Chapter M: C. BROKE, Capt

_September 9th, 1920._
To Captain M. C. Broke.

I am directed to inform you that you have been awarded a disability pension at the rate of five hundred pounds per annum. A draft for the amount due, including arrears from 5/11/19--date of disembodiment or demobilisation--was despatched to your address this morning per King's Messenger.

I have the honour to be, Sir,
Your humble and obedient Servant,
CUTHBERT RUTT,
for Ministry of Pensions.

* * * * *

A BIT OF TOBACCO-ASH IN YOUR EYE, YOUR REEL JAMMED, ONE OF YOUR LEGS THROUGH A LOOP OF YOUR LINE AND THE BIGGEST SALMON YOU EVER SAW ON THE OTHER END OF IT.]

* * * * *

NEW RHYMES FOR OLD CHILDREN.

THE GLOW-WORM.

The little glow-worm sits and glows
As brilliant as the stars,
But you are wrong if you suppose
That he will light cigars.

In fact, he seems to be exempt
From Nature's general plan;
He never makes the least attempt
To be of use to Man.

And if you think that it requires
A scientific brain
To understand his tiny fires
Then you are wrong again.

The meaning of his shininess
Is fairly clear to me;
It is intended to impress
The future Mrs. G.

No doubt you think it is his nose
Which gleams across the glen;
Well, it is not; the part that glows
Is on the abdomen.

And very likely that explains
Why all these millionaires
Buy such expensive shiny chains
To hang about on theirs.

* * * * *

The Editor who read these lines
Has quite a different tale;
He says it is the _she_ that shines
To captivate the male.

He has a perfect right to doubt
The statements in this song,
But if he thinks I'll scratch them out
He's absolutely wrong.

A. P. H.

* * * * *

"I EXPECT I'LL START GOLF. BUT I HOPE I SHAN'T LIVE AS LONG AS THAT."]

* * * * *

FOR OURSELVES ALONE.

Our hostess had taken us over to "Sheltered End," the pleasant country home of Mrs. Willoughby Brock, to play tennis. As however there was only one court and quite a number of young and middle-aged people were standing near it with racquets in their hands and an expression on their faces in which frustration and anticipation fought for supremacy, it followed that other beguilements had to be found. My own fate was to fall into the hands of Mrs. Brock, whose greatest delight on earth seems to be to have a stranger to whom she can display the beauties of her abode and enlarge upon the unusual qualities of her personality. She showed and told me all. We explored the estate from the dog-kennel to the loggia for sleeping out "under the stars;" from the pergola to the library; from the sundial to the telephone, "the only one for miles;" and as we walked between the purple and mauve Michaelmas daisies in her long herbaceous borders, with Red Admiral butterflies among the myriad little clean blossoms, she said how odd it was that some people have the gift of attracting friends and others not; and what a strange thing it is that where one person has to toil to make a circle others are automatically surrounded by nice creatures; and asked me if I had any views as to the reason, but did not pause for the reply.

It was a warm mellow day--almost the first of summer, according to one's senses, although nearly the last, according to the calendar--and Mrs. Brock was so happy to be in a monologue that I could enjoy the garden almost without interruption. For a two and a half years' existence it certainly was a triumph. Here and there a reddening apple shone. The hollyhocks must have been ten feet high.

"Ah! here comes the dear Vicar," said Mrs. Brock suddenly, and, rising up from a rose which I was inhaling (and I wish that people would grow roses, as they used to do years ago, nose-high), I saw a black figure approaching.

"He is such a charming man," Mrs. Brock continued, "and devoted to me."

"Good afternoon," said the Vicar. "How exquisite those delphiniums are!" he added after introductions were complete; "such a delicate blue! I should not have intruded had I known you had a party"--he waved his hand towards the single tennis-court, around which the wistful racquet-bearers were now (as it seemed) some thousands strong, "but it is always a pleasure"--he turned to me--"to be able to walk in this paradise on a fine day and appreciate its colour and its fragrance. I find Mrs. Brock so valuable a parochial counsellor too."

"I think," I said, not in the least unwilling to be tactful, "I will see what the rest of our party are doing."

"Oh, no," said the Vicar; "please don't let me drive you away. As a matter of fact, since there are so many here I won't stay myself. But I wonder," he addressed Mrs. Brock, "as I am here, if I might use your telephone for a moment?"

"Of course," said she.

"Thank you so much," he replied; "yes, I know where it is," and with a genial and courtly salutation he moved off in the direction of the house.

"Such a true neighbour!" said Mrs. Brock. "Ah! and here is another," she went on. And along the same path, where the Michaelmas daisies were thickest, I saw a massive woman in white, like a ship in full sail, bearing down upon us, defending her head from the gentle September sun with a red parasol. "This," Mrs. Brock hurriedly informed me, "is Lady Cranstone, who lives in the house with the green shutters at the end of the village. Such a dear person! She's always in and out. The widow of the famous scientist, you know."

I didn't know; but what does it matter?

By this time the dear person was within hailing distance, but she flew no signals of cordiality; her demeanour rather was austere and arrogant. Mrs. Brock hurried towards her to assist her to her moorings, and I was duly presented.

"I didn't intend to come in again to-day," said Lady Cranstone, whose features still successfully failed to give to the stranger any indication of the benignity that, it was suggested, irradiated her being.

"But you are always so welcome," said Mrs. Brock. "Lady Cranstone," she continued to me, "is kindness itself. She makes all the difference between loneliness and--and content."

Lady Cranstone picked a rose and pinned it in her monumental bosom. "I don't know that I had anything in particular to say," she remarked. "I chanced to be passing and I merely looked in; but since I am here perhaps you would allow me to use your telephone--"

Mrs. Brock beamed her delighted acquiescence and the frigate sailed on. "You've no idea," said Mrs. Brock, "what a friendly crowd there is in these parts. I don't know how it is, but this little place of mine, modest though it is, and unassuming and unclever as I am, is positively the very centre of the district. It's like a club-house. How strange life is! What curious byways there are in human sympathy!"

This being the kind of remark that is best replied to with an inarticulate murmur, I provided an inarticulate murmur; and I was about to make a further and more determined effort to get away when a maid-servant approached with a card.

Mrs. Brock took it and read the name with a little cry of satisfaction. "Lord Risborough," she said to me. "At last! How nice of him to call. They live at Risborough Park, you know. I always said they would never condescend to dignify 'Sheltered End' with their presence; but I somehow knew they would." She purred a little. And then, "Where is his lordship?" she asked; but the girl's reply was rendered unnecessary by the nobleman himself, who advanced briskly upon Mrs. Brock, hat in hand.

"I trust," he said, "that you will pardon the informality of this visit. Lady Risborough is so sorry not to have been able to call yet, but--but--Yes, I was wondering if you'd be so very kind as to do me a little favour? The fact is, our telephone is out of order--most annoying--and I wondered if you would let me use yours. I hear that you have one."

"I will take you to it," said Mrs. Brock.

"Most kind, most kind!" his lordship was muttering.

There was no difficulty in making my escape now.

E. V. L.

* * * * *

"NOT TO ME, MUM. I ALLUS GIVES MINE TO THE PIGS WHEN IT GETS THAT FAR."]

* * * * *

Mr. Punch desires to express his sincere regret for an injustice done, though without malice, to the Publishers (Messrs. SWEET AND MAXWELL) and the Editor of _Williams' Real Property_, in an article that appeared in the issue of August 18th, under the title, "Blewitt on Real Property." The new edition of _Williams' Real Property_ contains a large amount of fresh material and represents considerable labour spent over the careful revision of the previous edition.

* * * * *

"At 1 a.m., uninterrupted rifle fire and bomb explosions
were audible. It is reported that a French officer was then
addressing the crowd." _Times of Malaya_.

Our old sergeant-major must look to his laurels.

* * * * *

THE PEERLESS PROVINCIAL.

[A London paper learns from a West End tailor that many people
in the North and Midlands now achieve a higher standard of
dress than the "man about town."]

If perchance you would gaze upon those whose array's
Of impeccable texture and cut,
It is futile to go to Pall Mall or the Row,
Now the haunt of the second-rate nut;
Take a train (G.N.R.), for example, as far
As Cleckheaton or Cleethorpes-on-Sea,
Where each male that you meet, from his head to his feet,
Follows Fashion's most recent decree.

A legitimate claim to sartorial fame
Can be made by the locals at Leek,
Whose apparel is apt to be ruthlessly scrapped
After having been worn for a week;
Trousers bag at the knees in no town on the Tees,
And the Londoner has to admit
That he cannot compete against Bootle's _élite_,
And that Percy of Pudsey is IT.

Wigan's well in the van, for her sons to a man
Are the ultimate word in cravats
And are said to outdo even Cheadle and Crewe
In the matter of collars and spats;
But the pick of the lot is the privileged spot
Where the smart set, the quite _comme il faut_,
Have a mentor and guide who is famed far and wide
As Bertie the Bridlington Beau.

* * * * *

THE PASSING OF ALFRED.

Alfred is dead and with him has gone John's last efforts at making and training pets. It has simply been one disappointment after another. There was Charles the monkey. Charles could write his own name with a pen and digest the creamiest shaving-stick without making a lather. There was Joey, the billy-goat, such an entertaining fellow, who could pick up and set down anything with his horns from a basket to a dustman. And then there was Livo--immortal Livo. There never was such a down-at-heel and unscrupulous young ruffian of a mongrel terrier as Livo, nor one that more completely convinced people that he was a gentleman of blood and a pure-souled spiritualist.

Of course there were heaps of other pets as well, but just as they seemed about to reach that stage of human intelligence so earnestly desired by their young master they all suddenly died, even as Alfred, the last of a long list, gave up the ghost yesterday.

Alfred was a trout. Not your ordinary fly-jumping kind of trout, because there is never anything ordinary about John's pets. Alfred, for instance, had not lived in water for three months. He simply had no use for the stuff, and, as for jumping at a fly, his nerves were far too good for that sort of thing.

His attachment to John was complete. He would take food from no one else and the presence of his eight-year-old master in the long grass was sufficient to bring him erect on his tail, where he would wag his fins and make strange noises in cordial welcome. In many respects he was the most superior pet John has ever had. He could affect boredom and his exhibition of the glad eye was considered by John's eldest sister to be positively deadly. It is, in fact, true to say that his keen desire to adopt as many human habits as possible often led us to mistake him for one of ourselves.

John, however, was not quite satisfied with his pupil until one bright morning last week when Alfred displayed the first signs of having acquired the Directional Wriggle. Strange as it may sound, this very human trout actually wriggled after John for a distance of five yards. Three days later he pursued his master to the village post-office and beat him by a short gill.

Yesterday, however, Alfred excelled himself. John had left early for the stream, and being in a hurry took advantage of the thin plank crossing. Now the plank is very slippery and had been placed over the spot where the stream is deepest. John crossed it carefully enough, but looking back for a second he suddenly noticed that Alfred was following him. Before he could raise his voice in protest the trout had mounted the plank and was wriggling across it. Then, horror of horrors! in the middle of the plank the wretched fish suddenly lurched, lost its footing, plunged into the water and was drowned.

* * * * *

FLOWERS' NAMES.

WHAT THE FAIRIES WEAR.

If only you walk with an open ear
And watch with an open eye,
There's wonderful magic to see and hear
By silently passing by;
In meadows and ditches, here and there,
You'll find the clothes that the fairies wear.

You can see each golden and silvery frock
In Lady's Mantle and Ladysmock;
There's Lady's Garter (which, I suppose,
They wear with the cowslips called Hose-in-hose);
The solemn fairies who ride on owls
Shroud their faces with Monkswood cowls;
And there's other things besides fairy dresses--
There's Lady's Mirror and Lady's Tresses.

Bachelors' Buttons must be for elves
Who have to do up their clothes themselves;
And the tailor fairies use Fairy Shears,
Long cutting-grasses that grow by meres;
And they mend their things with the Spider-stitches,
Faint white flowers that you find in ditches,
And Shepherd's Needle, which you'll see plain
In every meadow and field and lane;
And when they've used them they grow again.

If only you walk with an open ear
And watch with an open eye,
There's wonderful secrets to see and hear
By silently passing by;
In meadows and ditches, here and there,
You'll find the clothes that the fairies wear;
And if you look when they think you've gone
Perhaps you'll see them trying them on.

* * * * *

"The whole of the United States is intensely interested in a
baseball scandal revealed a few days ago.

The Grand Judy, which is now investigating the charge, has
already indicted eight of the leading players."--_Evening
Paper_.

Mr. Punch wishes his old consort more power to her elbow.

* * * * *

ROBBERY IN COURT.

There would seem to be some need for watchfulness in our Courts of Justice lest the customs and privileges which to so great an extent have made them what they are should be allowed to lapse.

A great sensation was caused throughout the legal profession the other day when it was reported in the Press that a witness, in giving evidence, made the following remark:--"It goes in one ear and out of the other. Perhaps that is because there is nothing to stop it." The report stated that laughter followed, and, if that was indeed the case, then we have no hesitation whatever in characterising it as a most unseemly outburst.

If witnesses are to be permitted with impunity to snatch out of the Judge's mouth the jokes which naturally arise out of their evidence, our whole judicial system will be imperilled. In offering an explanation as to why "it goes in one ear and out of the other," the witness committed a grave breach of etiquette. That explanation, if made at all, should have been made by the Judge in the first place. Or if, after due opportunity had been given, his Lordship showed no desire to avail himself of the opening, then the privilege should have fallen to the examining counsel. If he in turn waived it, it should have been open to counsel on the other side to snap up the chance.

We fail to understand how such a remark, coming from a witness, could have been allowed to pass without rebuke from the Judge or protest from the counsel, or some attempt at least to maintain order on the part of the usher.

* * * * *

THE CHANTRY.

Grey dust lies on his battered face;
The glories of his shield are dim;
Half vanished are the words of grace
Beseeching pity and peace for him
Along the Purbeck rim.

His hands are folded palm to palm
(Some fingers lacking on the right),
And at his peakéd feet the calm
Old lion shows he fell in fight,
As best became a knight.

The ivy shakes its tattered leaves
Where once he saw the painted pane;
The brooding, scurrying spider weaves
Where cloth of damask dyed in grain
Will never hang again.

With missal propped upon his helm
For him no drowsy chantor pleads;
But blackbirds in the darkening elm
Sing plain-song, and the Abbey meads
Retell their daisy-beads.