Chapter IX

DEAR Charles,--As the men, for reasons best known to themselves, will suddenly chant on the march--"We're here because we're here, because we're here, because we're here," goodness knows when (if ever) we shall get to the Front; so this is yet another letter for you from the Back, where we are, much against our will, kept to deal kindly but firmly with the German invader as, home-sick and sea-sick, he alights gloomily on our shores. If, by the way, I have given hints in this correspondence as to the disposition of any part of our troops, it is a comfort to think that the artful spy who gets hold of them will have the utmost difficulty in making up his mind as to the real or fictitious existence of (1) my Division; (2) my Brigade; (3) my Battalion; (4) my Company; or even (5) me.

Meanwhile we are in a very difficult position, such as I believe few soldiers have ever been called upon to face. You will remember how, four months ago, we collected ourselves together in accordance with our long-standing engagement to protect these islands against the foreign trespasser, the condition of our contract being that our service should begin (as charity should) and end (as charity often does) at home. In the bad old days when I was at the Bar I should of course have known that contracts are apt to turn round on those who make them; but now I am only a plain soldier and I am unable to understand why I should be made to stay at home when I desire to go and make a nuisance of myself abroad. But the real trouble comes from this, that some six weeks ago I received written and explicit orders to the effect that I was to sail forthwith.

Suppose this had happened to you and you had been given special leave of forty-eight hours to make all necessary preparations, would not you have gone where your more impressionable acquaintances and friends were gathered together in the greatest numbers, informing them of the position and doing, on the strength of it, a quiet but irretrievable swank? No ostentation, mark you, and nothing approaching a boast, but just a suspicion of a brave careless laugh, a voice just slightly choked with emotion and but a formal reluctance to accept the numerous and costly gifts proffered by relatives who at less emotional times would have grudged you a Christmas card?

We did. We went home and were made a fuss of; we took our leave and nice things were said to us, tears welled, and hands, peculiarly firm or peculiarly tender as the case might be, held ours for rather longer than the customary period. With a brave "Pooh! Pooh! It doesn't matter in the least," we went off at last, off amid deafening cheers to the unknown future....

The following week-end we were home again as before, but, since the joy of a temporary reprieve may outweigh even the annoyance of an anticlimax, they were pleased to see us and gave us another farewell only slightly less emotional than the last. But on the third of this series of week-ends a note of insincerity crept into the "Goodbye, old man," and the hand-pressure was slightly curtailed.

Alas! there have been even more week-ends since that. I trust it is only our self-consciousness makes us think that we are looked upon as frauds, who have obtained by false pretences the field-glasses, electric torches, knitted wares, tears, hand-clasps and choicest superlatives of our friends. It becomes worse as time passes; we do not go home now, and we would even refrain from writing if we could hope by that means to have our whereabouts unknown and our existence doubtful. If the authorities won't part with us, they might at least give us an address which would make it look as if they had--something like "Capt. Blank, Blankth Blank Regt., Blankth Fighting Force, c/o G.P.O." What will happen is that we shall go suddenly and without time to explain, and, when our friends are told, their faces will cloud over, not with sorrow at our departure but with annoyance at being pestered with the news of it again. It is a hard life, is a soldier's!

One bold bad private informed our most youthful orderly officer, upon being asked if he had had a sufficient breakfast: "Yes, thank you, Sir: a glass of water and a woodbine;" otherwise personal idiosyncracies become less marked, since individualities become merged in the corporate machine. The battalion is cross as a whole, nervy as a whole, laughs as a whole, almost sneezes or has indigestion as a whole. Recalling the good old days of annual camps, when energy used to be rewarded with free beer rather than demanded as a matter of course, the battalion as often as not sings as a whole while route-marching at ease past the C.O.:--

"Nobody knows how dry we are,
Nobody knows how dry we are,
Nobody knows how dry we are,
AND NOBODY SEEMS TO CARE."

While the conduct of all of us becomes every day more disciplined, our speech, I have to report with regret, becomes more loose. Emphasis is an essential of military life, and it must be such emphasis as the least intelligent may readily appreciate. Sometimes I tremble to think in what terms I may inadvertently ask some gentle soul later on in life to pass the marmalade, or with what expletives I may comment upon some little defect in domestic life. My literary friend, John, has shamelessly compiled a short phrase-book for our use abroad, reproducing our present regrettable idioms. One inquiry, to be addressed to the local peasant by the leading officer, runs thus:--"Can you tell me, Sir, where the enemy is at present to be found?"--"_Où sont les Boches sanguinaires?_"

The other point of view as to going to the Front was put last Sunday with unconscious aptness. At breakfast we had read aloud to us a letter written with inspiring realism by a Watch Dog who is actually there and seeing life in all its detail in the trenches. Having listened to it with rapt attention, we then marched to church and (actually) sang with unanimous fervour:-

"The trivial round, the common task
Will furnish all we need to ask...."

Nevertheless more to be feared than the enraged German is the sceptical scornful Aunt of

Yours ever,

HENRY.

* * * * *

Illustration: AT A MILITARY WEDDING.

_Usher_ (_to Uninvited Guest_). "BRIDE'S FRIENDS TO THE RIGHT; BRIDEGROOM'S TO THE LEFT."

_Uninvited Guest._ "I'M AFRAID I'M A NEUTRAL."

* * * * *

"Washington, Saturday.--The American Ambassador at Constantinople
reports that Turkey has acquiesced in the departure of several
Canadian missionaries, whose safe conduct was requested by Sir Cecil
Spring-Rice, the British Ambassador here."--_People._

This is headed "Millionaires Released," and shows how well the clergy are paid in Canada.

* * * * *

LITTLE BROTHER.

(_The Indian Jackal._)

Panther, tiger, wolf and bear,
They live where the hills are high,
Where the eagle swings in the upper air
And the gay dacoit is nigh;
But we live down in the delta lands,
A decenter place to be--
The frogs and the bats and Little Brother,
The pariah dogs and me.

He was a Rajah once on a time
Who is Little Brother now;
And I know it is all for monstrous crime
Or shamefully broken vow
That he slinks in the dust and eats alone
With a pious tongue and free;
For a holy man is Little Brother,
As beggars ought to be.

But whether he lurks in the morning light
Where the tall plantations grow,
Or wanders the village fields by nights
Telling of ancient woe;
Or whether he's making a sporting run
For me and a dog or two,
An uncanny beast is Little Brother
For Christian eyes to view.

For there comes an hour at the full o' the moon
When the Boh-tree blossoms fall,
And a devil comes out of the afternoon
And has him a night in thrall;
And he hunts till dawn like a questing hound
For souls that have lost their way;
And it's well to be clear of Little Brother
Till the good gods bring the day.

Wherefore I think I will end my song
Wishing him fair good night,
For Little Brother's got something wrong
That'll never on earth come right;
And this perhaps is the honest truth,
And the wisest folk agree,
The less I know about Little Brother
The better by far for me.

* * * * *

HOME THOUGHTS FROM THE TRENCHES.

Old mother mine, at times I find
Pauses when fighting's done
That make me lonesome and inclined
To think of those I left behind--
And most of all of one.

At home you're knitting woolly things--
They're meant for me for choice;
There's rain outside, the kettle sings
In sobs and frolics till it brings
Whispers that seem a voice.

Cheer up! I'm calling, far away;
And, wireless, you can hear.
Cheer up! you know you'd have me stay
And keep on trying day by day;
We're winning, never fear.

Although to have me back's your prayer--
I'm willing it should be--
You'd never breathe a word to spare
Yourself, and stop me playing fair;
You're braver far than me.

So let your dear face twist a smile
The way it used to do;
And keep on cheery all the while,
Rememb'ring hating's not your style--
Germans have mothers too.

And when the work is through, and when
I'm coming home to find
The one who sent me out, ah! then
I'll make you (bless you) laugh again,
Old sweetheart left behind.

* * * * *

HIGH JINKS AT HAPPY-THOUGHT HALL.

[_An inevitable article in any decent magazine at this time of the
year. Read it carefully, and then have an uproarious time in your
own little house._]

IT was a merry party assembled at Happy-Thought Hall for Christmas. The Squire liked company, and the friends whom he had asked down for the festive season had all stayed at Happy-Thought Hall before, and were therefore well acquainted with each other. No wonder, then, that the wit flowed fast and furious, and that the guests all agreed afterwards that they had never spent such a jolly Christmas, and that the best of all possible hosts was Squire Tregarthen!

But first we must introduce some of the Squire's guests to our readers. The Reverend Arthur Manley, a clever young clergyman with a taste for gardening, was talking in one corner to Miss Phipps, a pretty girl of some twenty summers. Captain Bolsover, a smart cavalry officer, together with Professor and Mrs. Smith-Smythe from Oxford, formed a small party in another corner. Handsome Jack Ellison was, as usual, in deep conversation with the beautiful Miss Holden, who, it was agreed among the ladies of the party, was not altogether indifferent to his fine figure and remarkable prospects. There were other guests, but as they chiefly played the part of audience in the events which followed their names will not be of any special interest to our readers. Suffice it to say that they were all intelligent, well-dressed and ready for any sort of fun.

(Now, thank heaven, we can begin.)

A burst of laughter from Captain Bolsover attracted general attention, and everybody turned in his direction.

"By Jove, Professor, that's good," he said, as he slapped his knee; "you must tell the others that."

"It was just a little incident that happened to me to-day as I was coming down here," said the Professor, as he beamed round on the company. "I happened to be rather late for my train, and as I bought my ticket I asked the clerk what time it was. He replied, 'If it takes six seconds for a clock to strike six, how long will it take to strike twelve?' I said twelve seconds, but it seems I was wrong."

The others all said twelve seconds too, but they were all wrong. Can _you_ guess the right answer?

Illustration: FIG. 1.--TO ILLUSTRATE THE PROFESSOR'S DELIGHTFUL STORY OF THE BOOKING-CLERK'S ANSWER.

When the laughter had died down, the Reverend Arthur Manley said:

"That reminds me of an amusing experience which occurred to my housekeeper last Friday. She was ordering a little fish for my lunch, and the fishmonger, when asked the price of herrings, replied, 'Three ha'pence for one and a-half,' to which my housekeeper said, 'Then I will have twelve.' How much did she pay?" He smiled happily at the company.

"One-and-sixpence, of course," said Miss Phipps.

"No, no; ninepence," cried the Squire with a hearty laugh.

Captain Bolsover made it come to £1 3_s._ 2-1/2_d._, and the Professor thought fourpence. But once again they were all wrong. What do _you_ make it come to?

Illustration: FIG. 2.--TO ILLUSTRATE THE CURATE'S INGENIOUS PROBLEM OF THE FISHMONGER.

It was now Captain Bolsover's turn for an amusing puzzle, and the others turned eagerly towards him.

"What was that one about a door?" said the Squire. "You were telling me when we were out shooting yesterday, Bolsover."

Captain Bolsover looked surprised.

"Ah, no, it was young Reggie Worlock," said the Squire with a hearty laugh.

"Oh, do tell us, Squire," said everybody.

"It was just a little riddle, my dear," said the Squire to Miss Phipps, always a favourite of his. "When is a door not a door?"

Miss Phipps said when it was a cucumber; but she was wrong. So were the others. See if _you_ can be more successful.

"Yes, that's very good," said Captain Bolsover; "it reminds me of something which occurred during the Boer War."

Everybody listened eagerly.

"We were just going into action, and I happened to turn round to my men, and say, 'Now, then, boys, give 'em beans!' To my amusement one of them replied smartly, 'How many blue beans make five?' We were all so interested working it out that we never got into action at all."

"But that's easy," said the Professor. "Five."

"Four," said Miss Phipps. (She would. Silly kid.)

"Six," said the Squire.

Which was right?

Illustration: FIG. 3.--TO ILLUSTRATE THE CAPTAIN'S THRILLING STORY OF THE BOER WAR.

Jack Ellison had been silent during the laughter and jollity, always such a feature of Happy-Thought Hall at Christmas time, but now he contributed an ingenious puzzle to the amusement of the company.

"I met a man in a motor-'bus," he said in a quiet voice, "who told me that he had four sons. The eldest son, Abraham, had a dog who used to go and visit the three brothers occasionally. The dog, my informant told me, was very unwilling to go over the same ground twice, and yet being in a hurry wished to take the shortest journey possible. How did he manage it?"

For a little while the company was puzzled. Then, after deep thought, the Professor said:

"It depends on where they lived."

"Yes," said Ellison. "I forgot to say that my acquaintance drew me a map." He produced a paper from his pocket. "Here it is."

Illustration: FIG. 4.--TO ILLUSTRATE THE JOURNEY OF THE SAGACIOUS HOUND.

The others immediately began to puzzle over the answer, Miss Phipps being unusually foolish, even for her. It was some time before they discovered the correct route. What do _you_ think it is?

"Well," said the Squire, with a hearty laugh, "it's time for bed."

One by one they filed off, saying what a delightful evening they had had. Jack Ellison was particularly emphatic, for the beautiful Miss Holden had promised to be his wife. He, for one, will never forget Christmas at Happy-Thought Hall.

[NOTE.--The originals of the drawings are on sale from the Author at
five guineas apiece.]

A. A. M.

* * * * *

Illustration: _Little Tomkins_ (_to Herculean Coalheaver_). "WHY DON'T YOU COME UP THE GREEN A COUPLE O' NIGHTS A WEEK AN' DO A BIT O' SHOOTIN' AN' DRILLIN'? YOU'D GET AS FIT AS A FIDDLE."

* * * * *

STABLE INFORMATION.

Last winter I wasn't familiar with Brown,
Our intercourse didn't extend
Past a grunt if we met on the journey to town
And a nod when I chose to unbend;
But times are _mutata_, and now I've begun
To cultivate Brown more and more,
For Brown has a son who is friends with the son
Of a man at the Office of War.

When a fog is concealing how matters progress
And editors wearily use
(Upholding the goodly repute of the Press)
A headline from yesterday's news,
Brown's knowledge enables his friends to decide
What the future is holding in store,
For we gather that KITCHENER _loves_ to confide
In that man at the Office of War.

And I in my turn spread the tidings about;
To the heart that is apt to be glum
And the spirit that suffers severely from doubt
Like a sunbeam in winter I come;
"The Teuton," I whisper, "will suffer eclipse
In the course of a fortnight--no more;
I have had it--well, almost direct from the lips
Of the Chief of the Office of War."

* * * * *

Illustration: UNRECORDED EVENTS IN THE HISTORY OF THE WAR.

GERMAN SOLDIERS BEING ROUSED TO ENTHUSIASM BY THE "HYMN OF HATE."

* * * * *

MAILS FOR A MAILED FIST.

[The rumours of an invasion of this country, which have been
prevalent during the last few days, are presumably responsible for
these letters addressed to the Kaiser, which have been intercepted.]

_Northsea Cove, Suffolk._

* * *

Kind Sir,--Should your troops land in this neighbourhood, would you please ask them not to fire off guns between 3 and 4 P.M., as during that hour I have my afternoon rest, and I do not sleep very well.

Yours truly, WILHELMINA TIMMINS.

* * *

Sir,--Hearing that you are thinking of sending over an army, we have formed a small Reception Committee to provide for its comfort, and knowing how concerned you are for the welfare of your troops we think you will be glad to learn that complete arrangements have been made for conveying them to, and accommodating them at, a salubrious spot called Tipperary, immediately on their arrival.

(Signed) J. PUSHER, _Secretary_, Eastern and Home Counties Resorts Association.

* * *

Professor Burgess-Brown, the well-known swimming expert, presents his compliments. He would be pleased to call at Kiel Harbour (or other appointed place) in order to teach the art of natation to German soldiers who may, after arrival in England, suddenly find themselves deprived of their troopships when wishing to return.

* * *

Dear Sir,--We hear that a number of your friends are coming to England, and shall accordingly welcome an enquiry for our advice, which is always at the disposal of the travelling public. We do not know whether you propose personally to come over, but we should certainly recommend this course, as by travelling _viâ_ an English port you could get a boat _direct_ to St. Helena and thus save the wearisome changing to which you might be exposed in sailing from the Continent.

Yours obediently, THE WORLD'S TOURS, LIMITED.

* * *

_Headquarters, Poppy Patrol Boy Scouts, Cliffe, Norfolk._

Dear Sir,--I don't think there is much use in your troops landing. In this county alone there are two hundred and ninety-five more scouts than there were in August, and they are still coming in. Of course come if you like, but don't say I didn't warn you.

Yours, T. SMITH, Patrol Leader.

* * *

_Imperial Studios, Yarmouth._

Sir,--Hearing that your troops are thinking of visiting the above town, we should be glad to take you, in small or large groups. We understand that your excursion will be only a half-day one, but we have facilities for the immediate development of negatives.

Yours obediently, GEORGE GELATINE JONES.

* * *

WARNING! TO THE KAISER.

_From the Huntsman of the Bungay Foxhounds._

Send your men over if you like. Let them turn their guns on all our ancient buildings, destroy crops, blow up bridges; but MIND, if one of your Huns raises a rifle to any Norfolk or Suffolk fox, there will be trouble of a serious kind.

* * * * *

Illustration: KILLED!

[With _Mr. Punch's_ compliments to General BOTHA.]

* * * * *

Illustration: _Old Lady_ (_to District Visitor_). "DID YOU HEAR A STRANGE NOISE THIS MORNING, MISS, AT ABOUT FOUR O'CLOCK? I THOUGHT IT WAS ONE OF THEM AIREOPLANES; AND MY NEIGHBOUR WAS SO SURE IT WAS ONE HE WENT DOWN AND LET HIS DOG LOOSE."

* * * * *

MINOR WAR GAINS.

The year that is stormily ending
Has brought us full measure of grief,
And yet we must thank it for sending
At times unexpected relief;
These boons are not felt in the trenches
Or make our home burdens less hard;
They're not a bonanza, but merit a stanza
Or two from the doggerel bard.

The names of musicians and mummers
No longer are loud on our lips;
By the side of our buglers and drummers
CARUSO endures an eclipse;
And the legions of freaks and of faddists
Who hailed him with rapturous awe,
O wonder of wonders, are finding out blunders,
And worse, in the writings of SHAW!

Good BEGBIE, no longer upraising
His plea for the "uplift" of Hodge,
Has ceased for a season from praising
LLOYD GEORGE and Sir OLIVER LODGE;
And there hasn't been much in the papers
About the next novel from CAINE
(No doubt he's in Flanders, the guest of commanders
Who reverence infinite brain).

JOHN WARD has forgiven the Curragh
(The Curragh's forgotten JOHN WARD);
No longer he cries "Wurra Wurra!"
At sight of an officer's sword;
MACDONALD, the terror of tigers,
Sits silent and meek as a mouse,
And the great VON KEIRHARDI is curiously tardy
In "voicing" his spleen in the House.

The screeds of professors and jurists
Have quite disappeared from the Press;
'Tis little we hear of Futurists,
And frankly we care even less;
Why, TREVELYAN, the martyr to candour,
Who lately his office resigned,
Though waters were heaving has sunk without leaving
The tiniest ripple behind.

In fine, though there fall to our fighters
Too many hard buffets and humps,
'Tis a comfort to think that our blighters
Are down in the deadliest dumps;
And whatever the future may bring us
In profits or pleasures or pains
The ill wind that's blowing to-day is bestowing
A number of negative gains.

* * * * *

THE IDEAL CHRISTMAS CARD.

"Are we sending Christmas cards this year? Yes," said Blathers, "but not next year, or the year after that, as we shall be retrenching. They are quite modest trifles, yet at the mere sight of the envelope each recipient will, cheerfully, I hope, pay twopence towards the sinews of war. One hundred of these contributions will amount, I am told, to sixteen shillings and eightpence; not much, but it is my little offering to the country in her hour of need. This is the card I propose to send out in a sealed and unstamped cover":--

MR. AND MRS. BLATHERS WISH YOU A HAPPY CHRISTMAS 1914, 1915 AND
1916, AND A BRIGHT NEW YEAR 1915, 1916 AND 1917.

_The Ferns, Tooting._

* * * * *

"The Russian mining engineers who have been sent to Galicia since
the occupation report that the oil districts will suffice to supply
the whole of South-Western Russia. The working of the fields will
start in the spring; moreover salt and iron abound, also
sporadicalli, silver, copper, lead and the rarer metals."

_Cork Examiner._

For vermicelli, however, it will still be necessary to go to Italy.

* * * * *

OUR NATIONAL GUESTS.