouse lest her feelings should betray her into premature

speech. And at last I would open it, and my amazement and delight

would know no bounds. There was very little acting needed for that. It

is no small thing to be spirited back to the age when birthdays really

matter.

And so this year it was with a feeling of having been cheated that I

left the house for the office, where, in company with other old fogies

and girl clerks, I do my unambitious bit towards downing the Hun. The

premonitory symptoms had seemed to me unusually acute, but the morning

had brought no parcel. My years weighed on my shoulders again, and I

am afraid I was more than a little tart with my typist.

I was kept late for dinner, and when I entered the room I found Joan

minor sitting in her place, her eyes bright with expectation. Beside

my place was a covered muffin dish. There was no dallying with the

pleasure this time, for I had suddenly become young again, and could

not have waited had I tried. I lifted the cover, and there, about the

size of a well-nourished pea, lay the first-fruit of Joan minor's

peculiar and personal allotment, prepared, planted and dug by Joan

minor's own hands, a veritable and unmistakable potato.

Our Official Pessimists.

From an Admiralty notice:--

   "It is to be particularly noted that entries are only being made

   for 12 years' service, and not for duration of war."--_Evening

   Paper_.

       *       *       *       *       *

   "Summoned at Barry for having driven a horse whilst drunk, Antonio

   Millonas was stated to have narrowly missed a policeman and two

   children."--_Western Mail_.

We are all in favour of prohibition for horses.

       *       *       *       *       *

=IN A GOOD CAUSE.=

The Newport Market Army Training School, Greencoat Place, Westminster,

which has for over fifty years been training homeless and destitute

boys to become soldiers of the KING, and has sent over two thousand

into the Army, is in great need of funds. Mr. Punch cordially supports

the appeal of the President of the School, H.R.H. the Duke of

CONNAUGHT, who "sincerely hopes the public will generously support

an Institution that has for so many years quietly and unobtrusively

furnished a Christian home and education to poor and outcast lads, and

has supplied the Army with so many good and gallant soldiers."

Donations and inquiries should be addressed to the Secretary, the Rev.

H.A. WILSON, 20, Great Peter Street, Westminster, S.W.1.

       *       *       *       *       *

A Credit to the Commonwealth.

   "COCKATOO, Australian, splendid talker, does not

 swear."--_Newcastle Evening Chronicle_.

       *       *       *       *       *

=THE HAT AND THE VISIT.=

"Francesca," I said, "does my hat really look all right?"

When I put this momentous question we were in a train, being bound on

a visit to Frederick at his preparatory school. A sudden doubt had

just assailed me as to my presentability. Should I, as a father, be

looked upon as a credit or a disgrace to my son? Francesca took some

time before she answered my question. Then she spoke.

"Your hat," she said, "is well enough."

"I see what it is," I said; "you think I ought to have worn a top-hat.

There are still occasions when a top-hat may, nay, must be worn; and

this, you think, is one of them. There are solemnities and venerations

that only a top-hat can inspire in the naturally irreverent mind of

youth. A father in any other hat is a ridiculously youthful object and

has no business to inflict himself on his son. Very well. I would not

for worlds spoil Frederick's half-holiday by shaming him in the eyes

of his schoolfellows."

"What do you propose to do about it, then? You can't alter your hat

now."

"No," I said, "I can't; but I can get out of the train at the next

station and go home and leave you in your comparative spickness and

your relative spanness to spend your afternoon with the boy. Or, stay,

there must be a shop in Belfield where top-hats can be bought. It is a

cathedral city and possesses dignitaries of the Church who still wear

top-hats, and----"

"But those are special top-hats. You couldn't go to Frederick in a

bishop's hat, now could you?"

"No-o-o," I said doubtfully, "perhaps I couldn't. But suppose I wore

the gaiters too--wouldn't that make it all right?"

"I should like," she said, "to see Frederick's face on perceiving the

new bishop."

"Francesca," I said, "you talk as if no boys ever had bishops for

their fathers. Let me assure you, on the contrary, that there are many

bishops who have large families of both sexes. I once stayed with a

bishop, and I never heard anybody attempt to make a mockery of his

gaiters."

"But they were his own. He couldn't be a bishop without them."

"That fact doesn't render them immune from laughter. My present hat,

for instance, is my own, and yet you have been laughing at it ever

since I called your attention to it."

"Not at all; I have been admiring it. I said it was well enough, and

so it is. What more can you want?"

"I only hope," I said, "that Frederick will think so too. It would be

too painful to dash the cup of half-holiday joy from a boy's lips by

wearing an inappropriate hat."

"You're too nervous altogether about the impression you're going to

make on Frederick. Take example by me. I've got a hat on."

"You have," I said fervently. "It has grazed my face more than once."

"It is feeding," she said, "on your damask cheek. But I'm quite calm

in spite of it."

"But then," I said, "you never knew Rowell."

"No. Who was he?"

"Rowell," I said, "was a schoolfellow of mine, and he had a father."

"Marvellous! And a mother too, I suppose."

"Yes," I said, "but she doesn't come into the story. Rowell's father

had a passion, it appears, for riding, and one dreadful afternoon,

when we were playing cricket, he rode into the cricket-field. _He was

wearing trousers, and his trousers had rucked up to his knees._ It was

a terrific sight, and, though we all pretended not to see and were

very sorry for young Rowell, he felt the blow most keenly. I hope my

hat won't be like Rowell's father's trousers."

"It isn't a bit like them yet," said Francesca.

R.C.L.

"Fireman wanted; consuming under 50 tons; wages 30s."

Under the present system of rationing, this demand for moderation does

not seem excessive.

      =OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.=

(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks_.)

It is my deliberate verdict that Mr. E.F. BENSON is (as my old nurse

used to express it) "in league with Somebody he oughtn't." I hope,

however, that he will understand this for the extorted compliment that

it is, and not magic me into something unpleasant, or (more probably)

write another book to prove to my own dissatisfaction that I am

everything I least wish to be. That indeed is the gravamen of my

charge: the diabolic ingenuity with which he makes not so much our

pleasant vices as our little almost-virtues into whips to scourge us

with. All this has been wrung from me by the perusal of _Mr. Teddy_

(FISHER UNWIN). Even now I can't make up my mind whether I like it or

not. The first half, which might be called a satire on the folly of

being forty and not realising it, depressed me profoundly. I need not

perhaps enlarge upon the reason. Later, Mr. BENSON made a very clever

return upon the theme; and, with a touch of real beauty, brought

solace to poor _Mr.