Various - Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 159, August 4th, 1920
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Various >> Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 159, August 4th, 1920
* * * * *
"Company's water is on to the house and cowshed."--_Advert. in Daily
Paper._
Now we know why our water is sometimes contaminated with milk.
* * * * *
"One of the most striking of the collection of exhibits of fascinating
interest [at the Imperial War Museum] is the Air Force map for carrying
out the British plan for bombing Berlin. Specimens of the bombs,
weighing 3,000 pounds each, are also included in this museum of war
souvenirs with the object of demonstrating the resources of the Empire
and giving a stimulus to its trade."--_South African Paper._
Motto for British traders: "If at first you don't succeed, try, try
trinitrotoluene."
* * * * *
THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT.
I went into the morning-room with a worried frown upon my brow. Kathleen
was doing the accounts at the table.
"Kathleen," I said, "it's Veronica's birthday on Wednesday and--"
"What did you say seven eighths were?" said Kathleen. "I asked you last
week."
"I can't possibly carry complicated calculations in my head from week to
week," I said; "you should have made a note of it at the time. It's
Veronica's birthday on Wednesday, and what do you think she wants?"
But Kathleen was enthralled by the greengrocer's book. "Have we really had
eight cabbages this week?" she said. "We must, I suppose. Greengrocers are
generally honest; they live so near to nature. Well, now," she shut up her
books, "what were you saying, dear?"
I sighed, cleared my throat and began again. "It's Veronica's birthday on
Wednesday, and what do you think she wants? She wants," I said
dramatically, "a 'frush' from the bird-shop in the village. The ones that
hang in cages outside the door."
"Well," said Kathleen, "why not?"
"Why not?" I became more than serious. "A daughter of ours has demanded for
a plaything a caged bird. Psychologically it is an important occasion. Now
or never must she learn to look upon a caged bird with horror. What I am
thinking of is the psychological effect upon the child's character. The
psychological--"
"You needn't worry about Veronica's psychology," said Kathleen. "Veronica's
psychology is in the right place."
"You misunderstand the meaning of the word," I said loftily. "However, if
you wish to wash your hands of Veronica's training, if you refuse to cope
with your own child, I must take it upon myself."
"Do," said Kathleen sweetly; "I'll listen."
* * * * *
It was Veronica's birthday. We were outside the bird-shop. The thrushes in
cages hung around the door.
Veronica lifted grave blue eyes to me trustingly. "You promised me a frush,
darlin'," she said.
Veronica is small for her name and has a disarming habit of introducing
terms of endearment into her conversation.
"You didn't quite understand me," I said gently. "I said I'd think about
it."
"Yes, but that means promising, doesn't it? Finking about it _means_
promising. I _fought_ you meant promising. I fought all night you meant
promising. Darlin'." The last word was a sentence all by itself.
Kathleen raised her eyebrows when we came out with the bird in the cage.
"This isn't quite the moment," I said with dignity; "it's best to let her
get it first and realise afterwards."
"Let's all go to Crown Hill now," said Veronica in a voice that admitted of
no denial.
* * * * *
We were on Crown Hill. Veronica had hugged the cage to her small bosom all
the way, making little reassuring noises to its occupant.
"Now," said Kathleen, "hadn't you better begin? Isn't this the psycho--you
know what moment?"
I took a deep breath and began.
"Veronica," I said, "listen to me for a moment. If you were a little
bird--"
But she wasn't listening to me. She had held up the little wooden cage,
opened the clasp of the door and, with a rapt smile on her small shining
face, was watching the "frush" as he soared into the air with a sudden
burst of song.
We none of us spoke till he had vanished from sight. Then Veronica broke
the silence.
"It's all my very own plan," she said proudly. "I planned it all by myself.
An' all my birfdays I'm going to have one of that nasty man's frushes for a
present, and we'll all free come up here and let it out--always an' always
an' for ever an' ever--right up till I'm a hundred."
"Why stop at a hundred?" I murmured, recovering myself with an effort.
But I could not escape Kathleen's eye.
"I hope you feel small," it said.
I did.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _The Colonel._ "_ANYONE_ MAY MISS THE TIDE OR GET STUCK UPON
A MUD-BANK; BUT TO LOSE THE MATCHES AND FORGET THE WHISKY IS TO PROVE
YOURSELF UNWORTHY OF THE NAME OF 'YACHTSMAN'!"]
* * * * *
RHYMES OF THE UNDERGROUND.
I.
I never heard of Ruislip, I never saw its name,
Till Underground advertisements had brought it into fame;
I've never been to Ruislip, I never yet have heard
The true pronunciation of so singular a word.
I'd like to go to Ruislip; I'd like to feast my eyes
On "scenes of sylvan beauty" that the posters advertise;
But, though I long to view the spot, while I am in the dark
About its name I dare not face the booking-office clerk.
Suppose I ventured "Riz-lip" and in answer to his "Eh?"
Stammered "Ruse-lip, Rise-lip, Rees-lip," just imagine how he'd say,
"Well, where _do_ you want to book to?" and the voices from behind,
"Must we wait until this gentleman has ascertained his mind?"
II.
The trains that stop at Down Street--(Sing willow-waly-O!)--
They run through Hyde Park Corner as fast as they can go;
And trains at Hyde Park Corner that stop--(Oh dearie me!)--
Contrariwise at Down Street are "non-stop" as can be.
There's a man at Down Street Station--he came there years ago
To get to Hyde Park Corner--(Sing willow-waly-O!)--
And, as the trains go past him, 'tis pitiful to see
Him beat his breast and murmur, "Oh dearie, dearie me!"
* * * * *
'"The Rev. R.S. ---- has accepted the post of librarian of Pussy House,
Oxford."--_Local Paper._
And will soon get to work on the catalogue.
* * * * *
"WANTED--a middle-aged Witty Indian to read Bengali religious books and
capable of telling witty and fairy tales from 12 to 3 p.m."--_Indian
Paper._
This might suit Mr. GANDHI. If not witty, he is very good at fairy-tales.
* * * * *
VADE MECUMS.
I have invented a new sort of patience. It is called Vade Mecums. The rules
are quite simple and all the plant you need for it is a "Vade Mecum"
traveller's handbook and a complete ignorance of all languages but your
own. Get one of these fascinating little classics, a passport and a single
to Boulogne, and you can begin at once.
The game consists in firing off (in the local lingo) every single phrase
that occurs in the book. The only other rule in the game is that the
occasion for making each remark must be reasonably apposite. You need not
keep to the order in the book and no points are awarded for pronunciation,
provided that the party addressed shows by word or deed that he (or she)
has understood you. By way of illustration I will give some account of my
first experiments in this enthralling pastime.
As it happened I was able to start at once--too soon, in fact, to be
altogether comfortable. We had scarcely put out from Folkestone before I
got my chance. The sea was distinctly rough, but I just had time to open my
Vade Mecum at page 228 (sub-heading, "On embarking and what happens at
sea"), and to read to a passing French steward the first sentence that
caught my eye. It was as follows: "The wind is very violent; the sea is
very rough; the waves are very high; the rolling of the vessel makes my
head ache; I am very much inclined to be sick."
After that I made no more progress till we reached Boulogne; but from the
steward's subsequent actions I judged that he had understood; so I was one
up.
My Vade Mecum, like most of its kind, was unfortunately compiled many years
ago and had never been brought up to date. This, of course, saved me the
expense of having to hire aeroplanes or even motor-cars, but it landed me
in quite a number of difficulties at the opposite extreme, as you will see.
For instance, in order to polish off the heading, "Of what may happen on
the road," I was compelled to obtain a carriage. Judge then my joy when, on
reaching a carriage builder's, I discovered a whole section tucked away in
a corner of the book dealing exclusively with that very topic. I can think
of no other conceivable circumstances under which I could have said, "The
wheels are in a miserable state; the body is too heavy; the springs are too
light; the shafts are too short; the pole is too thin; the shape is
altogether old-fashioned, and the seats are both high and uncomfortable."
Yet now I said it all--in two halves, it is true, and in two different
shops; but still I said it all. The first half cost me three front teeth,
which fell out while the outraged _carrossier_ was ejecting me; the second
cost me a large sum of money, because somehow or other I found I had
_bought_ the vehicle in question. This I fancy must have been occasioned by
my turning over two pages at once, so that I suppose I really said, "Mr.
X., you are an honest man; I will give you ten thousand francs, but on
condition that you furnish splinter-bars and traces also for that price."
Still one must pay for one's pleasures, and once _en route_ I made short
work of the "What-may-happen-on-the-road" section. The sentence from which
I anticipated most trouble was this: "Postilion, stop. A spoke of one of
the wheels is broken; some of the harness is undone; a spring is also
broken and one of the horses' shoes is come off." I got out all this
(without having to tell a lie too) and was just looking feverishly through
the book to find phrases to describe the ricketty state of every other part
of the vehicle when the off hind-wheel came in half, the front axle snapped
and the carriage rolled over on its side stone dead. When I came to myself
I found that I was comfortably seated in a ditch, my driver beside me and
my Vade Mecum still open in my hand; so I had the gratification of being
able to continue the conversation where I had left off. "We should do
well," I read, "to get out."
I will not detain you long over the difficulties that I had with the
"Society" section. But I feel I ought to mention the business of the
Countess, if only to put intending players on their guard. There is a
puzzling phrase which occurs in answer to the observation, "Pray come
nearer the fire; I am sure you must be cold." The proper answer is, "No, I
thank you. I am very well placed here beside the Countess." It took me a
month to find a Countess, two to meet her in the drawing-room of a mutual
friend, and four to recover from the hole which the irascible little Count
made in me when we met next morning on the field of honour.
So I pass sadly and with tears of chagrin to my ultimate defeat. I met my
Waterloo, my friends, in the section labelled "The Tailor." Requests within
reason I can comply with, for the fun of the thing. Eatables and drinks,
suites of rooms and carriages, when ordered on the lavish scale of my Vade
Mecum, are not exactly _cheap_ now-a-days. But it's about the limit when
one's Mecum expects one to squander the savings of a lifetime in ordering
several suits of clothes at once. And yet there it was as large as life,
the accursed sentence that made me shut the book with a snap and come
home:--"These coats fit me well, though the cut is not fashionable. I shall
require also three pairs of trousers, three nankeen pantaloons and four
waistcoats."
If anyone feels inclined to try my patience--and theirs--I should like to
mention that I have a nice annotated Mecum and a good second-hand carriage
for disposal at a very moderate figure.
* * * * *
A VICTIM OF FASHION.
Like everybody else that one knows, Kidger is an ex-service man. During the
last year of that war on the Continent some time ago he had the acting rank
of captain, as second in command of a six-mangle army laundry.
When I knew him in pre-war days he was an amiable character, with only two
serious weaknesses. One of these was an exaggerated fastidiousness about
clothes, and the other an undue deference to the dicta of the Press. A
leader in _The Tailor and Cutter_ would make him thoughtful for days. This
fatal concern about clothing amounted to a mania where neckwear was
concerned.
In pre-war days he wore the ordinary single, perpendicular variety of
collar, with sharp turn-over points, starched and white to match his
shirts.
Before leaving England to join his laundry, Kidger, with a magnificent
gesture, abandoned his fine collection of collars to his aunt, bidding her
convert them to some patriotic end. The fond lady, however, fearing lest
anything should befall her nephew if a hot sector of the line moved up to
the laundry, preserved them carefully, and Kidger was very glad to reclaim
them on his demobilisation.
One unfortunate day Kidger's morning paper contained one of those Fashions
for Men columns, where he learned that the best people were wearing only
soft collars, as they couldn't stand being cooped up in starch after the
freedom of uniform. Kidger felt that as an ex-army man it was up to him to
maintain any military tradition, and he immediately bought several dozen,
soft white collars with long sharp points. The fellow in the shop said they
were correct.
A week later another expert mentioned in print that no man who had any
self-respect wore collars with sharp corners.
Kidger is not a manual worker. He reduced his cigarette allowance and
bought some round-cornered ones, white as before. And then his aunt
directed the poor fellow's attention to a paragraph by an authority signing
himself "The Colonel," which stated that none but the profiteer was wearing
white collars, and that you might know the man who had done his bit by the
fact that he wore a blue one with slightly rounded corners, accompanied by
a self-coloured tie of a darker shade, tied in a neat butterfly bow.
This was a blow to Kidger, but he resigned from his golf club and laid in
some haberdashery in accordance with "The Colonel's" orders.
Recommendations would be too mild a word. I saw the paragraph--most
peremptory.
But in a rival paper "Brigadier" mentioned only three days later that none
but the most noxious bounder and tout would be found dead in a blue collar
with a white shirt. Kidger saw the truth of this at once; he had
receptivity if not intuition. After a trying interview with his banker he
bought several blue shirts.
Then the General who contributes "Sartorial Tips" to several leading
journals remarked that, since all kinds of people were wearing coloured
shirts and collars, the man who desired to retain or achieve that touch of
distinction which means so much must at any cost wear white ones; and that,
further, Society was frowning on the slovenly unstarched neck-wear of the
relapsed temporary gentleman.
Kidger began to show signs of neurasthenia. His stock of pre-war collars
was exhausted, or rather eroded. His faithful aunt, however, remembered a
neglected birthday and gave him a dozen new ones, of the up-and-down model,
to save Kidger's delicate neck. These, with his nice butterfly-bow ties,
looked really well, and Kidger recovered his old form.
I warned him to keep to the police and Parliamentary news in the papers,
but his eyes would wander. The result was that he learned from "Brigade
Major" that the wearing of a butterfly bow with a double event collar was a
solecism past forgiveness or repentance, and that its smart appearance was
the deadly bait which caught the miserable bumpkin who ignorantly fancied
that a man could dress by the light of nature.
Kidger collapsed. His aunt volunteered to sell her annuity and help him,
but the innate nobility of the man forbade him to accept this useless
sacrifice.
His medical attendant tells me that he is now allowed to read only poetry,
wearing a sweater meanwhile, and that arrangements are being made for him
to join a sheep-farming cousin in Patagonia, where collars are despised and
newspapers invariably out of date.
W.K.H.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _She._ "I TOLD 'EE TO GREASE THE WHEELS AFORE WE COME OUT."
_He._ "IT BE AS MUCH AS I CAN DO TO KEEP UP WITH IT AS 'TIS."]
* * * * *
A SUPERFLUOUS ANNOUNCEMENT.
"The Government have found it impossible to proceed with the Government
of Ireland before the Autumn Session."--_Daily Paper._
* * * * *
"Clerk (Junior) Wanted for Spinners' Office, age 1617.--_Yorkshire
Paper._
"Junior," we take it, is a misprint.
* * * * *
EDWARD AND THE B.O.F.
It was the first Sunday of the season, and the select end of Folkesbourne
revealed in each carefully curled geranium leaf, in each carefully-combed
blade of grass, the thought and labour expended by the B.O.F. (Borough of
Folkesbourne).
Upon the greensward stood orderly rows of well-washed chairs, each with
B.O.F. neatly stencilled upon its back. On this day, however, and at this
hour (12.30 P.M.) scarce a B.O.F. was visible; each was hidden by a
well-dressed visitor. And between the orderly rows of well-dressed visitors
paraded orderly pairs of superbly-dressed visitors.
I was standing at the corner by the steps leading to the lower parade and
thence to the beach and the rocks where the common people (myself on
week-days, for instance) go to paddle with their children. I was wearing my
new pale-grey suit which cost--but you will know more or less what it cost;
I need not labour an unpleasant subject--and I was actually talking at the
time to a member of the B.O.F.
"This is Peace at last," he was saying; "the place really begins to look--"
It was at this moment that Edward appeared. His route was the very centre
of the lawn. He was wearing a battered Panama hat, a much-darned brownish
jersey, and his nether man--or rather boy, for Edward's years are but
four--was encased in paddling drawers made of the same material as a
sponge-bag. Black sand-shoes completed his outfit, and a broken shrimping-
net trailed behind him. At the moment when Edward first caught my horrified
eye a particularly well-groomed young gentleman of about his own age caught
Edward's eye in turn. Edward paused to survey this silken wonder with
interest. Then, as if prompted thereto by the sight, he snatched off his
hat and, casting it upon the ground, kicked it vigorously across the grass.
The removal of the hat was the last straw, for Edward's hair is
provocatively red. My friend of the B.O.F. advanced towards him with the
intention of exerting authority and restoring discipline. Edward turned at
the sound of a stern voice. Possibly he might have put out his tongue--you
never know with Edward. But, what was worse, far worse, he saw me. With a
glad cry of "Daddy" he rushed to me and, regardless of the fact that his
front was covered with green slime, the result of going _ventre a pierre_
over the rocks, he flung his arms round my legs.
I would gladly have sunk into the ground. All eyes were upon us, and
remained, as I felt, upon me, even when a breathless nursery-maid had
retrieved Edward and borne him seawards once more.
One especially I had noticed, a very superbly dressed female visitor who
had paused to witness the whole scene and was now resuming her promenade. I
dreaded the comment which I felt I should overhear as she passed me--"What
a horrible child!" it would be at the very least. But women are strangely
unaccountable, even in so highly civilised an atmosphere as this. I
distinctly heard her say, "What a darling!"
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Mother._ "IT IS VERY NAUGHTY TO TELL UNTRUTHS, KITTY. THOSE
WHO DO SO NEVER GET TO HEAVEN."
_Kitty._ "DIDN'T YOU EVER TELL AN UNTRUTH, MUMMY?"
_Mother._ "NO, DEAR--NEVER."
_Kitty._ "WELL, YOU'LL BE FEARFULLY LONELY, WON'T YOU, WITH ONLY GEORGE
WASHINGTON?"]
* * * * *
THE HORRORS OF PEACE.
"Wanted.--Boy for Butchering, about 15 years old."--_Local Paper._
Extract from a solicitor's letter:--
"The sale of the above premises is now nearing completion and we expect
to have the conveyance ready for execution in the course of a short
period the length of which depends to some extent upon how soon we can
obtain the execution of the Bishop."
* * * * *
NEO-TOPICS.
There was a young neo-DELANE
Whose writing was frequently sane;
But the name of LLOYD GEORGE
So uplifted his gorge
That it threatened to swallow his brain.
There was an adored neo-Queen
Who ruled the whole world on the screen;
She simply knocked spots
Off poor MARY OF SCOTS,
But she doubled the gloom of our Dean.
There was an advanced neo-Georgian,
Or perhaps we should say Georgy-Porgian,
When asked to declare
What his principles were,
He invariably answered, "Pro-Borgian."
There was a great neo-Art critic
Whose style was extremely mephitic;
He treated VAN GOGH
And CEZANNE as dead dog,
And JOHN as a growth parasitic.
* * * * *
OUR BLOATED PLURALISTS.
"Wanted, Organist. Small country church. Salary L20. Good lodgings.
(Could be held with post of Milker on Manor Farm; permanent work;
Sundays free; ample salary.)"--_Church Times._
* * * * *
"The Grimsby trawler Silurian has towed Sir George Grahame, Minister
Plenipotentiary in Paris, to be his Majesty's Ambassador Extraordinary
and Plenipotentiary to the King of the Belgians."--_Provincial Paper._
We really think the Government might have provided him with a torpedo-boat.
* * * * *
"The one thing which the Cabinet does not intend to do is to authorise
the proclamation of marital law. It would engage far too many troops."
--_Provincial Paper._
The Irish girls are _so_ attractive.
* * * * *
"A friend of mine bought from a bookseller who was also, oddly enough,
a bibliophile himself, a copy of Arnold's very rare book, _The Strayed
Revetter_, by A. He gave 6d. It is worth L5."--_Book Post._
Surely more than that!
* * * * *
"An Ipswichomnibus pushed its bonnet through the window of a millinery
shop."--_Daily Paper._
This intelligent animal (believed to be the female of the Brontosaurus) was
probably seeking a change of headgear.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Tripper._ "I'VE A BLOOMIN' GOOD MIND TO REPORT YOU FOR
PROFITEERING."
_Old Salt._ "WHAT YER TALKIN' ABOUT?"
_Tripper._ "WELL, THEM SHRIMPS I BOUGHT OFF YOU. ONE OF EM'S GOT ONLY ONE
EYE."]
* * * * *
OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
(_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks._)
I rather wish that the publishers of _Invincible Minnie_ (HODDER AND
STOUGHTON) had not permitted themselves to print upon the wrapper either
their own comments or those of Miss ELISABETH SANXAY HOLDING, the author.
Because for my part, reading these, I formed the idea (entirely wrong) that
the book would be in some way pretentious and affected; whereas it is the
simple truth to call it the most mercilessly impersonal piece of fiction
that I think I ever read. There is far too much plot for me to give you any
but a suggestion of it. The story is of the lives of two sisters, _Frances_
and _Minnie_; mostly (as the title implies) of _Minnie_. To say that no one
but a woman would have dared to imagine such a heroine, much less to follow
her, through every phase of increasing hatefulness, to her horrid
conclusion is to state an obvious truism. It is incidentally also to give
you some idea of the kind of person _Minnie_ is, that female Moloch,
devastating, all-sacrificing, beyond restraint.... As for Miss HOLDING, the
publishers turned out to be within the mark in claiming for her "a new
voice." I don't, indeed, for the moment recall any voice in the least like
it, or any such method; too honest for irony, too detached for sentiment
and, as I said above, entirely merciless. Towards the end I found myself
falling back on the old frightened protest, "People don't do these things."
I still cling to this belief, but the fact remains that Miss HOLDING has a
haunting trick of persuading one that they might. Minor faults, such as an
irritating idiom and some carelessness of form, she will no doubt correct;
meanwhile you have certainly got to read--"to suffer" would be the apter
word--this remarkable book, whose reception I await with curiosity.