Chapter II

DEAR SIR,--It is very fortunate that I caught sight of your advertisement, for I am just the man you need. You want to know all about bottles and things. I can tell you.

Let us begin with pottery.

Pottery is made in the Five Towns, a district in the Midlands to which references may be found by the industrious, using a microscope, in the works of Mr. ARNOLD BENNETT, the famous Caledonian Market salesman. How it is made I have not room here to indicate, but its effect on those who make it is to fill their lives with romance and excitement. Thus, if they don't become Town Councillors for Hanbridge they join the School Board at Hanley; and if they are not taking the new tram to Burslem they are catching the fast train to Manchester at Knype.

And now for glass.

Glass is an invisible substance made in some mysterious way. It is used for a multiplicity of things, but principally for windows and bottles. It is when used for windows that its special quality of transparency comes in so happily, for it enables you to see through. This, when it is the window of a hat shop and you are out with your wife or fiancee, is not an unmixed blessing, but at other times it can be very convenient. Thus, when looking through the window, oneself being carefully concealed behind the blind, one can see undesirable callers approaching and beat a safe retreat. Windows can also be shut, both in houses and railway carriages, and thus keep the place warm and pleasantly insanitary and comfortable. It has been said that the pure air of many German towns is due to the fact that the Germans keep their windows shut.

Glass is also used for the chimneys of lamps, which, when the wick is turned up too high, as it usually is, break. It is employed furthermore in the manufacture of glass eyes, which, as all who have visited _A Kiss for Cinderella_ know, do not always match the real ones.

But the best thing that glass does is to become bottles. Bottles are of two kinds: one kind for medicine, and the less said about those the better; and the other for wine. It was a happy thought which substituted glass for the skin and leather of which earlier bottles were made, for one can now see, by holding it to the light, how little the bottle contains, and order another. The principal fault of bottles is that they are rarely big enough. A half-bottle does not contain sufficient for one, and a whole bottle rarely satisfies two. Some men are so lost to shame as to set only one bottle of wine before three or even four persons.

Before the War old bottles were used chiefly as targets in rifle saloons. Now that they have become scarce, and targets are made in Germany, they are worth money and should be carefully saved.

Glass is useful also for making glasses--the receptacles from which wine is drunk. Without glasses we should be hard put to it to consume our liquor and should have to resort to half-cocoanuts, cups, the hollow of the hand, or even sponges.

Just at the moment bottles--I mean the more genial variety--are under a cloud. It is a penal offence to sell a bottle before noon, between half-past two and half-past six, and after half-past nine at night. But they are expected to come to their own again when Peace is celebrated.

I think that is all.

Yours, etc.,
FIRST AID.

* * * * *

_Auntie._ "I DO WISH TED WOULD BE CONTENT WITH BEING A SOLDIER, AND NOT GO IN FOR THESE FORMS OF NOTORIETY."]

* * * * *

NURSERY RHYMES OF LONDON TOWN.

XIX.--HAYMARKET.

I went up to the Hay-market upon a summer day,
I went up to the Hay-market to sell a load of hay--
To sell a load of hay and a little bit over,
And I sold it all to a pretty girl for a nosegay of red clover.

A nosegay of red clover and a hollow golden straw;
Now wasn't that a bargain, the best you ever saw?
I whistled on my straw in the market-place all day,
And the London folk came flocking for to foot it in the hay.

XX.--THE ANGEL.

The Angel flew down
One morning to town,
But didn't know where to rest;
For they shut her out of the East End
And they shut her out of the West.

The Angel went on
To Islington,
And there the people were kinder.
If ever you go to Islington
That's where you will find her.

* * * * *

Those who _do_ hold the victory--BEATTY _possidentes_.

* * * * *

Commercial Candour.

"---- & SON, WINDOW-CLEANERS. We spare no panes."

* * * * *

Our Optimists.

"As a result of Wednesday's battle the strength of the British
Fleet is now greater, not relatively, but absolutely, than it
was."

_Daily Telegraph._

* * * * *

Ships in WOLFF'S clothing: the "victorious" German Fleet.

* * * * *

"Villagers here are heartily congratulating Mr. Charles Gibbs
on his marvellous escape from the great North Sea Battle,
from one of our lost cruisers. He reached home on Sunday, and
brings with him a portion of a shell that pierced his cap,
and an engine of the vessel tattered in the conflict."--_Thame
Gazette._

"Some" souvenir.

* * * * *

"The Germans are using guns twenty-one centimetres in length,
which can be fired from railway lines and transported with
facility."

_Westminster Gazette._

This appears under the heading, "Big Guns the Deciding Factor." But should it not have been "Pocket Pistols"?

* * * * *

"Talking parrots from 12s. 6d., 3 months' trial."--_Daily
Paper._

After that you get used to it.

* * * * *

"WANTED, MAN for Tipping Russian Army by hand, piece work."

_Northampton Chronicle._

It should be rather a long job.

* * * * *

* * * * *

U.A.

It is very odd how suddenly and completely a new idea gets about. Yesterday you had never heard of it, or not in any way to take notice of it; to-day you hear about it consciously for the first time, and to-morrow it is a commonplace of conversation.

It is so with U.A.

I had, of course, heard of U.A. as a menace, a hidden terror, the old man's dread, the _bon vivant's_ heritage, and so forth. But only vaguely. No one had talked about it; I had seen the words in advertisements and had forgotten them again. I had never associated myself with them. Whatever might happen to me, U.A. would be unrepresented.

And then the blow fell. Suddenly U.A. became omnipresent. I met a friend who only last week I had found doing himself with his customary thoroughness at dinner. This evening he was dining again, but his sole companion was a chilly and depressing bottle of French natural water.

"What is this?" I asked. "War economy?"

"No," he said; "merely U.A."

I should have thought little of that were it not that half-an-hour later I overheard two men talking about the difficulty of getting rid of U.A. once it had established itself.

Another man, to whom I complained of some trifling discomfort, said it was probably U.A.

An hour later I was sitting at a farce which, like all the farces in London at the present moment, is the funniest thing ever staged--only this, if the management is to be believed, is more so; and the only thing I was able to laugh at was a joke about U.A.

The next morning I received a letter from a solicitous relation warning me to be more careful or I should be at the mercy of U.A.

And to crown all I went to see a doctor about something really quite negligible, and, after beginning by conjecturing that it was due to U.A., he ended by feeling certain of it.

He asked me a hundred questions about myself, and after every reply he said either, "That's U.A.," or "U.A. again."

"Almost everything that is wrong with people," he said finally, "is caused by U.A."

I came away feeling thoroughly fashionable, but also dejected beyond words, for he had condemned me to a _regime_ from which every spark of happiness was excluded.

I have since become a source of embarrassment to my friends, for more than half the nice things that everyone else eats and all the nice things that they drink are denied me. U.A. forbids.

Wine--oh no. Spirits--not on your life. Underdone beef--poison. Tobacco--very unwise. And so forth.

As for my own kitchen, which does not think very quickly, it considers me mad; and after one of the melancholy meals that are now my lot I am disposed to agree.

The question I ask myself is, Which is it to be--a long life of joyless food and no U.A., or a shorter but merrier life with U.A. thrown in? And "What's the harm in a little U.A. anyway?" I say as I light a forbidden cigar.

However I answer the great problem, of one thing I am certain, and that is that with all this U.A. about there ought to be a restaurant with enough intelligence to provide an anti Uric Acid menu.

* * * * *

From a description of the German assaults at Verdun:--

"The last regiment, which attacked in ass formation, was
terribly handled."

We understand that it was not led by the CROWN PRINCE in person.

* * * * *

"THAT the new Service Act will decimate the Hythe Town Band.

THAT when the call has been answered there will only be five
members left."

_Kentish Express._

The present strength of the Hythe Town Band appears to be 5-5/9: five men and five tailors?

IN MEMORY OF FIELD-MARSHAL EARL KITCHENER, MAKER OF ARMIES.]

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE SAFETY-VALVE.

The trouble started a week ago, when the eagle eye of a Very Great Man chanced on a piece of paper lying in the neighbourhood of our camp. On being hastily summoned, I could not offhand give any reasonable explanation of its presence. To any lesser personage I should undoubtedly have proved it to belong to one of the A.S.C. people who live next door; but as it was I could only agree that it was a piece of paper, and as such was serving no useful purpose.

Two days later the blow fell. The V.G.M. would inspect the camp, and us in full marching order, the following day.

In the meantime we had learnt that several neighbouring camps had been tried thus, found wanting, and soundly strafed. From them we gleaned some useful hints:--

(1) That any unnecessary oddments, human or other, left lying
about in the camp would be certain to elicit caustic comment;

(2) That tired or dissipated-looking animals, soiled harness
or lustreless buttons would probably bring about atmospheric
changes on parade; and

(3) That pieces of paper would mean indefinite home leave for
somebody.

It was still moonlight when our cloud of skirmishers was abroad. The camp is entirely on soft sand, so that burying is a beautifully simple operation. In every tent parties could be seen rapidly putting home-made chairs, beds, boxes, tins and cooking utensils below ground. Personally I was fastening my less sleek mules to a somewhat soiled waggon, collecting odd men who wouldn't be nice for the great to see, and despatching the lot behind a neighbouring wood. They looked very like a troupe of roving gipsies. A sentry was posted in case the V.G.M. should come round the wood, when the troupe would, with infinite stealth, track round in his wake.

Eventually the camp was an absolute picture--not a superfluous article in view; kits dressed with mathematical exactitute; cookhouse spotless, with a faultlessly attired cook fingering his implements in the manner indicated in the text-book. On the horse-lines were stablemen, assiduously raking away at wisps of straw previously laid down for the purpose.

He arrived about five minutes early, but the last tin of sardines was safely concealed, and we felt almost confident. We were inspected very minutely and asked seemingly ingenuous questions, each doubtless with a subtle trap for the unwary. I shivered when his horse pawed the ground and unearthed a bottle of Bass. I was also horrified to perceive the faces of several particularly grimy cook's mates continually popping round the edge of the wood. However, the inspection of the wagons concluded without untoward incident, and when the camp's turn came we felt we were on safe ground. We had that rare and comfortable feeling that nothing had been forgotten. I saw the Great Man start as his eye encountered the spotless scene. Then a look of grim determination was apparent as he began his tour, his glance, trained to an extraordinary pitch of perception, seeking its wonted prey. But no prey was forthcoming. Up and down the lines he went, peering into tents, digging at kits and deputing members of his retinue to test them for tooth-brushes. Exasperation gradually took the place of determination on his countenance. As he neared the end of his tour he was swelling very visibly and muttering to himself. We saw that some terrible eruption was about to occur, and we played our last card. At a sign from me a stealthy figure emerged from behind a bush, dropped a piece of orange peel and disappeared again. As the procession turned the last corner a wild light broke upon the face of the Central Figure. His step quickened as he approached the orange peel. He turned and cleared his throat. "This piece of orange peel," he began, addressing our CO., and rapidly deflating the while. The situation was saved.

We have a great reputation now, and intend to do "Inspections Complete" at a reasonable figure, inclusive of harness, bright-buttoned soldiers, guard for presenting arms, diggers, a concealed spot for unsightly men and appliances, and--our special line--a safety-valve.

* * * * *

"PLEASE, SIR, A GENTLEMAN CALLED WHEN YOU WAS OUT."

"OH! WHAT WAS HIS NAME?"

"DUNNO, SIR."

"WHAT WAS HE LIKE? CAN YOU DESCRIBE HIM?"

"NO, SIR."

"WELL, HAD HE A FAIR MOUSTACHE?"

"DUNNO, SIR. 'E 'AD IS 'AT ON."]

* * * * *

BEST SELLERS.

I have seen many flag-days and met many flag-sellers. Some were false (they had flags with rusty pins and jabbed them treacherously into my best blouse), and many were frivolous (that sort doesn't trouble about old-maid customers); but of those who were neither false nor frivolous Jack and Jill stand easily first.

I saw them coming up the garden path very early in the morning, Jack in a sailor suit and Jill in a minute white frock. Their combined ages might have totalled nine--at a generous guess.

There was a furious ring at the door, and when I opened it a small brown hand was thrust in, full of flags, whose pins must have been very prickly to hold, while he of the sailor suit addressed me eagerly.

"Look! This sort's a penny. It's paper. And this sort's thruppence. It's real silk. Which'll you have?"

The hand held two silk and four paper flags. I took a silk one, and the girl nodded approval. "I think," said she, "the silk ones will _wear_ better."

While I found my purse the boy had a sudden idea, which he instantly communicated with the sincere intention of doing the best he could for me. Said he, "You'd better have the bofe. You'll want one for your--for the father." And then he had a brighter thought still. "And the childrens. This paper kind would do for them. It's no use buying _good_ ones for them, is it?"

"No, they're sure to lose them," agreed Jill. "You see, they're rather loose on their pins," she added with commercial candour.

"Else they wouldn't waggle properly," put in the boy hastily, in case I might be thinking this a defect.

"I'll take the lot," said I, "if you can tell me what it's all for."

"You c'n see," said Jack, "it's on the back of them," and he poked one round. "'For Woun-ded He-roes,'" he read out with pride and great deliberation.

"_He_ can't read very well," said Jill, who was a wee bit jealous. "It doesn't mean dead. It only means wounded."

But Jack smiled at me understandingly, refusing to argue with anything so small as Jill, and they departed, counting the spoil.

At the gate Jack turned and came back. "If you have more than four children," he said earnestly, "I could bring you some more paper ones."

I think they must have had a successful day.

* * * * *

"BAPTISMAL TROUSERS AND GOWNS

FOR MINISTERS.

Used throughout Wales for 40 years."

_Baptist Times._

As the posters should have said, "It is worse than unpatriotic, it is bad form, to wear new clothes in war-time."

* * * * *

THE EPIGRAM.

George and I had been discussing the prospect for elderly and slightly shop-soiled _litterateurs_ under present circumstances. The result was not wholly enlivening.

"If I had a few hundreds clear," said George at last, "I'd give up Fleet Street and start a farm. I've always loved the country."

"My dear George," I answered, speaking slowly, "for a man to take a farm because he loves the country is to make a master of what should remain a mistress."

Just like that. Because I was going slowly I was able at the last moment to substitute the word "mistress" for "servant," which would have been merely banal. Not till then did I recognise the bright perfection of the completed remark. No wonder George stared enviously.

"What's that out of?" he asked.

"Nothing as yet." But I had already determined that it should not long remain unset. I mean, in these days one simply can't afford to go chucking gems about in gratuitous conversation. The difficulty was what exactly to do with it.

The sparkling _causerie_ was my first idea. That evening I refilled my fountain-pen, opened a fresh packet of foolscap, and began:--

"AGRICULTURE AND AESTHETICS.

"It has been wittily observed that for a man to start farming because----"

But there the adverb began to worry me. After all, perhaps it wasn't quite so witty as I had hoped, or at least others might not think it so. And in any case I got no personal credit. Subsequent pages recorded other attempts, as--"Who was the cynical philosopher who----?" or "It may perhaps be objected by the prudent that for a man to start----"

After this I must have decided against starting at all, for nothing more came of the _causerie_.

My next attempt took the form of fiction. I resolved to enshrine the masterpiece in a short story. "The Farm that Failed" seemed to me, and does still, an attractive title. You see the idea of it? Pastoral humour; George, as an amateur husbandman, scored off by sheep and confused by cows. Arrival of town friend, _Amber Dextrius_, on visit. Some sort of love interest. And finally the Epigram. "Ah, my dear fellow," said _Dextrius_, as he flung away his cigarette, "after all you have only proved the great truth that----" And so on.

It looked promising. I hardly know why I abandoned it. Perhaps the love interest proved an obstacle. Perhaps I feared lest George (that good sort) should detect himself and be hurt. Anyhow it got no further.

The inspiration that followed had even less fortune. It is represented by a sheet headed:--

"THE BUCOLICS.

(_A Fantastic Comedy in Five Acts._)

[ACT I.--_Morning-room of_ Lord Amber Dextrius' _house in Hill
Street, W. A large luxuriously-furnished apartment. Doors in
right and left wall. Two doors in back wall. Three windows
also in back wall. The light is that of a brilliant morning in
May._]

_Enter_ Lord Amber, _a handsome faultlessly-dressed man of about five-and-thirty. He walks towards the door_ L."

But he never reached it. Perhaps an entire ignorance of what he should do when he got there paralysed him, as it did his creator. After all, you can hardly run a five-Act comedy on stage directions and a single epigram, though I admit that the attempt has been made.

So there the thing rested. From time to time I had wild ideas of advertising it in the literary papers: "For sale, original epigram, mint condition, wide application, never been used. Cheap; or would accept typewriter, or workable film-plots." But even then I might have no offers. I began to think that my little property was going to prove unrealisable.

But only yesterday something happened.

"I'm awfully sorry, dear," said Ursula, entering the study with an air of contrition. "It isn't my fault; but the Carter girls are here having tea, and the eldest one has brought her birthday-book." She held out the detestable little volume as she spoke.

"You know perfectly well that I never---- Is the eldest the one with dark eyes?"

"Yes, that's the girl. She's going to be a lady-gardener."

It was like a voice from heaven. "For this once," I said benevolently, "I will make an exception." I took the book, already open at some absurd date in April, and wrote in a clear hand:--

"The professional horticulturist should beware lest he (or she) make that a master which should remain a mistress."

Ursula read it twice. "It's awfully clever," she said, "and on the spur of the moment too! I can't imagine how you think of these things."

"Oh, they just come," I said. So it was not wholly wasted, though I own I should have preferred cash on delivery. Still we can't have everything.

* * * * *

FLOWERS FOR THE RED CROSS.

[Lines written for the Catalogue of the Royal Horticultural
Society's Exhibition to be held at the Society's Hall in
Vincent Square, on June 27, 28 and 29, for the benefit of the
Red Cross.]

Think not that Earth unheeding lies
Tranced by the summer's golden air,
Indifferent, under azure skies,
What blows of War her children bear.

She that has felt our tears like rain,
And shared our wounds of body and soul,
Gives of her flowers to ease our pain,
Gives of her heart to make us whole.

O. S.

* * * * *

"A Swiss cinematograph periodical learns that the hissing of
the Kaiser's picture occurred decently at one of the largest
cinema houses in Berlin."--_Glasgow Evening Times._

One of the few decent things the Prussians have done in this War.

* * * * *

_Mrs. Brown._ "YES, HE IS--AND HAS BEEN FOR TWENTY YEARS."]

* * * * *

THE TEACHER TAUGHT.

Essay-writing in my schooldays certainly was not my forte;
"Lack of concentration" always figured in the term's report,
And my undistinguished diction made my worthy master snort.

Now enlisted as an usher--so a freakish fate ordains--
I employ my best endeavours and the remnant of my brains
Setting and correcting essays written by scholastic swains.

"Whether they derive advantage from this mental interplay,
Modesty, if not misgiving, makes it hard for me to say,
But I'm much inclined to fancy that it's just the other way.

Anyhow, from this experience I have learned a lot of things
Hidden from the ken of scholars or Prime Ministers or Kings,
Though revealed to youthful schoolboys lately freed from
leading-strings.

On the relative importance of the classics, "maths," and "stinks";
On the charm of pink-hued ices, on the choice of gaseous drinks;
On the special sort of sermon which induces forty winks;

On the various ways of pulling pompous seniors by the leg;
On effective ways of bringing uppish juniors down a peg;
On the scientific mode of blowing any kind of egg;

On the forms of condescension which the human boy insult;
On the picture-palace mania, on the CHARLIE CHAPLIN cult;
On the latest modern weapons which supplant the catapult--

On these elemental matters, and indeed on many more,
I have now accumulated quite a valuable store
Of instructive, entertaining and authoritative lore.

And I hope, on my returning to my humdrum normal life--
When we've scotched the KAISER's yearning after sanguinary strife--
Fortified by modern learning, to electrify my wife.

* * * * *

"VAN (sleeping), on iron wheels, to accommodate two men, not
under 12ft. by 6ft."--_Glasgow Herald._

Such giants should certainly go in the van.

* * * * *

Resuscitation.

Extract from official memo.:--

"This man has been medically examined ... with the result that
he is believed to be feigning decease. The penalty attached to
trial by C.M. on this charge has been explained to him, and he
has elected to return to duty."

* * * * *

In the Line of Methuselah.

"In France the northern men were accorded high honours.
Louis had a bodyguard of twenty-four Scotsmen, and this band
continued in existence as a Royal guard to nine monarchs for
one hundred and fifty years." _The War Illustrated._

What happened at this point of their interesting career we are not told--possibly they went into the Reserves.

* * * * *

WAR RISKS OF AN UNCLE.

I have been made a fool of by the Government. No, you needn't all hold up your hands at once. Mine Was different from yours. I have always looked upon myself as an efficient uncle, but now--well, one more incident of this kind and I shall be definitely _passe_.

The technique of being an uncle I mastered quite early. For instance, at stated seasons in the year I choose with some concentration two toys and two improving books. The toys I give to my nieces, Lillah and Phyllis; the books I send to a hospital. In the same spirit, when I take them for a treat and they over-eat themselves, I simply finance the operation and at the same time buy a large bottle of castor oil and send it anonymously to St. Bartholomew's. You see the idea? It is simply technique. I have explained this system to Margaret, their mother. But she is not one who sees reason very easily.

In spite of opposition, however, I continue to do my duty.

In this spirit I dashed into the nursery the other day and declared my afternoon and my finances at the service of Lillah and Phyllis. Margaret definitely forbade a cinema, from a curious notion that their patrons consisted exclusively of bacilli. So Lillah and Phyllis declared at once for CHARLIE CHAPLIN or nothing. This was only natural, so I bought two tickets for the latest exhibition of War cartoons and sent them to my Aunt Julia at Harpenden. Then I took the children to the Pictures.

This is just to show you that I know my job. But mark now how Fate rushed me on to destruction.

"Uncle James," said Lillah, "I love you!"

I braced myself up.

"So do I," said Phyllis.

It looked like trouble.

"Can we go and see the tin soldiers before they go to bed?" said Lillah.

"The horseback ones," added Phyllis.

Oh, this was too simple: a nice quiet look at the guardians of Whitehall, with perhaps a glimpse for the infant mind of the vast resources of the British Empire; a word in season, perhaps, from Uncle James; and a detailed report to Margaret of instruction combined with amusement.

Of course we went.

"This," I said, as Phyllis gazed round-eyed at one of the motionless warriors--"this is but a symbol of the dignity of that great Empire upon which the sun----"

"Soldiers," said Phyllis with a wisdom beyond her years, "like girls to look at them ever so long."

Then she went away to Lillah, and I saw them with their heads close together. A wonderful thing, the child-mind. Only beginning perhaps, but they were learning doubtless to think imperially. The foundation of that pride of race----? I broke the thread of thought and looked up. Instantly I was gibbering with horror.

Phyllis, standing on tiptoe and clinging precariously to his saddle-cloth, was dropping a roll of paper neatly into the jackboot of Hercules.

"Phyllis!" I gasped. "What are you doing?"

She turned to me happily.

"That's what Nannie does," she said, without a blush for her sex. "I put 'I love you.--PHYLLIS.' Do you think he'll be pleased?"

I seized both girls and hurried into the Park. My soul cried out for the open spaces. I stole a look at Hercules over my shoulder, but he was granite.

On Olympus the Olympians are above shame.

"Phyllis," I said gravely, "don't you think that was very naughty of you?"

"No," said that small Delilah firmly; "soldiers like it."

The even voice of Lillah broke in.

"And soldiers ought to have what they like, oughtn't they?"

"Certainly," I answered patriotically.

"Well, then," said Phyllis crushingly.

"If I had done that I should feel very much ashamed of myself," I said.

"Well, you didn't," said Lillah, and that finished it.

They evidently had an offensive and defensive alliance against this sort of thing.

"If your mother," I began.

"Sand!, Sand!" shrieked Phyllis.

"Sand,", echoed Lillah, and both children were gone.

They had just noticed the present possibilities of the empty lake as a substitute for Margate. Two best frocks! Essentially a moment for efficiency.

I stepped firmly across the railings. And there the British Government stepped in. I turned to regard a policeman (out-size).

"May I call your attention to this, Sir?" he said.

I gazed at the notice like a fish:--

"ONLY CHILDREN ARE ALLOWED
ON THE BED OF THE LAKE."

It is still there; you can go and see it for yourself. I argued, I entreated. Either the constable had a sense of humour (and should be reported) or else a perverted sense of duty.

A crowd collected. Out of the corner of my eye I could see those two best frocks.

"As usual," I said bitterly but with dignity, "the British Government is too late."

By the time I had persuaded the children that tea was superior to sand castles their clothes--but no, why repeat what Margaret said? I'm sure she regretted it when I had gone.

But my reputation as an uncle of any technical knowledge is finished.

I was so moved that I even forgot my gift to St. Bartholomew's after tea--and now I am writing a personal letter to Mr. SAMUEL about that notice in the Park.

* * * * *

THE ROUTE MARCH.

(_In Training._)

We've got our foreign-service boots--we've 'ad 'em 'alf a day;
If it wasn't for the Adjutant I'd sling the brutes away;
If I could 'ave my old ones back I'd give a fortnight's pay,
And chuck 'em in the pair I got this morning!

We've marched a 'undred miles to-day, we've 'undreds more to go,
An' if you don't believe me, why, I'll tell you 'ow I know--
I've measured out the distance by the blister on my toe,
For I got my foreign-service boots this morning!

We've got our foreign-service boots--I wish that I was dead;
I wish I'd got the Colonel's 'orse an' 'im my feet instead;
I wish I was a nacrobat, I'd walk upon my 'ead,
For I got my foreign-service boots this morning!

We're 'oppin' and we're 'obblin' to a cock-eyed ragtime tune,
Not a soul what isn't limpin' in the bloomin' 'ole balloon.
But buck you up, my com-e-rades, we're off to Flanders soon,
For we got our foreign-service boots this morning!

* * * * *

"The full tale of the German losses is being sedulously
concealed. Their battered ships are licking their wounds under
the Kaiser's moustache, which has been badly singed."--_The
Star._

It is thought that by this time they have had quite enough of his lip.

* * * * *

"No further infantry attack had been delivered by either side
in this area between June 3rd and June 5th. At least four
battleships belonging to three different German regiments have
been identified as having taken part in the original attack."

_Newcastle Daily Journal._

Now we understand why the Germans were in such a hurry to get home from Jutland.

* * * * *

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks._)

If you only like listening to a talker with whom you agree, who is of your type and school, then don't bother with _What is Coming?_ (CASSELL), which purports to be H. G. WELLS'S forecasts of things after the War. It's perhaps hardly so serious as that, but just good speculative talk, the kind that offers the first thing that is signalled to the lips from a quick reflective brain without pauses to consider objections by the way. Yet perhaps, after all, the author cannot be dismissed too lightly as a prophet. He did see further into the air than most, at the time when the experts were blandly proving all sorts of impossibilities; and, as he recalls, he made a lucky shot in foretelling the immobility of trench warfare. He still believes in the BLOCH deadlock, and gives victory to the Allies merely for better staying power. For British training and method he naturally has nothing but scorn, which takes him further than most of us can follow him. At least when he says that the university-trained class has been found "under the fiery test of war an evasive, temporising class of people, individualistic, ungenerous and unable either to produce or obey vigorous leadership," he badly needs to justify the confining of that diagnosis to _that_ particular class. And when he further says of British administration of subject territories that "the British are a race coldly aloof. They have nothing to give a black people and no disposition to give"--well, it isn't an obvious truth. These are blemishes of a kind to which a quick-thinking man, a little too anxious to set everybody right by wholesale methods, is naturally subject. But you will miss a good deal of fresh-air sanity, of illumination (for the man _can_ see and find the vivid phrase to express his vision) on war and peace and education and feminism and internationalism and citizenship, if you let yourself be alienated by such lapses. So please don't.

* * * * *

"If only those old things could speak, what stories, etc., etc.!" Most of us, at one time or another, have endured or inflicted that well-intentioned banality. And here is Miss MARJORIE BOWEN, most skilful of historical romancers, setting out to tell us precisely what stories. She calls her volume _Shadows of Yesterday_ (SMITH, ELDER), explaining in a preface that is by no means the least attractive chapter that they are supposed to be the histories attached to a collection of antique oddments in a little Italian museum. No one who remembers with what persuasive charm Miss BOWEN has handled her long costume novels will be astonished at the atmosphere with which she manages to invest these little episodes; a ring, a jewel, a CHARLES II. jug--these are the materials out of which by aid of fancy she recreates the past. Of the lot, I myself should give the palm to the jug's story, a spirited little thing enough, in which a country maid, awaiting in a cottage the coming of a lover, whom she knows as "Lord Anthony," meets instead my Lady CASTLEMAINE, who tells her that the defaulting swain is really His Majesty, and explains that there exist (to put it tactfully) certain prior engagements of the royal affection. The end is a brilliant comedy stroke, which I will not spoil by anticipation for you. It is this capacity for the unexpected that saves Miss BOWEN from the danger, obviously inherent in her plan, of being too tightly bound down by the need of forcing her catalogue of relics into prominence. She has done larger work, but nothing more agreeable.

* * * * *

I could not, if I would, apply quite the customary severities of criticism to _Twilight_ (HUTCHINSON). It is too personal, and the death of its author, the clever woman who elected to be known as FRANK DANBY, is too fresh in memory for me to regard it with detachment. It is one of the tragedies of literature that only in her last two books, this and the one that preceded it, did the author give the world a taste of her true quality. There is evidence in _Twilight_ of gifts that might well have raised its writer to a place among the greatest. But frankly it is not possible to consider it apart from the circumstances of its origin. Two stories there are in it: one personal, autobiography at its most intimate; the other a work of imagination. It is supposed that the writer, a woman novelist, wrecked with disease and the drugs that bring endurance, goes down into the country and there becomes obsessed with the history of another woman, in circumstances much like to her own, who had once lived and loved in the same remote house. So, side by side, you have the two tragedies, one of the sick bed, one of the soul, both told with an incisive and compelling art, and with a realism often painful. But, as at once a document of fact and imagination, the book is perhaps unique. Certainly no one can read it without feeling that the death of its author has left literature poorer by the loss of a personality whose real power was yet to be shown.

* * * * *

The demand for an eleventh edition of Lord ERNEST HAMILTON'S book, _The First Seven Divisions_ (HURST AND BLACKETT) is no more than a deserved tribute to what has already taken rank as the best history, so far, of the most critical period of the World War. Lord ERNEST HAMILTON writes as one having authority. He tells the facts as he knows them--facts in many cases hitherto undisclosed, and given here with adequate detail and just; enough of explanation to make the account clear even to the most unmilitary reader. There has been no attempt by the writer to embellish his theme. It remains a simple story of sheer heroism, told in a straightforward soldierly manner--and the reading of it must make the most unemotional Briton feel the thrill of pride and pity and gratitude. "Nothing," says the writer, "can ever surpass, as a story of simple sublime pluck, the history of the first three months of England's participation in the Great War." This is what you can follow day by day in these pages. There are many new maps in the present edition, which greatly help to explain the situation, as it developed from Mons, through the battle of the Marne, to the trenches before Ypres. I can only say that I hope there will soon be few school libraries in which this most inspiring book has not an honourable place.

* * * * *

_Soldier (with meaning)._ "QUITE LIKELY, SIR, SEEIN' AS YOU WERE THE GENT IN THE TRIBUNAL WHO MADE GAME OF ME BEIN' A CONSCIENTIOUS OBJECTOR. BUT YOU'LL BE GLAD TO 'EAR I'VE CHANGED MY MIND, AND I AIN'T _NOW_ GOT ANY OBJECTION TO TAKIN' 'UMAN LIFE."]

* * * * *

When Mr. FRANKFORT MOORE is not out to be funny I enjoy his novels, and _The Rise of Raymond_ (HUTCHINSON) is pleasantly free from humorous intent. _Raymond's_ father, a cheap house-furnisher by trade, was a terribly blighting person of peculiar religious views. By rod and rote he tried to instil his narrow creed into his son, and the latter's suffering during this process is revealed all the more forcibly because it is not unduly insisted upon. Though _Raymond_ has his quiverful of virtues, one's powers of belief in them, though taxed heavily enough, are not super-taxed. It may seem curious that this young man, whose vocation it was during some of the best years of his life to handle and sell uninspiring things like linoleum, should have had artistic tastes; but as the reason for this endowment is not given away until the very end of the story I prefer not to give it away at all. In contrast to the scorn and ridicule scattered over the puritanical sect of which _Raymond's_ parents were members, the Church of England parson, _Mr. Bosover_, receives a very warm pat on the back. "The tradition of gentleman is kept alive by the English parson. He is the only remaining interpreter of that ancient _culte_." So now you know.

* * * * *

_A Woman in the Balkans_ (HUTCHINSON) is a book of which the publishers very properly observe that it "will undoubtedly make a wide appeal at the present moment." These are times when the records of anybody intelligent "in the Balkans" must be attractive reading; and Mrs. WILL GORDON (WINIFRED GORDON) is not only intelligent, but--what is even more important in the writer of a popular memoir--excellent good company. Her vivid account of her pre-War travels in Serbia, Bulgaria, and Roumania gives one the feeling of being the fortunate friend of a correspondent whose views on home-writing are not confined to picture post-cards. In short a pleasant, not too professional, record of adventure and observation. The many excellent photographs that illustrate it are in precisely the same style, being, many of them, the successful little snapshots of an artistic amateur, such as often convey a far better impression of places and people than the more ambitious products of expert science. Not all the pictures, however, are from the writer's own camera. Two, which, with a grim sense of drama, are placed next to each other, represent the Coronation of King PETER of Serbia, and the tragic ride of the Monarch from his invaded country. There is a whole tremendous chapter of European history in the contrasted pictures. Small wonder if books about the Balkans should make "a wide appeal."

* * * * *

From a trade circular:--

"Since the beginning of the War we have encouraged our men to
enlist, and have filled their places with girls of military
ineligibles."

But why not give the girls of our fighting men a chance?