Various - Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 159, September 29th, 1920
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Various >> Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 159, September 29th, 1920
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 159.
September 29th, 1920.
CHARIVARIA.
An epidemic of measles is reported in the North. It seems that in these
days of strikes people are either coming out in sympathy or in spots.
* * *
The secret of industrial peace, says a sporting paper, is more
entertainment for the masses. We have often wondered what our workers do to
while away the time between strikes.
* * *
"The cost of living for working-class families," says Mr. C.A. MCCURDY, the
Food Controller, "will probably increase by 9s. 6d. a week at Christmas."
That is, of course, if Christmas ever comes.
* * *
We understand that Dean INGE has been invited to meet the FOOD CONTROLLER,
in order to defend his title.
* * *
"Nobody wants a strike," says Mr. BRACE, M.P. We can only suppose therefore
that they must be doing it for the films.
* * *
An American artist who wanted to paint a storm at sea is reported to have
been lashed to a mast for four hours. We understand that he eventually
broke away and did it after all.
* * *
"What is England's finance coming to?" asks a City editor in a
contemporary. We can only say it isn't coming to us.
* * *
In Petrograd the fare for half-an-hour's cab ride is equal to two hundred
pounds in English money at the old rate of exchange. Fortunately in London
one could spend the best part of a day in a taxi-cab for that amount.
* * *
"Before washing a flannel suit," says a home journal, "shake it and beat it
severely with a stick." Before doing this, however, it would be just as
well to make sure that the whole of the husband has been removed.
* * *
A lion-tamer advertises in a contemporary for a situation. It is reported
that Mr. SMILLIE contemplates engaging him for Sir ROBERT HORNE.
* * *
Whatever else happens, somebody says, the public must hang together. But
what does he think we do in a Tube?
* * *
"Primroses have been gathered at Welwyn," says _The Evening News_. As even
this seems to have failed we think it is time to drop these attempts to
draw the POET LAUREATE.
* * *
Glasgow licensees are being accused of giving short whisky measure. It is
even said that in some extreme cases they paint the whisky on the glass
with a camel-hair brush.
* * *
Mice, says Mrs. GREIVE, of Whins, hate the smell of mint. So do lambs.
* * *
"Coal strike or no coal strike," says _The Daily Mail_, "the Commercial
Motor Exhibition at Olympia will not be postponed." This is the dogged
spirit that made England what it used to be.
* * *
Orpheus of old, an American journal reminds us, could move stones with his
music. We have heard piano-players who could move whole families; but this
was before the house shortage.
* * *
The National Association of Dancing Masters has decided to forbid "the
cockroach dive" this year. Our advice to the public in view of this
decision is to go about just as if nothing serious had happened.
* * *
A large party of American University students are on a visit to
Switzerland. It is satisfactory to know that the Alps are counted every
morning and all Americans searched before they leave the country.
* * *
"The English house would make an ideal home," says an American journal.
Possibly, if people only had one.
* * *
Three statues have been stolen in one week from Berlin streets. It is now
suggested that the London police might be taken off duty for one night in
order to give the thief a sporting chance.
* * *
It is not true, says an official report, that Scottish troops are being
sent to Ireland. We are pleased to note this indication that the bagpipes
should only be used in cases of great emergency.
* * *
"What does the Mexican President stand for?" asks _The New York Globe_.
Probably because the Presidential chair is so thorny.
* * *
The Dublin County authorities have decided to release from their asylums
all but the most dangerous lunatics. We are assured that local conditions
in no way justify this discrimination.
* * *
A jury of children has been empanelled in Paris to decide which of the toys
exhibited at the Concours Lupine is the most amusing. We understand that at
the time of going to press an indestructible rubber uncle is leading by
several votes.
* * *
A burglar arrested in Berlin was taken ill, and while operating upon him
the surgeons found in his stomach six silver spoons, some forks, a number
of screws and a silver nail file. Medical opinion inclines to the theory
that his illness was due to something he had swallowed.
* * * * *
[Illustration: MEMBER OF CLUB WHICH IS CLOSED FOR CLEANING ACCEPTS THE
PROFFERED HOSPITALITY OF NEIGHBOUR CLUB.]
* * * * *
A FAIR WARNING.
"REQUIRED.--English Child to play afternoons with French boy ten years;
good retribution."--_Continental Daily Mail._
* * * * *
"THE NATIONAL LAYING TEST, 1920-21.
SECTIONS.
1. White Leghorns.
2. White Wyandottes.
3. Rhode Island Reds.
4. Any other Sitting Breeds.
5. Any other Non-Sitting Breeds.
6. Championship (any Breed).
7. Great Eastern Railway Employees."
_Poultry, for the Farmer and Fancier._
We shall treat the porters at Liverpool Street with more respect in future.
* * * * *
MICHAELMAS AND THE GOOSE.
(_Lines written under the threat of a Coal-strike_).
You for whose Mass by immemorial use,
When Autumn enters on his annual cycle,
We offer up the fatted goose
Mid fragrant steam of apple-juice,
Hear our appeal, O Michael!
Sir, do not try our piety too sore,
Bidding us sacrifice--a wrench how cruel!--
Her whom we prize all geese before--
The one that lays that precious ore,
Our priceless daily fuel.
Her output, as it is, shows want of will
To check the slackness growing rife and rifer;
And it would fall far lower still
(Being, indeed, reduced to _nil_)
If they should go and knife her.
Yet there are men who press the slaughterers' claim
In sympathetic language, talking loosely;
Among them Mr. GOSLING--shame
That anyone with such a name
Should cackle so ungoosely!
Not in your honour would that bird be slain
If they should kill her--and the hour is critical--
But for their own ends, thus to gain
An object palpably profane
(That is to say, political).
Defend her, Michael! you who smote the crew
Of Satan on the jaw and stopped their bluffing;
So, if you see her safely through,
We'll give you thrice your usual due
Of other geese (with stuffing).
O.S.
* * * * *
BRIDGE CONVENTIONS.
The game of Auction Bridge may be divided into three species. There is the
one we play at home, the second which we play at the Robinsons', and the
third that is played at the high table at my club.
The three games are peculiarly distinct, but I have only recently
discovered, at some expense, that each one has its particular conventions.
At home, if I venture a light no-trump, and Joan, sitting on my right,
exclaims well out of turn, "Oh! father," we all know that Joan has the
no-trumper, and the play proceeds accordingly.
At the Robinsons' it is different. Suppose I make a call of one spade and
the elder hand two hearts, and my partner (let us suppose he is Robinson)
passes, and I say "Two spades," and the elder hand says "Three hearts," and
Robinson bellows "No," I at once realise that it would be extremely
dangerous to call three spades.
These two typical forms of convention are quite clear and seldom lead to
any misunderstanding. But the high table at the club is different, and, if
I might say so with all diffidence, the conventions there are not so well
defined. In fact they may lead to terrible confusion. I speak with
confidence on this point because I tried them a few days ago.
Three disconsolate monomaniacs wanted making up, and I, dwelling upon the
strong game I had recently been playing at home, threw precaution to the
winds and made them up. My partner was a stern man with a hard blue eye and
susceptible colouring. After we had cut he informed me that, should he
declare one no-trump, he wished to be taken out into a major suit of five;
also, should he double one no-trump, he required me to declare without fail
my best suit. He was going to tell me some more but somebody interrupted
him. Then we started what appeared to be a very ordinary rubber.
My partner perhaps was not quite at his best when it was my turn to lead;
at least he never seemed particularly enthusiastic about anything I did
lead, but otherwise--well, I might almost have been at the Robinsons'. Then
suddenly he doubled one no-trump.
I searched feverishly for my best suit. I had two--four diamonds to the
eight; four hearts to the eight. A small drop of perspiration gathered upon
my brow. Then I saw that, whereas I held the two, three, five of hearts, I
had the two, three, six of diamonds. Breathing a small prayer, I called two
diamonds. This was immediately doubled by the original declarer of
no-trumps. My partner said "No," my other opponent said "No," and I,
thinking it couldn't be worse, switched into my other best suit and made it
two hearts. The doubler passed and I felt the glow of pride which comes to
the successful strategist. This was frozen instantly by my partner's
declaration of two no-trumps.
If Mr. SMILLIE were suddenly transformed into a Duke I am certain he would
not look so genuinely horror-struck as my partner did when I laid my hand
upon the table. Yet, as I pointed out, it was his own beastly convention,
so I just washed my hands of it and leaned back and watched him hurl forth
his cards as Zeus hurled the thunder-bolts about.
Then, of course, the other convention had to have its innings. My partner
went one no-trump, and I began to look up my five suit. In the meantime the
next player on the declaring list doubled the no-trump. This was very
confusing. Was he playing my partner's convention and asking _his_ partner
for his best suit? I hesitated; but orders are orders, so, having five
spades to the nine, I declared two spades. My left-hand enemy said "No"; my
partner said "No"; and the doubler--well, he doubled again. This time my
partner, being Dummy, hurled down all his thunder-bolts--thirteen small
ones--at once. When it was all over he explained at some length that he did
not wish ever to be taken out of an opponent's double. I expect this was
another convention he was going to tell me about when he was interrupted in
the overture to the rubber. Anyway he hadn't told me, and I at some slight
cost--five hundred--had nobly carried out his programme.
When eventually the final blow fell and we, with the aid of the club
secretary, were trying to add up the various columns of figures, the waiter
brought up the evening papers. I seized one and, looking at the chief
events of the day, remarked, "STEVENSON is playing a great game." My late
partner said, "Ah, you're interested in billiards." I admitted the soft
impeachment. "Yes," he said dreamily, "a fine game, billiards; you never
have to play against three opponents."
I have now definitely decided that playing my 2 handicap game at the
Robinsons' and my plus 1 in the home circle is all the bridge I really care
about.
* * * * *
ANOTHER IMPENDING APOLOGY.
"Man's original evolution from the anthropoid apes ... becomes a
reasonable hypothesis, especially when we think of the semi-naked
savages who inhabited these islands when Julius Caesar landed on our
shores, and our present Prime Minister."--_Church Family Newspaper._
* * * * *
"The contemplated aerial expedition to the South Pole will start in
October. Aeroplanes and airships will be used, and the object of the
trip is to study magnetic wages."--_Irish Paper._
Incidentally it is expected a new altitude record may be achieved.
* * * * *
[Illustration: TARTARIN DANS LES INDES.
BOTH (_together_). "TIENS! LE TIGRE!"
[M. CLEMENCEAU has just sailed for India after big game.]]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _The Wife (peeved at husband going off to football match on
the anniversary of their wedding-day_). "'AVE YOU FORGOTTEN WHAT 'APPENED
THIS DAY SEVEN YEARS AGO?"
_The Husband_. "FORGOTTEN? NOT LIKELY, OLD GIRL. WHY, THAT WAS THE DAY
BOLTON ROVERS BEAT ASTON UNITED FIVE--NOTHING."]
* * * * *
NEW RHYMES FOR OLD CHILDREN.
THE SNAIL.
The life of the snail is a fight against odds,
Though fought without fever or flummox;
You see, he is one of those gasteropods
Which have to proceed on their stomachs.
Just think how you'd hate to go round on your own,
Especially if it was gummy,
And wherever you travelled you left on a stone
The horrid imprint of your tummy!
Wherever you hid, by that glutinous trail
Some boring acquaintance would follow;
And this is the bitter complaint of the snail
Who is pestered to death by the swallow.
But remember, he carries his house on his back,
And that is a wonderful power;
When he goes to the sea he has nothing to pack,
And he cannot be caught in a shower.
After all there is something attractive in that;
And then he can move in a minute,
And it's something to have such a very small flat
That nobody else can get in it.
But this is what causes such numbers of snails
To throw themselves into abysses:--
They are none of them born to be definite males
And none of them definite misses.
They cannot be certain which one of a pair
Is the Daddy and which is the Mummy;
And that must be even more awful to bear
Than walking about on your tummy.
A.P.H.
* * * * *
"MOTHER OF 13 HAS TRIPLETS."--_Daily Paper._
The unlucky age.
* * * * *
SEPTEMBER IN MY GARDEN.
There are few things I find so sorrowful as to sit and smoke and reflect on
the splendid deeds that one might have been doing if one had only had the
chance. The PRIME MINISTER feels like this, I suppose, when he remembers
how unkind people have prevented him from making a land fit for heroes to
live in, and I feel it about my garden. There can be no doubt that my
garden is not fit for heroes to saunter in; the only thing it is fit for is
to throw used matches about in; and there is indeed a certain advantage in
this. Some people's gardens are so tidy that you have to stick all your
used matches very carefully into the mould, with the result that next year
there is a shrubbery of Norwegian pine.
The untidiness of my garden is due to the fault of the previous tenants.
Nevertheless one can clearly discern through the litter of packing-cases
which completely surrounds the house that there was originally a garden
there.
I thought something ought to be done about this, so I bought a little book
on gardening, and, turning to September, began to read.
"September," said the man, "marks the passing of summer and the advent of
autumn, the time of ripening ruddy-faced fruits and the reign of a rich and
gloriously-coloured flora."
About the first part of this statement I have no observation to make. It is
probably propaganda, subsidised by the Meteorological Office in order to
persuade us that we still have a summer; it has nothing to do with my
present theme. But with regard to the ripening ruddy-faced fruits I should
like to point out that in my garden there are none of these things, because
the previous tenants took them all away when they left. Not a ruddy-faced
fruit remains. As for the rich and gloriously-coloured flora, I lifted the
edges of all the packing-cases in turn and looked for it, but it was not
there either. It should have consisted, I gather, of "gorgeously-coloured
dahlias, gay sunflowers, Michaelmas daisies, gladioli and other autumn
blossoms, adding brightness and gaiety to our flower-garden."
"Gaiety" seems to be rather a strong point with this author, for a little
further on he says, "The garden should be gay throughout the month with the
following plants," and then follows a list of about a hundred names which
sound like complicated diseases of the internal organs. I cannot mention
them all, but it seems that my garden should be gay throughout with
_Lysimachia clethroides, Kniphofia nobilis_ and _Pyrethrum uliginosum_. It
is not. How anything can be gay with _Pyrethrum uliginosum_ I cannot
imagine. An attitude of reverent sympathy is what I should have expected
the garden to have. But that is what the man says.
Then there is the greenhouse. "From now onwards," he writes, "the
greenhouse will meet with a more welcome appreciation than it has during
the summer months. The chief plants in flower will be _Lantanas_,
_Campanula pyramidalis_, _Zonal Pelargoniums_," and about twenty more. "Oh,
they will, will they?" I thought, and opened the greenhouse door and looked
in. Against the wall there were two or three mouldering peach-trees, and
all over the roof and floor a riot of green tomatoes, a fruit which even
when it becomes ruddy-faced I do not particularly like. In a single large
pot stood a dissipated cactus, resembling a hedgehog suffering from mange.
But what was even more bitter to me than all this ruin and desolation was
the thought of the glorious deeds I might have been doing if the garden had
been all right. Phrases from the book kept flashing to my eye.
"Thoroughly scrub the base and sides of the pots, and see that the
drainage-holes are not sealed with soil." How it thrilled the blood!
"Damp the floors and staging every morning and afternoon, and see that the
compost is kept uniformly moist." What a fascinating pursuit!
"Feed the plants once a week with liquid manure." It went like a clarion
call to the heart.
And here I was condemned to _ennui_ and indolence when I might have been
sitting up all night dosing the _Zonal Pelargoniums_ with hot beef-tea and
taking the temperature of the _Campanula pyramidalis_. Even with the
ruddy-faced fruits there would have been plenty to do.
"Wooden trays with open lath bottoms made to slide into a framework afford
the best means of storing apples and pears. The ripening of pears may be
accelerated by enclosing them in bran or dry clean sand in a closed tin
box." It did not say how often one was to clean out the cage, nor whether
you put groundsel between the bars.
I told the man next door of my sorrows.
"Well, there 's plenty to do," he said. "Get a spade and dig the garden all
over."
Dig it all over indeed when I ought to be plucking nosegays of _Lysimachia
clethroides_ and _Pyrethrum uliginosum_ to put in my buttonhole! I prefer
to dream my dreams.
EVOE.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Mistress_. "SO IT'S THE CHAUFFEUR THAT'S GOING TO BE THE
LUCKY MAN, MARY? I WAS UNDER THE IMPRESSION THAT THE BUTLER WAS THE
FAVOURED ONE."
_Cook_. "THAT WAS SO, MUM; BUT MR. WILLOUGHBY LET ME SLIP THROUGH HIS
FINGERS."]
* * * * *
THE CABMAN AND THE COIN.
"We must wait a minute or two for Sir Charles," said our hostess. "Everyone
else is here," and she beamed around the room.
The various _mauvais quart d'heure_ dialogues that this speech had
interrupted were resumed, most of them switching on to the question of
punctuality. And then a cab was heard to stop outside and after a minute or
so, presumably spent in financial transactions, the bell rang and the
knocker knocked.
"That's Sir Charles," said our hostess; "there he is;" and a few moments
later the guest we all awaited so fervently was in the room, full of
apologies.
"Never mind why you're late," said our hostess, "I'm sure you couldn't help
it. Now we'll eat," and once again a dozen Londoners fell into ark-
approaching formation and moved towards repletion.
The party was familiar enough, after certain solvents of speech had been
applied, for conversation to become general; and during the _entree_ we
were all listening to Sir Charles telling the famous story of the eminent
numismatist who, visiting the British Museum, was taken for a thief. By way
of making the narration the more vivid he felt in his pocket for a coin
with which to illustrate the dramatic crisis, when his expression became
suddenly alarmed and fixed.
"Good heavens!" he said, fumbling nervously all over his clothes, "I've
given it to the cabman. Of all the infernal idiocy! I knew I should. I had
a presentiment that I should get it muddled up with my other money and give
it away."
"What was it?" he was asked.
"Was it something very valuable?"
"Was it a rare coin?"
Murmurs of sympathy made a low accompaniment.
"It was a goldmohur," said Sir Charles. "A very beautiful coin of the
Moguls. I keep it as a kind of mascot. I've had it for years, but left it
behind and it reached me from India only this morning. Having come away
without it I sent a cable for it to be forwarded on. And now! It's the
rottenest luck."
"What was it worth?" our hostess asked.
"Not very much. Thirty pounds perhaps. But that isn't it. The money is
nothing--it's the sentimental associations that make the loss so serious."
"Well," said a practical man, "you needn't despair. Ring up Scotland Yard
and ask them the best thing to do."
"Did you take the cabman's number?" some one asked.
"Of course he didn't," our hostess replied. "Who ever does a thing like
that?"
"As a matter of fact," said Sir Charles, "I sometimes do. But this time, of
course, I didn't." He groaned. "No, it's gone for ever. The cabman will see
it's gold and sell it. I wouldn't trust your modern taxi-chauffeur with
anything."
"If you would feel any happier," said our hostess, "do telephone now."
"No," said Sir Charles, "no. It's no use. A coin like that would never be
surrendered. It's too interesting; even a cabman would realise that.
Umbrellas they'll take back, of course--umbrellas and bags, but not a
goldmohur. He'll either keep it to show his pals in public-houses or have
it fixed up as a brooch for his wife."
As Sir Charles finished speaking and once more turned gloomily to his
neglected plate the knocker was heard again to knock, and then one of the
maids approached her mistress and spoke to her in low tones.
Our hostess brightened. "Now, Sir Charles," she said, "perhaps you'll
revise your opinion of our taxi-drivers. Tell Sir Charles what it is," she
said to the maid.
"If you please," the maid began, "there's a cabman at the door. He says he
brought a gentleman here and----" Here she faltered.
"Go on, Robins," said her mistress.
"If you please, I don't like to," said the girl. "It's so--so----"
"I should like to hear it exactly," said Sir Charles.
"Well," said the maid with a burst of courage, "he says there's a gentleman
here who--who bilked him--who passed a piece of bad money on him in the
dark. Here it is," and she handed Sir Charles the goldmohur. "And he says
if he doesn't get an honest shilling in exchange for it he'll have the law
on him."
E.V.L.
* * * * *
THE KNELL OF THE NAVY.
Spooner is a remarkable fellow. His duties on board this ship are to fly
once a week off the deck, revolve twice round the masts and sink thankfully
down into the water, where we haul him out by the breeches and hang his
machine up to dry on the fo'c's'le. By performing these duties four times a
month, he leads us to believe he is preparing the way for the ultimate
domination of Air Power. We of the Navy are obsolete, and our hulls are
encrusted with the Harwich barnacle.
The argument proceeds on these lines: One day there will be another
war--perhaps to-morrow. We of the Navy, coalless and probably by that time
rumless as well, will rush blindly from our harbours, our masts decked with
Jolly Rogers and our sailors convulsed with hornpipe, to seek the enemy.
But, alas, before the ocean spray has wetted our ruby nostrils we shall
find ourselves descended upon from above and bombed promiscuously in the
middle watch.
It will be all over inside a nautical second. The sky will be black with
hostile aircraft, and there will be lead in the stew and bleeding bodies in
the bilge. Hollow laughter will sound from the bridge, where the Captain
will find the wheel come away in his hand, and the gramophone will revolve
eternally on a jazz rune because no one will be alive to stop it. When all
these things occur we of the Navy will know that our day is past and done.
Why our Mr. Spooner is such a remarkable fellow is because he can sit deep
in an easy-chair and recite these things without turning a single hair on
his top lip. Of course he realises that the work of the Navy must go
on--until the crash descends. But it is rather unsettling for us. It seems
to give us all a sort of impermanent feeling. Quite naturally we all ask
what is the use of keeping up the log and painting the ship? Why isn't all
the spare energy in the ship bent to polishing up our boat-drill? or why
aren't the people who can afford it encouraged to buy unsinkable
waistcoats? The Admiralty must know all about it if they are still on
speaking terms with the Air Ministry. It's a beastly feeling.