Various - Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 159, September 8th, 1920
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Various >> Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 159, September 8th, 1920
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 159.
September 8th, 1920.
CHARIVARIA.
There are rumours of Prohibition in Scotland. We can only say that if
Scotland goes dry it will also go South.
* * *
By an order of the FOOD CONTROLLER rice has been freed from all
restrictions as regards use. This drastic attempt to stem the prevailing
craze for matrimony has not come a moment too soon.
* * *
We suppose it is due to pressure of business, but the Spanish Cabinet has
not resigned this week.
* * *
_The Daily Mail_ is offering one hundred pounds for the best new hat for
men. The cocked hat into which Mr. SMILLIE hopes to knock the country is,
of course, excluded from the competition.
* * *
A horse at Chichester has been run down by a train. Asked how he came to
catch up with the horse the driver said he just let her rip.
* * *
Despite the repeated reports of his resignation in the London papers, Mr.
DAVIS, the American Ambassador to Britain, states that he does not intend
to retire. This contempt for English newspapers will be justifiably
resented.
* * *
Mrs. LILLIAN RUSSELL, of Rockland, Mass., is reported to have offered to
sell her husband for twenty thousand pounds. It is a great consolation to
those of us who are husbands that they are fetching such high prices.
* * *
The road-menders in Oxford Street who went on strike have now resumed work.
The discovery was made by a spectator who saw one of them move.
* * *
A contemporary reports the prospect of fair weather for another three
weeks. It looks as if Mr. SMILLIE is going to have a fine day for it after
all.
* * *
A New York message states that the congregation of a New Jersey church
pelted the Rev. F.S. KOPFMANN with eggs. This is disgraceful with eggs at
their present price.
* * *
We have just heard of a Scotsman who has a pre-GEDDES railway time-table
for sale, present owner having no further use for it.
* * *
It is stated in scientific circles that the present weather is due to the
Gulf Stream. This relieves Mr. CHURCHILL of considerable responsibility.
* * *
"The length of a bee's sting," says _Tit Bits_, "is only one thirty-second
of an inch." We are grateful for this information because when we are being
stung we are always too busy to measure for ourselves.
* * *
Those who maintain that nothing good ever comes from Russia have suffered a
nasty slap in the face. A news message states that the Bolshevists have
invited Mr. SMILLIE to visit Petrograd.
* * *
"Horsehair coats have made their appearance," says _The Outfitter_. Surely
this is nothing very new. We have often seen horses wearing them.
* * *
A man who stole the same fowls twice has been charged at Grimsby. He pleads
that his bookkeeper omitted to enter them in the day-book the first time.
* * *
It is now being hinted in political circles that Mr. WILLIAM BRACE, M.P.,
has consented to bequeath his moustache to the nation.
* * *
Mr. SMILLIE was much heartened by the news from Lucerne that the PRIME
MINISTER had climbed down the Rigi in three hours.
* * *
As a result of the new rise in the price of petrol many of the middle-class
have been compelled to turn down their automatic cigarette-lighters.
* * *
Although we may appear to be a little previous, we have it on good
authority that Mr. BOTTOMLEY is already making arrangements to predict that
the approaching coal-strike will end before Christmas.
* * *
The various attempts to swim or cycle across the Channel having proved
unsuccessful, we hear that interest is again being revived in the proposed
Channel Tunnel.
* * *
It is rumoured that Councillor CLARK has recently purchased a large
consignment of Government flannel, in order to provide adequate
underclothing for mixed bathers.
* * *
A large quantity of rusty piano wire, says a news item, has been found in a
valuable milch cow at Boston, Lines. There is hope that the "Tune the Cow
Died of" may now be positively identified.
* * *
According to a sporting paper there is a great shortage of referees this
season. The offer to receive any member of this profession into the ranks
of the Royal Irish Constabulary without further qualifications is no doubt
responsible for fifty per cent. of the loss, whilst fair wear and tear
probably account for the remainder.
* * *
"It is high time," writes a correspondent in _The Daily Mail_, "that a
clearly defined waist-line should be reintroduced into feminine dress."
Others claim that as the neck-line is now worn round the waist the
reintroduction of a waist-line elsewhere can only lead to confusion.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Insurance Clerk_ (_taking personal particulars of
prospective policy-holder_). "AND WHAT IS YOUR PROFESSION, SIR?"
_Artist._ "PAINTER."
_Clerk._ "WHAT SORT OF PAINTER?"
_Artist._ "SPLENDID."]
* * * * *
THE COAL STRIKE.
"The part of the public is to keep cool."--_The Times._
A strike should make this fairly easy.
* * * * *
From the advertisement of a "Unique Battlefields Tour":--
"Passports and Visors obtained and annoyances reduced to a minimum."--
_Daily Paper._
Then why this knightly precaution?
* * * * *
A COUP FOR "THE DAILY TRAIL."
We all knew at the office that Micklebrown had gone to Cocklesea for his
holiday. If anyone had offered him a free pass to the Italian lakes or any
other delectable spot Micklebrown would have declined it and taken his
third return to Cocklesea. Like Sir WALTER RALEIGH when he started for
South America to find a gold-mine, Micklebrown had an object in view. He
hoped to discover a topaz in Cocklesea. We knew the reason for this
optimism. We had been shown the lizard-brooch, a dazzling thing of gold and
precious stones, which Micklebrown had picked up last Bank Holiday on the
cliff at Cocklesea and presented to his _fiancee_, Miss Twitter, after
inquiry at the police-station had failed to discover its owner.
Most people would have been satisfied to leave well alone, but Micklebrown
is a man who hankers after the little more. The lizard's tail was composed
of topaz stones, and from its tip one topaz was obviously missing. "My firm
impression is that I did the damage when I trod on it," Micklebrown said.
"You see I put my foot right slap on the thing. I can't get it out of my
head that that topaz stuck in the mud and it's sticking there to this day.
Anyway I go to Cocklesea for my holiday to look. I know the very identical
spot." He closed his eyes the better to visualize it. "You go up a little
path behind the mixed-bathing boxes, turn sharp to the right at the top of
the cliff, past two pine-trees and a clump of gorse, go a trifle inland
through a lot of thistles until you come on three blackberry bushes; the
topaz should be ten inches south-west of the middle one."
"The colour'll be a bit washed out, won't it?" young Lister said; "we've
had a lot of rain since Bank Holiday."
Micklebrown's lip curled but he said nothing. Only to us, his intimates,
did he confide that he had no expectation of finding the topaz on the
surface; he expected to search through several strata of mud, and he was
taking a magnifying-glass and a gravy-strainer with him.
We heard nothing further until I had a postcard from him saying that the
rain had caused the blackberries so to multiply that he found it impossible
to identify the particular bush near which he had stepped on the lizard; he
was therefore making a general search over the area. After that we followed
the tale in _The Daily Trail_:--
SEASIDE VISITOR'S STRANGE CONDUCT.
Much curiosity has been aroused at Cocklesea by the behaviour of a visitor
who spends his days on the cliff burrowing in the earth in all weathers.
Speculation is rife as to the object of his occupation. It is generally
concluded that he is the victim of shell-shock.
ROMANTIC DISCLOSURE BY COCKLESEA CLIFF BURROWER.
In conversation with our representative yesterday Mr. Micklebrown, whose
burrowing on the cliff at Cocklesea has been observed with such interest,
indignantly denied the imputation of shell-shock. Mr. Micklebrown, it
appears, is spending his vacation at Cocklesea in the hope of recovering a
topaz which formed part of a valuable piece of jewellery which he had the
good fortune to pick up on the cliff on Bank Holiday. Being anxious to
notify his discovery without delay to the police (who however failed to
trace the owner) and being bound to catch the return steamer, Mr.
Micklebrown had no opportunity to prosecute a search at the time. He
therefore determined to visit Cocklesea again at the earliest opportunity
to do so.
In the meanwhile Miss Rosalind Twitter, Mr. Micklebrown's _fiancee_, is the
happy possessor of the ornament. Interviewed by a correspondent, Miss
Twitter, a winsome dark-eyed brunette in a cretonne chemise frock, said,
"Yes, it is quite true that I sleep with it under my pillow. I hope Dinky
(Rosalind's pet name for her lover) will find the topaz; he is a dear
painstaking boy. I have never had such a lovely piece of jewellery in my
life and I am going to be married in it." (Photo of Miss Twitter on back
page. Inset (1) The brooch; (2) Mr. Micklebrown.)
SEARCH FOR MISSING TOPAZ AT COCKLESEA.
Owing to the publicity given to his story by _The Daily Trail_ hundreds of
willing hands assisted Mr. Micklebrown in his search yesterday. Pickaxes,
shovels and wooden spades were being freely wielded on the cliff. Miss
Twitter writes to us: "Every moment I expect a telegram from Dinky that the
topaz is found. I can never be grateful enough to _The Daily Trail_ for the
interest it has taken in my brooch."
DRAMATIC SEQUEL TO SEARCH FOR COCKLESEA TOPAZ.
As a result of the wide circulation of _The Daily Trail_ the brooch picked
up by Mr. Micklebrown on the cliff on Bank Holiday has been claimed by Miss
Ivy Peckaby, of Wimbledon. Miss Peckaby identified the brooch from the
photograph which appeared in our issue of Friday. Conversing with our
representative, Miss Peckaby, a slim, golden-haired girl in hand-knitted
cerise jumper with cream collar and cuffs, said, "I jumped for joy when I
recognised my darling brooch on your picture page. I must have lost it at
Cocklesea on Bank Holiday, but I didn't miss it until two Sundays
afterwards. I shall never forget what I owe to _The Daily Trail_."
Questioned as to the missing topaz Miss Peckaby sighed. "It has always been
missing," she said. "You see, Clarence" (Miss Peckaby's affianced husband)
"bought the brooch second-hand; he is going to have another topaz put in
when he can afford it; but topazes are so dreadfully dear." (Photo of Miss
Peckaby recognising her brooch on the back page of _The Daily Trail_.)
LAST CHAPTER IN COCKLESEA ROMANCE.
FREE GIFT OF A TOPAZ BY _THE DAILY TRAIL_.
Yesterday Miss Ivy Peckaby was the happy recipient of a topaz at the hands
of a representative of _The Daily Trail_. The stone, which is of
magnificent colour and quality, is the free gift of _The Daily Trail_. _The
Daily Trail_ is also defraying the entire cost of setting the gem in Miss
Peckaby's brooch. Photo on back page of Miss Peckaby acknowledging _The
Daily Trail's_ free gift of a topaz. Inset: The topaz.)
I have heard nothing further from Micklebrown.
* * * * *
_RARA AVIS._
Many birds there be that bards delight in;
I to one my tribute verse would bring;
Patience, reader! no, it's not the nightin-
gale I'm going to sing.
Sweet to lie at ease and for a while hark
To a "spirit that was never bird;"
Still I don't propose to sing the skylark,
As perhaps inferred.
I'm content to leave it to a fitter
Tongue than mine to hymn the "moan of doves,"
Or the swallow, apt to "cheep and twitter
Twenty million loves."
I'm intrigued by no precocious rook, who
Haunts the high hall garden calling "Maud;"
Mine's no "blithe newcomer" like the cuckoo
Wordsworth used to laud.
Never could the blackbird or the throstle
(From the poet each has had his due)
Win from me such perfectly colossal
Gratitude as you.
You, I mean, accommodating partridge,
By some lucky chance (the only one,
Spite of much expenditure of cartridge)
Fallen to my gun.
* * * * *
[Illustration: OUT OF THE FRYING PAN.
WAR VETERAN. "THEY TOLD ME I WAS FIGHTING FOR DEAR LIFE, BUT I NEVER DREAMT
IT WAS GOING TO BE AS DEAR AS ALL THIS."]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Father._ "OH, YES, I USED TO PLAY QUITE A LOT OF CRICKET. I
ONCE MADE FORTY-SEVEN."
_Son._ "WHAT--WITH A HARD BALL, FATHER?"]
* * * * *
THE HUMAN CITY AND SUBURBAN.
The idea and the name for it were the invention of the ingenious Piggott. I
am his first initiate, and with the zeal of the neophyte I am endeavouring
to make his discovery more widely known. The game, which is healthy and
invigorating, can be carried on in any of the remoter suburbs, where the
train-service is not too frequent. All that is required is a fairly long
and fairly straight piece of road, terminating in a railway-station, and a
sufficiency of City men of suitable age and rotundity.
The scheme is based on the Herd instinct--on the tendency of most creatures
to follow their leader. For example, if you are walking down to your early
train, with plenty of time to spare as you suppose, and you observe the man
in front of you looking at his watch and suddenly quickening his steps,
first to a smart walk, then to a brisk jog-trot, it is not in human nature,
however you may trust your own watch, not to follow suit. This is precisely
what Piggott led me to do one morning about six weeks back.
When, on reaching the station ten minutes too early, I remonstrated with
him, he apologised.
"I am sorry," he said; "I didn't know you were behind me. I was really
pace-making for 'Flyaway'--there, over there." And Piggott pointed to a
stoutish man with iron-grey whiskers mopping his forehead and the inside of
his hat, and looking incredulously at the booking-hall clock.
"But that is Mr. Bludyer, senior partner in Bludyer, Spinnaway & Jevons," I
said.
"It may be," replied Piggott. "But I call him Flyaway. I find it more
convenient to have a stable-name for each of my racers." And he proceeded
to expound his invention to me.
Like so many great inventors he had stumbled upon the idea by chance one
morning when his watch happened to be wrong; but he had developed the
inspiration with consummate art and skill. It became his diversion, by
means of the pantomime that had so successfully deceived me--by
dramatically shooting out his wrist, consulting his watch, instantly
stepping out and presently breaking into a run--to induce any gentleman
behind him who had reached an age when the fear of missing trains has
become an obsession to accelerate his progress.
"It is amazing," he said, "how many knots you can get out of the veriest
old tubs. This morning, for instance, Flyaway has taken only a little over
six minutes to cover seven furlongs. That's the best I have got out of him
so far, but I hope to do better with some of the others."
"You keep more than one in training?" I questioned.
"Several. If you like I will hand some over to you. Or, better still," he
added, "you might prefer to start a stable of your own. That would
introduce an element of competition. What about it?"
I accepted with alacrity. The very next day I made a start, and within a
week I had a team of my own in training. The walk to the station, which
formerly had been the blackest hour of the twenty-four, I now looked
forward to with the liveliest impatience. Every morning saw me early on the
road, ready to loiter until I found in my wake some merchant sedately
making his way stationwards to whom I could set the pace. I always took
care, however, not to race the same one too frequently or at too regular
intervals, and I take occasion to impress this caution on beginners.
In the train on the way to the City Piggott and I would compare notes,
carefully recording distances and times, and scoring points in my favour or
his. It would have been better perhaps had we contented ourselves with this
modest programme. Others will take warning from what befell. But with the
ambition of inexperience I suggested we should race two competitors one
against the other, and Piggott let himself be overpersuaded.
I entered my "Speedwell," a prominent stockjobber. Handicapped by the frame
of a _Falstaff_, he happily harbours within his girth a susceptibility to
panic, which, when appropriately stimulated, more than compensates for his
excess of bulk. The distance fixed was from the Green Man to the station, a
five-furlong scamper; the start to be by mutual consent.
Immediately on our interchange of signals I got my nominee in motion. This
is one of Speedwell's best points: he responds instantly to the least sign,
to the slightest touch of the spur, so to speak. Another is staying power.
Before we had gone fifty yards I had got him into an ungainly amble, which
he can keep up indefinitely. Though never rapid, it devours the ground.
Piggott was not so lucky. At the last minute he substituted for the more
reliable Flyaway his Tiny Tim, a dapper little solicitor, not more than
sixty, who to the timorousness of the hare unites some of her speed. In
fact, in his excess of terror he sometimes runs himself to a standstill
before the completion of the course. He suffers, moreover, from short sight
and in consequence is a notoriously bad starter. On the morning in question
he failed for several minutes to observe Piggott's pantomime, and Speedwell
had almost traversed half the distance while Tiny Tim still lingered in the
vicinity of the starting post. Only by the most exaggerated gestures did
Piggott get him off. Once going, however, he took the bit in his teeth and
went like the wind. Soon I caught the pit-pat of his footfall approaching.
I pulled Speedwell together for a supreme effort. But there were still two
hundred yards to cover as his rival drew abreast. A terrific race ensued.
Scared at the spectacle of the other's alarm, each redoubled his exertions.
Neck and neck they ran. Could Tiny Tim last? Had he shot his bolt? Could
Speedwell wear him down?
Unfortunately the question was never settled. As they raced they overtook a
group of business men, youngsters of forty or so, untried colts that had
never yet been run by Piggott or me. These suddenly took fright and bolted.
Inextricably mingled with our pair the whole lot stampeded like a herd of
mustangs. The station approach scintillated with the flashing of spats as
the Field breasted the rise. It was a grand sight, though so many fouls
occurred that it was obvious the race was off. But things became serious
when the entire crowd attempted to pass simultaneously through the
booking-hall doors. Speedwell sprained a pastern and Tiny Tim sustained a
severe kick on the fetlock. Both will require a fortnight's rest before
they can be raced again.
This will be a warning to us and to others too, I hope. Still, it will not
deter us from racing in the future. Nor should it deter others, for the
sport is a glorious one and I hope it may become universal in the outer
suburbs. Piggott and I will be only too glad to give advice or any other
assistance that lies in our power to those who contemplate starting local
clubs in and around London.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Old Dame_ (_to visitor who has been condoling with her on a
recent misfortune_). "OCH, I'M GEY ILL. I'VE BEEN CRYIN' SIN' FOWER THIS
MORNIN', AN' I'M JUST GAUN TAE START AGEN AS SOON'S I'VE SIPPIT THIS BICKER
O' PARRITCH."]
* * * * *
WEDDING PRESENTS.
All day long I had been possessed by that odd feeling that comes over one
unaccountably at times, as of things being a little strange, interesting--
somehow different, so that I was not at all surprised to find the Fairy
Queen waiting for me when I entered my flat.
It was a warm evening and she sat perched on the tassel of the blind,
lightly swaying to and fro in the tiny breeze that came dancing softly over
the house-tops.
I saw her at once--one is always aware of the presence of the Fairy Queen.
I made my very best curtsey and she acknowledged it a little absent-
mindedly.
"_I_ want _your_ advice this time," she said.
I smiled and shook my head deprecatingly.
"But how ...?" I began.
"It's about Margery and Max," she continued.
I was much astonished.
"Margery and Max," I echoed slowly. "But surely there's no need to trouble
about them. It's a most delightful engagement. They're blissfully happy. I
saw Margery only yesterday ..."
"Oh, the engagement's all right," said the Queen. "As a matter of fact it
was I who really arranged that affair. Of course they think they did it
themselves--people always do--but it would never have come off without me.
No, the trouble is I don't know what to give them for a wedding present.
You see I'm particularly fond of Margery; I've always taken a great
interest in her, and I do want them to have something they'll really like.
But it's so difficult. They have all the essential things already: youth,
health, good fortune, love of course; and I can't go giving them motor-cars
and grandfather clocks and unimportant things of that kind. Now can I?"
I agreed. As it happened I was in a somewhat similar predicament myself,
though from rather different causes.
"Can't you think of _anything_?" she asked a little petulantly, evidently
annoyed at my inadequacy. I shook my head.
"I can't," I said. "But why not find out from them? It's often done. You
might ask Margery what Max would like and then sound him about her."
The Queen brightened up. "What a good idea!" she said. "I'll go at once."
She's very impulsive.
She was back again in half-an-hour, looking pleased and excited. Her cheeks
were like pink rose-leaves.
"It's all right about Max," she said breathlessly. "Margery says the only
thing he wants frightfully badly is a really smashing service. He's rather
bothered about his. So I shall order one for him at once. I'm very pleased;
it seems such a suitable thing for a wedding present. People often give
services, don't they? And now I'll go and find Max." And she was off before
I could utter a sound.
But this time when she returned it was evident that she had been less
successful.
"It's absurd," she said, "perfectly absurd!" She stamped her foot, and yet
she was smiling a little. "I told him I would bestow upon Margery anything
he could possibly think of that she lacked. That any quality of mind or
heart, any beauty, any charm that a girl could desire, should be hers as a
gift. I assured him that there was nothing I could not and would not do for
her. And what do you think? He listened quite attentively and politely--oh,
Max has nice manners--and then he looked me straight in the eyes and 'Thank
you very much,' he said; 'it's most awfully kind of you. I hope you won't
think me ungrateful, but I'm afraid I can't help you at all. There's
nothing--nothing. Margery--well, you see, Margery's perfect.' I was so
annoyed with him that I came away without saying another word. And now I'm
no further than I was before as regards Margery. Mortals really are very
stupid. It's most vexing."
She paused a minute, then suddenly she looked up and flashed a smile at me.
"All the same it was rather darling of him, wasn't it?" she said.
I nodded. "I wonder ...," I began.
"Yes?" interjected the Queen eagerly.
"... I wonder whether you could give her that, just that for always?"
"What do you mean?" said the Queen.
"I mean," I said slowly, "the gift of remaining perfect for ever in his
eyes."
The Queen looked at me thoughtfully. "He'll think I'm not giving her
anything," she objected.
"Never mind," I said, "she'll know."
The Queen nodded. "Yes," she said meditatively, "rather nice--rather nice.
Thank you very much. I'll think about it. Good-bye." She was gone.
R.F.
* * * * *
"On Monday evening an employee of the ---- Railway Loco. Department
dislocated his jaw while yawning."--_Local Paper._
It is expected that the company will disclaim liability for the accident,
on the ground that he was yawning in his own time.
* * * * *
NEW RHYMES FOR OLD CHILDREN.
THE CENTIPEDE.
The centipede is not quite nice;
He lives in idleness and vice;
He has a hundred legs;
He also has a hundred wives,
And each of these, if she survives,
Has just a hundred eggs;
And that's the reason if you pick
Up any boulder, stone or brick
You nearly always find
A swarm of centipedes concealed;
They scatter far across the field,
But _one_ remains behind.
And you may reckon then, my son,
That not alone that luckless one
Lies pitiful and torn,
But millions more of either sex--
100 multiplied by x--
Will never now be born.
I daresay it will make you sick,
But so does all Arithmetic.
