Chapter II: Part 2

Athol's a bonny country and Sussex is good to see,
But it's long since I left Blighty and I'm not what I used to be;
And May in Devon's a marvel and June on Tummel's fine,
And that may be most folk's fancy, but it somehow isn't mine;
For _I_ know what _I_ like, and the Land of Heart's Delight
For me is just on the Blue Mountains, for that's where I feel right.

So I'll pack my box and bedding in the old South Indian mail
And wake to a dawn in Salem ghostly and grey and pale,
And over by Avanashi and the levels of Coimbatore
I'll see them hung in the tinted sky and I won't ask for more;
For _I_'ll know I'm happy and I'll make my morning prayer
Of thanks for the sun on the Blue Mountains and me to be going there.

The little mountain railway shall serve me for all I need,
Crawling its way to Adderly, crawling to Runnymede;
And the scent of the gums shall cheer me like the sight of a journey's
end,
And the breeze shall say to me "Brother" and the hills shall hail me
"Friend,"
While the clear Kateri River sings lovesongs in my ear,
And I'll feel "Now I'm home again! Ah! but I'm welcome here."

Clear in the opal sunset I shall see the Kundahs lie
And the sweep of the hills shall fill my heart as the roll of the Downs
my eye;
And I'll see Snowdon and Staircase and the green of the Lovedale Wood,
And the dear sun shining on Ooty, and oh! but I'll find it good;
For _I_'ll have what _I_ wanted, and all the worrying done,
Because I'm back to the Blue Mountains and they and I are one.

There's peace beyond understanding, solace beyond desire
For minds that are over-weary, for bodies that toil and tire,
And over all that a something, a something that says, "You know,
It's the one place of all places where the gods meant _you_ to go."
Well, the gods know what _they_ know, and I wouldn't say them nay,
And Blighty of course is Blighty, but it's terribly far away,
So I'll get back to the Blue Mountains, and the betting is, I'll stay.

H.B.

* * * * *

CRICKET IN WAILS--A HOWLING SUCCESS.

"E.H. ---- bawled consistently for the visitors, taking seven wickets
of 168."--_Welsh Paper._

* * * * *

WHAT TO DO WITH OUR BOYS.

As a sufferer from the prevailing complaint, house-famine, I have started a Correspondence Bureau, ostensibly for advising parents as to the pursuits their offspring should take up, but really for propaganda purposes, the object being the assuagement of this terrible evil.

Consequently my replies to inquiries are all moulded to this end.

For instance, one mother wrote from Surbiton:--

"My second son, Algernon, wishes to become a house and estate agent. Do please tell me if you think this quite a fitting avocation for one whose father is a member of the Stock Exchange."

I replied, "Quite. There is no nobler, and incidentally there are few more lucrative occupations outside Bradford, unless it be that of a builder, in which the scope is absolutely unlimited. I am enclosing a copy of last week's _Builder and Architect_, in which you will find some great thoughts expressed. Pray let Algernon read it. It may be the means of inducing him to perform great deeds for England's sake."

Another fond parent wrote:--

"Can you advise an anxious mother as to a career for her only son, John William? He is at present eight and a-half years old, has blue eyes and fair hair and is a perfect darling, so good and obedient, but he is firmly resolved to be a lift-man when he grows up."

I answered her soothingly thus:--

"John Willie is rather young to have made a final decision, I think. Let his youthful aspirations run through the usual stages, liftman, engine- driver, bus-conductor, sailor, etc. At fifteen or so he will have left these behind, and for the next few years will probably settle down to the idea of being nothing in particular, or else a professional cricketer. Then he will suddenly, for good or evil, make his choice. Neither his blue eyes nor his fair hair give any clue as to what that choice will be, but I should let him keep both, as they may be useful to him.

"If he should determine upon a career involving manual work, I should take steps to have him initiated into the Art and Mystery of Bricklaying. At the rate we are moving the working-hours would probably be about eight per week, with approximately eight pounds per day salary, by the time he arrives at bricklaying maturity.

"It is difficult to say yet whether he would have to graduate in Commerce before being eligible, but probably it would be necessary, as the best bricklayers, I'm told, always carry a mortar-board, and there is a sort of caucus in these plummy professions nowadays that is anxious to keep outsiders from joining their ranks. But the country needs bricklayers, and will go on needing them for years. Let John Willie step forward when he is old enough."

To the mother who asked if I considered that her youngest boy would be well advised to adopt the Housebreaking profession I wrote:--

"To which part of this profession do you refer? If to the Burgling branch I would ask, 'Has he the iron nerve, the indomitable will, above all has he the brain power for this exacting craft? Can he stand the exposure to the night air, the exposure before an Assize jury, and the rigours of the Portland stone quarries?' If so, let him take a course of illustrated lectures at the cinema.

"If you refer to the other branch, the mere pulling down of houses, I say, 'No! A thousand times, no!' He should be taught that there is a crying need for a constructive, not a destructive policy. Let him adopt one; buy him drawing-paper and a tee-square at once, and teach him that the noblest work of creation is (unless it be a bricklayer or builder) an architect. Though the War is over we must still keep the home fires burning. This implies chimneys, and chimneys imply houses, and few there be that can plan houses that will both please the eye and pass the local authorities."

Lady Jubb wrote from Toffley Hall, Blankshire, to say that her elder son (seventeen) had no ideas for the future beyond becoming Master of the Barchester when he grew up, but that she was anxious that he should try for some more lucrative post, official preferred.

I replied thus:--

"So your son looks no higher than a Mastership of Foxhounds. Well, well, I suppose that so long as there are such things as hounds he, as well as another, may take on the job of Master.

"But I thoroughly approve of your desire that he should try for something higher in life, especially for some official post; and what official post is or can be superior to that of a Borough Surveyor? Can you not persuade him that this great office is what one chooses to make it, and that, as an autocrat, the M.F.H. is hardly to be compared to the B.S., for, whereas the former can at the most scorch the few people foolish enough to remain within ear-shot, the latter can with a breath damn a whole row of houses and blast the careers of an army of builders with a word."

And so the propaganda proceeds.

If my efforts result in even one house being erected I shall, I think, have earned my O.B.E., though I would rather have the house.

* * * * *

_Little Girl_ (_doing her best to carry out instructions_). "YES'M. BUT SHE SAYS SHE'S WORSE OF THE COMPLAINT WOT YOU GIVES 'ER PORT WINE FOR."]

* * * * *

THE TERRITORIAL.

Oh, civil life is fine and free, with no one to obey,
No sergeants shouting, "Show a leg!" or "Double up!" all day;
No buttons to be polished, no army boots to wear,
And nobody to tick you off because you grow your hair.

It's great to sleep beneath a roof that keeps the rain outside,
To eat a daintier kind of grub than quarter-blokes provide,
To rise o' mornings when you wish and when you wish turn in,
To shirk a shave and never hear the truth about your chin;

And not to have to pad the hoof through blazing sun or rain,
Intent on getting nowhere and foot-slogging back again,
To realise no N.C.O. has any more the right
To rob you of your beauty-sleep with "Guard to-morrow night!"

All this is great, of course it is, yet here we are once more
Obeying sergeants just for fun and cheerier than before;
We haven't any good excuse, we've got no war to win--
But nothing's touched the kit-bag yet for packing troubles in.

W.K.H.

* * * * *

A TASTE OF AUTHORITY.

I have often wished I were an expert at something. How I envy the man who, before ordering a suit of clothes from his tailor, seizes the proffered sample of cloth and tugs at it in a knowledgable manner, smells it at close quarters with deep inhalations and finally, if he is very brave, pulls out a thread and ignites it with a match. Whereupon the tailor, abashed and discomfited, produces for the lucky expert from the interior of his premises that choice bale of pre-war quality which he was keeping for his own use.

I confided this yearning of mine to Rottenbury the other evening. Rottenbury is a man of the world and might, I thought, be able to help me.

"My dear fellow," he said, "in these days of specialisation one has to be brought up in the business to be an expert in anything, whether cloth or canaries or bathroom tiling. Knowledge of this kind is not gained in a moment."

"Can you help me?" I asked.

"As regards tea, I can," he replied. "Jorkins over there is in the tea business. If you like I'll get him to put you up to the tricks of tea-tasting."

"I should be awfully glad if you would," said I. "We never get any decent tea at home."

Jorkins appeared to be a man of direct and efficient character. I saw Rottenbury speak to him and the next moment he was at my elbow.

"Watch me carefully," said Jorkins, "and listen to what I say. Take a little leaf into the palm of your left hand. Rub it lightly with the fingers and gaze earnestly thus. Apply your nose and snuff up strongly. Pick out a strand and bite through the leaf slowly with the front teeth, thus. Just after biting pass the tip of the tongue behind the front teeth and along the palate, completing the act of deglutition. Sorry I must go now. Good day."

Now I felt I was on the right track. I practised the thing a few times before a glass, paying special attention to the far-away poetical look which Jorkins wore during the operation.

At the tea-shop the man behind the counter willingly showed me numbers of teas. I snatched a handful of that which he specially recommended and began the ceremony. I took a little into the palm of my left-hand and gazed at it earnestly; I rubbed it lightly with my fingers; I picked up a strand and bit through the leaf slowly with the front teeth. Just after biting I passed the tongue behind the front teeth and along the palate, completing the act of deglutition.

So far as I could judge it was very good tea, but it would never do to accept the first sample offered; I must let the shopman see that he was up against one of the mandarins of the trade. So I said with severity, "Please don't show me any more common stuff; I want the best you have."

The man looked at me curiously and I saw his face twitching; he was evidently about to speak.

"Kindly refrain from expostulating," I went on; "content yourself with showing me your finest blend."

He went away to the back of the shop, muttering; clearly he recognised defeat, for when he returned he carried a small chest.

"Try this," said he, and I knew that he was boiling with baffled rage.

I took a handful and once more went through the whole ceremony. It was nauseating, but the man was obviously impressed. At the conclusion of my performance I assumed a look of satisfaction. "Give me five pounds of that," said I with the air of a conqueror.

Next time I met Rottenbury I told him of my success.

"Oh, Jorkins put you up to the trick, did he?"

"He did. He taught me to titillate, to triturate, to masticate, to deglute--everything."

"And with what result?"

"With the result that I have in my possession five pounds of the finest tea that the greatest experts have blended from the combined products of Assam and China."

"Tea?" he asked.

"Yes, tea of course. You didn't suppose that I was talking of oysters?"

"Did I tell you Jorkins was a tea-taster?"

"Yes."

"Well, then, he's not. He's in tobacco."

* * * * *

"Alured," said my wife, "I wish you wouldn't buy things for the house. That tea is low-grade sweepings."

* * * * *

(_With apologies to the late AUGUSTE RODIN._)

ADVERTISING ENTHUSIAST ON HIS HOLIDAY SEEKING INSPIRATION FOR A NEW ADVERTISEMENT FOR THE UNDERGROUND RAILWAY.]

* * * * *

"Sir Otto Beit has returned to London from South Africa, where he
turned the first sot of the new university."--_Daily Paper._

Turned him out, we trust.

* * * * *

"In a brilliant peroration the Prime Minister warned his hearers that a
nation was known by its soul and not by its asses."--_South African
Paper._

Yet some of our politicians seem to think that England is not past braying for.

* * * * *

"The doings (or rather sayings!) in the Legislature we are watching
with sympathy and some impatience, much as a bachelor bears with the
gambling of children who come to the drawing-room for an hour before
dinner."--_Weekly Paper._

And the worst of it is that the Legislature is gambling with _our_ money.

* * * * *

"Miss ----, director of natural science studies at Newnham College,
Oxford, will preside."--_Daily Paper._

We are glad to hear of this new women's college at Oxford, but surely they might have chosen a more original name for it.

* * * * *

A.G.J. writes: "Your picture of 'Come unto these Yellow Sands' in the number for August 4th explains for the first time the obscure following line, 'The Wild Waves Whist.'"

* * * * *

"NO, SIR. NO OFFENCE T'YOU, BUT OI A-BIN DOIN' T' CHAPEL PASSON'S GARDEN, SO MISSUS THOUGHT WE'D BETTER GIVE 'IM A TURN."]

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

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

To review one of Mr. E.F. BENSON'S social satires always gives me somewhat the sensations of the reporter at the special sermon--a relieved consciousness that, being present on business, my own withers may be supposed professionally unwrung. Otherwise, so exploratory a lash.... I seldom recall the touch of it more shrewd than in _Queen Lucia_ (HUTCHINSON), an altogether delightful castigation of those persons whom a false rusticity causes to change a good village into the sham-bucolic home of crazes, fads and affectation. All this super-cultured life of the Riseholme community has its centre in _Mrs. Lucas_, the acknowledged queen of the place (_Lucia_ = wife of _Lucas_, which shows you the character of her empire in a single touch); the matter of the tale is to tell how her autocracy was threatened, tottered and recovered. I wish I had space to quote the description of the _Lucas_ home, "converted" from two genuine cottages, to which had been added a wing at right-angles, even more Elizabethan than the original, and a yew-hedge, "brought entire from a neighbouring farm and transplanted with solid lumps of earth and indignant snails around its roots." Perhaps, apart from the joy of the setting, you may find some of the incidents, the faith-healer, the medium and so on, a trifle obvious for Mr. BENSON. More worthy of him is the central episode-- the arrival as a Riseholme resident of _Olga Bracely_, the operatic star of international fame. Her talk, her attitude towards the place, and the subtle contrast suggested by her between the genuine and the pretence, show Mr. BENSON at his light-comedy best. In short, a charming entertainment, in speaking of which you will observe I have not once so much as mentioned the word "Cotswolds."

* * * * *

_Michael Forth_ (CONSTABLE) will doubtless convey a wonderful message to those of us who are clever enough to grasp its meaning; but I fear that it will be a disappointment to many admirers of Miss MARY JOHNSTON'S earlier books. Frankly I confess myself bewildered and unable to follow this excursion into the region of metaphysics; indeed I felt as if I had fallen into the hands of a guide whose language I could only dimly and dully understand. All of which may be almost entirely my fault, so I suggest that you should sample _Michael_ for yourselves and see what you can make of him. Miss JOHNSTON shouldered an unnecessarily heavy burden when she decided to tell the story of her hero in the first person, but in relating _Michael's_ childhood in his Virginian home she is at her simplest and best. Afterwards, when _Michael_ became intent on going "deeper and deeper within," he succeeded so well that he concealed himself from me.

* * * * *

Because I have a warm regard for good short stories and heartily approve the growing fashion of publishing or republishing them in volume form, I am the more jealous that the good repute of this practice should be preserved from damage by association with unworthy material. I'm afraid this is a somewhat ominous introduction to a notice of _The Eve of Pascua_ (HEINEMANN), in which, to be brutally frank, I found little justification for even such longevity as modern paper conditions permit. "RICHARD DEHAN" is admittedly a writer who has deserved well of the public, but none of the tales in this collection will do anything to add to the debt. The best is perhaps a very short and quite happily told little jest called "An Impression," about the emotions of a peasant model on seeing herself as interpreted by an Impressionist painter. There is also a sufficiently picturesque piece of Wardour Street medievalism in "The Tribute of the Kiss," and some original scenery in "The Mother of Turquoise." But beyond this (though I searched diligently) nothing; indeed worse, since more than one of the remaining tales, notably "Wanted, a King" and "The End of the Cotillion," are so preposterous that their inclusion here can only be attributed to the most cynical indifference.

* * * * *

It may be my Saxon prejudice, but, though most of the ingredients of _Irish Stew_ (SKEFFINGTON) are in fact Irish, and though Mrs. DOROTHEA CONYERS is best known as a novelist who delights in traditional Ireland and traditional horses, I am bound to confess that I enjoyed the adventures of _Mr. Jones_, trusted employé of _Mosenthals and Co._, better than Mrs. CONYERS' stage Irishmen. "Our Mr. Jones" is neither a _Sherlock Holmes_ nor an _Aristide Pujol_, neither a _Father Brown_ nor a _Bob Pretty_, but nevertheless he is an engaging soul and we could do with more of him. Mrs. CONYERS' hunting _clientèle_ may much prefer to read about the dishonesties of _Con Cassidy_ and his fellow-horse-copers and the simple but heroic _O'Toole_ and his supernatural friends. But, as the average Irish hunting man cares little more for books than he does for bill-collectors, his preference may not be of paramount importance. In any case the Irish ingredients of _Irish Stew_ would be easier to assimilate if Mrs. CONYERS would refrain from trying to spell English as the Irish speak it. If the reader knows Ireland it is unnecessary and merely makes reading a task. If the reader does not know Ireland no amount of phonetic spelling will reproduce a single one of the multitudinous brogues that fill Erin with sound and empty it of sense. On the whole Mrs. CONYERS' public will not be disappointed with her latest sheaf of tales. But it is _Mr. Jones_ who will give them their money's worth.

* * * * *

I was, I confess, a little sceptical--you know how it is--when I read what Messrs. HODDER AND STOUGHTON'S official reviewer said of Mr. HAL. G. EVARTS' _The Cross-Pull_: "The best dog story since The Call of the Wild," etc., etc. Well, I certainly haven't seen a better. Mr. EVARTS' hero, _Flash_, is a noble beast of mixed strain--grey wolf, coyote, dog. The Cross-Pull is the conflict between the dog and the wolf, between loyalty to his master and mistress whom he brings together and serves, and the wolf whose proper business is to be biting elks in the neck. Happier than most tamed brutes he is involved as chief actor in a round up of some desperate outlaws, among whom is his chief enemy, and he is fortunate enough to serve the state while pursuing to a successful end his bitter private quarrel. Brute _Brent_ gets and deserves the kind of bite which was planned by a far-seeing providence for the elk.... You can tell when an author really loves and knows animals or is merely "putting it on." Mr. EVARTS understands, sentimentalises less than most interpreters; seems to know a good deal. The story loses no interest from being set in the American hinterland of a few decades ago. All real animal lovers should get this book--they should really.

* * * * *

If it be true art, as I rather think someone has said it is, to state what is obvious in regard to a subject while creating by the manner of the statement an impression of its subtler features, then Mr. PERCY BROWN, in writing _Germany in Dissolution_ (MELROSE), has proved himself a true artist. For in Germany about the time of the Armistice and during the Spartacist rising certain things happened which got themselves safely into the newspapers, and these he sets forth, mostly in headline form. Beyond this Germany was a seething muddle of contradictions and cross-purposes, which, it is hardly unfair to say, are capably reflected in his pages. Mr. BROWN is a journalist of the school that does not stick at a trifle, a German prison, for instance, when his dear public wants news. His crowning achievement was to persuade Dr. SOLF, when Foreign Minister, to send through the official wireless an account of an interview with himself, which would, as he (SOLF) fondly hoped, help to bamboozle British public opinion. When the article appeared, so well had the author's editor read between the lines of the message that the journalist had to run for his life. He was particularly fortunate too, or clever, in getting in touch with the Kiel sailors who set the revolution going, but in spite of much excellent material, mostly of the "scoop" interview variety, nothing much ever seems to come of it all, and we are left at the end about as wise as we started. All the same, much of the book's detail is interesting, however little satisfaction it offers as a whole.

* * * * *

_Ann's First Flutter_ (ALLEN AND UNWIN) will not arouse any commotion in the dovecotes of the intellectually elect, but it provides an amusing entertainment for those who can appreciate broad and emphatic humour. Mr. R.A. HAMBLIN has succeeded in what he set out to do, and my only quarrel with him is that I believe him to have a subtler sense of humour than he reveals here. _Ann_ was a grocer's daughter, and after her attempt to flutter for herself had failed she married _Tom Bampfield_, a grocer's son. _Tom_ had literary ambitions, and was the author of a novel which his father thought pernicious enough to destroy his custom. Strange however to relate, the novel failed to destroy anything except the author's future as a novelist, and when _Tom_ did succeed in making some pen-money it was by means of a series of funny articles in _The Dry Goods Gazette_--articles so violently humorous that the author's father thoroughly appreciated them. Mr. HAMBLIN'S fun, let me add, is never ill-natured. Even bilious grocers will not resent his jovial invasion of their kingdom.

* * * * *

* * * * *

"City gunsmiths have been busy these days furbishing up sportsmen's
rifles for the '12th.'"--_Scotch Paper._

Personally we use a machine-gun.